AN: Sorry this took so long to get up. I was trying to rewrite parts of it, and my other story has been occupying most of my time. I took a break from it tonight to get another chapter of this finished instead. Hope you like it!

Athos outlined a plan that was relatively simple: Flea would find out where the Black Fox held court, probably in a tavern somewhere, and would enter disguised as prostitute. All agreed men would be less careful with their words around such a woman. Porthos and Aramis would accompany Flea as far as possible and wait nearby to provide support if something went wrong. Athos and D'Artagnan would check in with the local guards and see what they could learn.

Athos told them all to get some rest so they could begin early in the morning. In a fit of chivalry, Porthos had insisted that Flea take the bed, so he and Aramis made themselves comfortable on the floor. Aramis seemed off somehow, but Porthos chalked it up to exhaustion. It had been a large journey. And perhaps, he thought sheepishly, Aramis had been looking forward to sleeping in a bed.

He shrugged to himself. Aramis was always insisting on courtly treatment. He couldn't possibly begrudge Flea the bed. Something else must be bothering him.

Breakfast the next morning was a hurried affair, everyone bleary from the late night meeting. Athos and D'Artagnan left first, while Porthos and Aramis had to wait for Flea to get dressed in her disguise. They sat quietly, and the silence felt oddly strained, but Porthos was still too tired to think much of it. At last, Flea came down and they departed.

As they walked through the streets, Porthos noticed that Aramis was still being unusually quiet, but every time he started to say something Flea would ask a question or brush against him and he would forget. She was very distracting in her low cut dress and swaying hips, but he couldn't account for the fact that while he desired her, the emotional connection he had felt the last time he had seen her seemed to have faded. If he'd had to say it out loud before, he would've said he was in love with her, but now the feeling seemed to be gone. But Porthos wasn't much for complicating good things, and so he talked to her, and laughed with her, and tried not to think about it.

They walked by a hat shop and he nudged Aramis playfully. "Don't you think you should replace my hat?" he asked, grinning at him. Aramis smiled but didn't laugh.

"I seem to recall it was you who ruined mine first."

Porthos glanced at his friend, feeling slightly concerned. Something was clearly wrong. Normally a comment like that could've started a battle of good-natured insults that would've lasted for some time, but now Aramis wasn't laughing and his smile looked more like a grimace. Before he could ask if everything was okay, Flea stopped at the entrance to an alley.

"The Fox holds court in an inn down this way." Porthos saw the sign of the tavern swaying slightly in the breeze. The Fox. Not exactly subtle.

Porthos nodded, pushing his concern for Aramis to the back of his mind. "You go in. We'll wait here. If you run into trouble, just scream." Flea looked up at him, nervous but determined, and stretched up to kiss his cheek. "Be careful," he murmured as she turned and walked down the alley, swaying her hips outrageously to get into character.

"Pretty, ain't she?" he said with a grin, hoping to cheer Aramis up, but his friend merely gave another pained smile and looked away. Miffed, Porthos moved to lounge against the wall, waiting for Flea to come back.

Of course it couldn't just be simple, Aramis thought, shooting a long suffering glare at the back of Porthos's head. "What happened to waiting outside?" he hissed as he pushed through the throng of bodies into the tavern, trying not to catch anyone's eye. They might not be wearing their shoulder guards, but any good thief could smell a Musketeer a mile away.

"It's getting late," Porthos told him, moving through the crowd with the ease of long practice. "I want to make sure she's okay." He seemed completely at home among the tavern scum, smiling dangerously at them when they came too close. Aramis counted at least three so far that had turned tail and headed pointedly in the other direction when they saw Porthos's face, which seemed unusual to him, but he didn't have time to dwell on it as Porthos clamped a hand to his shoulder and dragged him towards the bar, knocking a couple of drunks out of the way.

Porthos rapped smartly on the bar, trying to attract the barkeep's notice. Aramis was about to point out the futility of the gesture in the crowded room when the man turned around and caught sight of Porthos. His eyes widened and he immediately hurried over, bringing with him a bottle of wine far finer than anything Aramis had expected to see in such a place. Porthos grinned at him and nodded his thanks as he passed over some coins. To Aramis's great surprise the barkeep gave a Porthos a nod reminiscent of a bow as they backed away, heading for a table in the corner.

"What was that all about?" he asked, trying to keep his voice low despite the noise level in the tavern.

Porthos shrugged easily. "No idea what you're talking about." He took a swing from the bottle and pulled out a knife, twirling it in his free hand. "You see Flea anywhere?"

It took them a moment to spot her across the bar. She sent Porthos a saucy grin and winked, letting them know all was well. She was sitting with a large group of brutish looking men. As they watched, a smaller figure in the midst of them grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her into his lap. He was excessively well-dressed all in black silk and had silver hoops gleaming in his ears. "That's him," Porthos said, nodding at the man. "The Black Fox."

Porthos was watching Flea intently, so Aramis took the opportunity to observe his friend. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something had changed since they'd entered the tavern. He had thought they'd be recognized as Musketeers because of their bearing and habits, but Porthos didn't look like a Musketeer now. He looked perfectly at home, just another expert thief or lethal assassin of the Fox's Court.

It struck Aramis then that Porthos had once belonged to this world, this underbelly of society. He seemed at home here because he was raised in places like this, and every tavern-dwelling lowlife here recognized that in him and steered clear. He couldn't help feeling like perhaps they recognized more than just the walking hurricane that was Porthos, but before he could consider the idea further Porthos slipped his knife back into its sheath and stood up.

