Summary: A prison without bars, a group of thieves with the upper hand, far too much rope and a bawdy sense of humor, leave the Inseparables more inseparable than they ever have been.
Athos sighed. His breath kicked up a tuft of dark curls belonging to Aramis, a sharp reminder of the ridiculous natures of their present circumstance.
The marksman, vaguely clothed and unconscious, hung between Athos and Porthos, his feet barely touching the ground, arms stretched above where his wrists were secured to a hook in a lone beam in the ceiling of their strange little prison cell. Another pass of the rope had Athos grunting as he was shoved even tighter against Aramis' back, only the solid wall of Porthos, who stood facing him on the other side of Aramis, stopped his movement. A mass of unruly hair lay to one side, affording Athos a direct, if not unnerving, line of sight to Porthos, who stared back at Athos expectantly, ready and waiting for one look, one nod. Any signal at all, and he would follow Athos' lead wherever it took them.
Leading, however, was the furthest thing from Athos' mind. Instead, he was solemnly intent on staring daggers at their captors as they scurried about, adding finishing touches and taking great pains in securing them in their new prison. Each of them garnered his most withering gaze and promise of a painful death but must especially the one who'd taken a shine to his shirt earlier and decided to relieve him of it.
One of the thieves finished tightening the ropes around Porthos' wrists, his high-pitched laughter too hard to be ignored. Another moved in to take the length that remained, of which there was a great deal, and began circling it around the three bound Musketeers. Athos lost count how many times he circled them, but the ropes were getting tighter at each pass, effectively shoving them closer together.
"Sorry, gents," the group's apparent leader said rather apologetically. He rose up on his toes to lean over Porthos' shoulder and talk close to his ear and make eye contact with Athos, his ridicule evident. "No door on the cell so we has to get… creative."
Porthos turned to glare over his shoulder at the nearly toothless leader.
Despite the size discrepancies, the thief and his cohorts had seen fit to divest the Musketeers, not only their gear and horses, but of a great number of personal items, one of those being Porthos' doublet. Slight in size, the thief who'd claimed it, gave a toothless smile and wore it proudly. The sleeves hung long past his hands and the shoulder seams nearly reached his elbows, but that did not deter the toothless loon at all. Proud of his achievement, Toothless strutted and preening about in his new apparel, if for no other reason than to irritate the larger Musketeer some more.
At the sight of his beloved garment, Porthos snarled and dug his feet in, as if to do the thief harm. In the end, the threat proved empty, serving merely to make Toothless and his men laugh harder.
The ownership of the garment was one thing, the helplessness to stop the thief from absconding with it, was quite another. Athos almost pitied the man for neither would bode well for the thief once Porthos got his hands on him.
The men around them peeled with mirth. "They just don't make prison cells like they used to…" a mousy looking fellow sniggered, the rest adding to the cacophony of embarrassment. Mouse looked quite the sight in Aramis' doublet. A ridiculous sight, that was, as the long coat nearly dragged across the dirt, for the idiot was considerably shorter than Aramis. But that didn't stop him either.
Soon, but not soon enough, the Musketeers were alone, left to their awkward predicament. They were, quite literally, trussed up together in a dank, empty cellar of some building out in the middle of nowhere.
"I realize you were angry," Athos began. "But in the future, remember, every move you make, I make as well."
"Sorry. It's just that… seeing that toothless prick wearing my jacket and that rat faced shit wearing Aramis' pants..."
"And my shirt, yes, I know. I am aware. I was there, if you recall."
"Right…" Porthos gave an attempted shrug that swung Aramis' body slightly. "Well, now what do we do?"
"Give me a moment to think…"
Athos stood stiffly, trying to put even the smallest distance he could between himself and Aramis' back. In a nice cozy hug, he'd been made to circle his arms around the marksman's waist where they were tied, trapping his hands between Aramis and Porthos. Having the benefit of being caught last and possessing the longest arm span, Porthos was only slightly better off. He stood face to face with Aramis, his arms encircling both his friends, and tied behind Athos' back.
Porthos sighed. "I'm going to kill them when we get out of here."
Athos echoed his sigh. "Yes, making actually getting out of here a rather crucial part, no?"
"Right..." Porthos agreed, his voice flush with determination. "So, how we' doin' this?"
Athos arched one fine brow, but the expression had no effect on Porthos so he shrugged. "I am open to suggestions."
While Porthos screwed his mouth as if to think on the matter, the swordsman began looking around, finding it necessary to lean back to keep from brushing his nose against Aramis' hair in order to finish his surveillance of the dark cell. The marksman had been left the worse by the thieves' sticky hands, in addition to the clubbing to his skull, he had been robbed of his boots and his breeches as well. Apparently, they were just the right size for one of the fellows that had captured them. "And I would much prefer we do so before d'Artagnan finds us."
