D'Artagnan knocked on Aramis' door and was soon let in by Porthos. The sight that greeted him took him completely by surprise; the Captain was having his hair cut by Aramis. Aramis looked up briefly from his task and saw that the Gascon had wet hair, "Ah good you got my note."
"Note?" Porthos asked pinching a piece of paper from d'Artagnan's hands. Athos rolled his eyes at the still stunned young man, pulled him down into the chair next to him and handed him a drink.
"D'Artagnan, wash your hair and then meet at Aramis'" Porthos read the note quirking his brow at its contents. "Wash your hair?" he repeated looking at Aramis for an explanation.
Aramis shrugged, "He's been mucking out the stables. I wasn't touching his hair without it being cleaned first."
"Woah," d'Artagnan regained his senses, "Who says you are touching my hair?"
"He doesn't look like he was raised by wolves," Porthos said aiming a smirk at an unimpressed Athos.
"No," Aramis agreed but continued, "He is starting to look like a girl."
Porthos and Athos both chuckled at the expression of indignation that appeared on d'Artagnan's face. Even the Captain snorted a laugh but that caused him to move under Aramis' hands.
"Sir," Aramis tensed, "Please try to keep still."
"Sorry," Treville said, straightening a little.
d'Artagnan shook his head, "This evening has turned out very strange."
"You're telling me," Treville agreed smiling at the younger man.
"I think one of these is yours, Athos," Porthos said after a few moments of silence. He had started to route through a pile of clothes at the other end of the table.
"Yes, I think I did sew a button on one of Athos' shirts," Aramis agreed before focussing back on the Captain, "I think, sir, that you are done," he told the older man as he brushed hair off his shoulders.
"Excellent," Treville responded standing from his chair and moving toward the table, "Thank you."
"No problem," Aramis smiled then he glanced between d'Artagnan who was busy pouring a drink and Athos who was inspecting his shirt, "Right, who is next? Wolf or girl?"
If looks could kill Aramis would have been dead twice over but he merely tapped the back of the chair infront of him and said, "Come on, who is it?"
d'Artagnan sighed and relented. He put down his glass and went to sit for an entirely too gleeful Aramis. "You better make a good job of it," he grumbled.
Aramis put a hand to heart as though wounded, "I never do anything less than perfect."
Porthos rolled his eyes at his friend's lack of modesty although looking over his mended shirts, he would argue that Aramis never did a less then perfect job there.
Treville who had relaxed into the chair d'Artagnan had vacated, had been examining Athos' shirt and had reached the same conclusion. "You really are good at this," he commented towards Aramis holding out the shirt to give it context.
The Musketeer in question bobbed his head. "We all have our skills," he said while continuing with the task of shortening d'Artagnan's hair, "You've yet to try the Porthos Special."
"Porthos Special?" d'Artagnan asked.
Porthos grinned and gestured over to a big pot by the fire, "It's what we're having for dinner. It should be ready soon."
"You've had the 'Athos Special' already," Athos said holding up his wine glass and making the other men chuckle. "I've never been great with the domestic skills," he admitted with a shrug.
Aramis looked up then, "You know, I still remember the first time you asked me for help."
"So do I," Athos nodded.
…Five Years Earlier….
Athos grimaced at the hole in his shirt. It was his last shirt that hadn't ended up a victim to his new lifestyle up until about two hours ago when during a fight, his opponents sword had snagged his side and as a result his shirt was ripped. The cut in his skin had been skillfully stitched by a more experienced Musketeer who Athos decided he had greatly underestimated. Yes, Aramis had definitely earned Athos' respect that afternoon; not only did he shoot with an incredible precision but the man had calmly and efficiently dealt with the injured after the fight was over. Athos briefly wondered why the man saw fit to associate with, what he considered, the overly cocky, too loud and brash members of the regiment but then perhaps he misjudged them too soon as well. He had yet to see the likes of Marsac, Perville and Pierre in battle after all.
He shook his head. None of this thinking would mend his shirt. He needed to look at least half decent for parade tomorrow and while there was chance that no-one would actually see his shirt, his upbringing wouldn't let him stand in front of the King knowing he was wearing ripped clothing. Unfortunately, it was his upbringing that also made him incapable of fixing the problem himself. Servants may have made him uncomfortable but they were useful.