"Let's go. Flea says she'll be out soon."

"How do you know that?" Aramis asked him, surprised. Porthos grinned.

"She told me. Thieves' code. All hand signals," Porthos explained, pushing his way out towards the street once more. "We used it in the Court."

There was an odd tone of longing in his voice that made Aramis's stomach clench as he followed Porthos into the alley, wondering why it was that the crowd seemed to part before them.

Porthos could tell that Athos was not happy. He had his eyebrows raised in a look that said at the same time I cannot believe you were that stupid and you have jeopardized this mission and I am surrounded by idiots. Porthos merely waited him out.

"And you went into the tavern why?" Athos ground out at last, glaring at him.

He shrugged. "Flea was taking an awfully long time. Wanted to make sure she was alright."

"Did it occur to you that the Fox or his men might notice you are a Musketeer? You have endangered the entire plan!" Athos wasn't shouting, but to those who knew him his even tone of voice conveyed more anger than the King's screams.

"No chance of that," Flea piped up from beside him. "They were all too busy betting among themselves about whether or not he really was Porthos the Pirate."

"Porthos the Pirate?" D'Artagnan repeated in a scandalized tone. "Why would they think that?"
Porthos glared at him. "Why the note of skepticism, mate?" he demanded. "I'll have you know I'm a legend!"

"All the more reason you should not have entered that tavern!" Athos cut in.

"I disagree," Flea argued. "I think Porthos coming in was the best thing that could happen. We want the Fox distracted, yes? Concerned with something other than the security of Aubert? So why not let him feel threatened by the presence not of Musketeers, but a rival king?"

"What is she talking about, Porthos?" Athos asked grumpily.

"She can speak for herself," Flea said sharply. "Porthos is right. He was, and still is, something of a legend among the criminal underworld. Before the old king died, there was a huge betting pool on whether Porthos or Charon would be the one to take over. The old king was very fond of Porthos. Most people had their money on him," she said, smiling at him. "Then the king died unexpectedly and there was no one to fill the gap. Normally things like that are settled quickly but no one wanted to go against Porthos if he wanted the crown. Porthos and Charon took care of everyone while we waited to see which one was going to take over. It was sort of like he was our Prince. Then he left and Charon took the position."

Porthos blinked at the title, remembering whispers in the alleys in those final weeks. The Prince of the Court, they'd called him. He hadn't wanted it, had known he had to leave, but something inside him had swelled with pride every time he heard it.

Flea was still talking, a proud note entering her tone. "He was famous among the poor. Stronger than a bear when crossed but kind to the people of the Court. They said he was unbeatable in a fight. Tell me, Porthos, did you ever lose a match?"

He ducked his head humbly but couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. It had been years since anyone had reminded him of that. He saw Aramis frowning at him out of the corner of his eye.

"If the Black Fox realizes you're in Calais, he might get nervous and think you've come for his title," Flea went on, staring pointedly at Athos. "If he's nervous, he might make a mistake."

"Won't he know Porthos left the Court to become a Musketeer?" Athos asked, but Porthos could see the gears turning in his mind.

Flea shrugged. "Probably not. Most people outside of Paris assumed he died or something when Charon took control. Criminals preferred to spread the legend of Porthos the Pirate rather than Porthos the lawman. I guarantee no one here knows what became of him."

"But what's all this Porthos the Pirate business?" D'Artagnan asked, looking thoroughly confused.

"The nickname was originally based on the earring and the bandanna," Flea explained. "Those who believe he's alive think he's sailing the seas. Though whether or not he ever did anything in keeping with the nickname…"

"Ah, ah, ah, that's enough," Porthos interjected hastily. The boy didn't need to know about Porthos's less than savory previous career.

"So how do you propose we use this to our advantage?" Athos asked thoughtfully.

"You actually want to send him back in? As bait?" Aramis asked, sounding rather alarmed at the prospect.

"We have to assume, if he is truly as famous as Flea says, that he has already been recognized. It's too late now to ignore it. So we'd best use it to our advantage. Are you sure you haven't been recognized too, Flea?"

"She hasn't been queen long enough," Porthos pointed out, and Flea nodded in agreement.

"Good. Then I suppose we'd best send you into the tavern as well, Porthos. Though perhaps not every day, and not for very long. I don't want to goad the Fox into attacking, merely put him on the alert. If he's watching for an attack from his own side, he'll be too busy to worry about much else. That will work to our advantage." He outlined the new plan to the others, but Porthos was only half-listening, thinking about what this would mean

He couldn't deny that he had enjoyed being in that tavern. The respect on the faces of the men, the way they moved aside for him… it was something he hadn't experienced in years. He couldn't find that in Paris, not anymore. He was looked down on outside of the garrison for the color of his skin and his upbringing, and the underworld of Paris saw him as a traitor. There had been a time when those inside the garrison had doubted him too. It had died out eventually, and Aramis might have had some quiet chats with the more vocal of those who spoke against him, but Porthos had never asked. He didn't want to draw more attention to the fact that he did not fit in.

But here, he was a legend again. He was respected, idolized… feared. He found himself wanting to go back to that tavern, back to that world, just for a while. Flea caught his eye and grinned at him while Athos was asking D'Artagnan something. He knew she understood. Then he noticed Aramis was watching him with a queer expression of foreboding on his face. When Porthos turned his head to look more closely, the expression vanished, replaced seamlessly with a smile that seemed too brittle to be real.

I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up. Hopefully tomorrow or the next day. In the meantime, please review!