He pulled the shirt over his head to take a closer look, wincing as the movement pulled on his wound. It was then that a thought occurred to him. He had five very neat stitches across his lower torso; was it possible that the man who put them there could also sew material? Athos frowned. He knew that it probably was the case but how exactly was he supposed to go about asking for help; it would surely make him appear pathetic. He decided to dismiss the idea.
However, a few glasses of wine later and after a good look through his wardrobe, the idea returned.
...
The tavern was full of the hustle and bustle that Athos usually went out of his way to avoid. He would normally seek out the darkest of corners and drown the night away by himself. However, he was currently on a mission. A mission he still wasn't convinced was the best plan he had ever had but he was here now.
He found Aramis sitting at a table with Marsac and Perville. They were laughing and Aramis was smiling along with them though Athos could see the tired lines around the man's eyes. It had been quite the fight. He nearly aborted his plan, thinking Aramis could do to rest not sew shirts but a voice prevented him leaving,
"Athos, what are you doing out of the shadows?" Marsac asked the man who was now stood aside of them.
"Finally decided to stop brooding long enough to share a drink with others, eh?" Perville joked rather obnoxiously although Marsac laughed.
Aramis bristled, "Perville," he said warningly, turning to an irritated looking Athos before things got out of hand. "Do you want to join us?" he asked kindly.
"I would like to ask a favour," Athos stated, looking directly at Aramis.
Aramis blinked but hid any other signs of being surprised. He also ignored the others as they began to make idiotic comments. "Perhaps we should move elsewhere," he said standing up and clapping Marsac quickly over the back of the head. He continued to move away from the table regardless of the shouts that came behind him. He came to a halt over the other side of the tavern where a few musketeers were quietly playing cards and then turned to face Athos who had followed him there.
"What can I do for you?" he asked unable to keep the curiousity out of his voice.
Athos faltered slightly but before he had chance to form a proper sentence the other man was speaking again.
"How is your cut by the way?" Aramis said like a child who had just remembered their manners, "It should heal well if you look after the stitches."
Athos nodded. At the mention of stitches he suddenly felt like he had a way in, "Actually its stitches I wanted to talk to you about."
Aramis sighed and rolled his eyes, "Ripped them already have you? Oh well you-"
"No no," Athos interrupted rather firmly; this conversation was officially taking too long, "They're fine."
Aramis narrowed his eyes slightly but waited for Athos to continue.
"I have some shirts that need stitching," Athos finally came out with it.
The reaction he got was not expected or rather the lack of reaction was not expected. Aramis just seemed to nod knowingly, "You need shirts mending? Alright, bring them over sometime and I'll see what I can do."
Athos found himself unable to process how easy his plan had ended up being.
Aramis clearly didn't think his favour anything unordinary and he wasn't being made to feel embarassed. Although, it suddenly occured to Athos that he needed a shirt for tomorrow.
Aramis watched Athos open and close his mouth a few times like a fish. It was a complete contrast to the commanding Athos that had been on the battlefield. "Something wrong?"
"I am on parade duty tomorrow," Athos said hoping the other man would read between the lines. Thankfully he did.
"Ahhh, you'll be needing my help tonight then?" Aramis smiled warmly and Athos relaxed inwardly. He really had misjudged this man.
"You don't mind?" Athos did ask just to check.
Aramis shook his head. "I don't mind at all," he told Athos but then he caught the back of a chair one of the card playing musketeers had begun leaning towards him and said firmly, "However I do mind people eavesdropping on conversations."
The musketeer sat in the chair looked up at him with faked innocence, "I wasn't listening in," he tried protesting but the expression on Aramis' face was enough to make him relent, "Ok fine...would you mend my shirt as well?"
Aramis rolled his eyes, "Maybe I should set up a business. Fine, Porthos, I'll mend your shirt too. Both of you can come to my lodgings in around an half an hour."
"Thanks Aramis," Porthos grinned.
Athos only nodded his response. He was unfamiliar with Porthos and although he knew it ridiculous, he found he felt a pang of jealousy over how easy the man had made his 'shirt-mending' request.
"One thing," Aramis glanced between them both almost regretably "Don't expect me to feed you; the cupboard is bare."
"I can sort that," Porthos offered.
Athos shrugged, "I can provide wine."
...