From his position, Porthos eyed Aramis, where his arms were stretched high. "Bastards," he muttered angrily. "That's gotta be hell on his arms."
Athos eyed him as well. "Especially the one that is bleeding. I am certain one of them cut his shoulder blade before we were overtaken."
"We should help him. Get some of that weight off his shoulders."
Athos brow arched as he looked at Porthos. "Another lovely thought," he pointed out sarcastically. "We can scarce help ourselves, what makes you think we can help him now?"
Porthos' brow furrowed. He studied the hook where the rope holding Aramis was looped through, before stepping in even closer, pressing himself against their unmoving friend. The end result made Aramis' body press even harder against Athos, who glanced up in surprised annoyance.
"What are you doing?"
Porthos tossed a quizzical look at the swordsman. "Move in close, bend at the knees and when I give the word, we press him in between us and lift him as much as we can."
"You can't be ser—" Athos 'oofed' as Aramis body was once more pressed toward him, the larger Musketeer crouching, waiting for him to comply. "Very well…"
Athos pressed in close and followed suit. Between the two of them, they had Aramis sandwiched tightly. They straightened their knees, lifting him slightly. The marksman's arms went from straight and locked to looser and considerably less strained.
"And just how long do you think we can keep him suspended between us?" Athos gritted, trying to keep his feet braced. "Our legs will surely fatigue just from standing, let alone supporting him between us."
Before Porthos could answer a mournful groan filled the room and Aramis shifted between them.
Porthos' brow furrowed. "I think he's either enjoying this a bit too much… or he's coming around."
Athos rolled his eyes, unwilling to think of the state of nearly undress he and their friend were in. "Must you say it like that?"
Porthos smirked, realizing what he had just said. "What? That he's coming… around?"
"Yes! No... The other—oh, never mind," Athos lamented, before shifting his head to somewhere just above their friend's rear. God, how humiliating. He'd done something terrible to deserve this, certainly. If he could only figure out what that had been, he'd have to atone for it, whichever way that sort of thing worked, anyway. Maybe Aramis could show him…
"Wh-what… where…" Aramis mumbled, twisting between them.
"I cannot hold him up if he continues wiggling about..." Athos huffed.
"Aramis," Porthos looked up at his friend, trying to capture his unfocused gaze with his eyes alone. "Hey, it's me. You're safe."
"P'rths…?" The injured man's body stopped twisting abruptly as he froze in place. "Wh-why are you hugging me? Where are my breeches?" he squeaked rather unmanly.
"I'm not huggi— well," the tall man stopped, analyzing their current predicament. "I am," he concluded. "Athos is here too."
"Must you implicate me in this?" Athos growled at Porthos before answering. "Yes. Sadly, I am here as well. Hugging you, it would seem."
"Why are you both…" Aramis' asked, trying to worm his way down. He stopped short as the rope tensed and put pressure on his wrists. "...down there?"
"Because our captors have a sick, twisted sense of humor?"
Porthos thought it over a moment, as if to supply a better answer before he shrugged. "That about sums it up, yea."
"D'Artagnan?"
"Got away," Athos supplied, a moment later rolling his eyes. "Lucky him…"
"Yeah." Porthos continued. "I suspect he is gathering a regiment at the garrison to rescue us, even as we speak."
Aramis went very still, taking stock of his attire and the position they were in. "A res... rescue?"
"Yeah, an encouraging thought, at least."
Aramis turned his head and tried to catch Athos' gaze, his eyes every bit as horrified by the prospect as Athos felt.
"Indeed," Athos offered as he returned the sentiment, arching one brow at the marksman. "I'm encouraged. How about you?"
Aramis snapped his head back around and looked up at the hook where his hands were bound. "We should save them the bother." He lurched upward in an attempt to get his hands up and over the hook. "I just need to get enough leverage to…" The first attempt failed but determined, he tried again. "Once I'm loose, I'll c-come down and we'll be out of here before rescue can arrive."
"Bloody Christ! Aramis," Porthos huffed trying to keep his hold on his friend. Athos struggling to do the same on the other side. "Mate, we can't hold you if you don't stay stil—"
Aramis lurched once more and it was all Porthos could do to lock his knees and keep his balance. In the end, it was a lost effort. The tight circle they'd made loosened and lost its hold. Aramis slipped back down until he was once more wedged between them, his nose nearly brushing against Porthos'.
Eyes wide with alarm at the invasion of the other man's personal space, Aramis jerked his head back. It was only Athos' fast reflexes that saved him from a collision that surely would have given him a bloodied nose. In the end, he still got a mouthful of the mass of black curls that cascaded down the marksman's head and fell just below his neck.
Spitting petulantly, the swordsman scowled at the dark mess, a vicious look that went completely wasted since no one was able to see it. Taking a deep breath to chastise his friend, he stopped and gave it a second tentative, deliberate whiff.
"Your hair," Athos sniffed again, only deeper this time. "Is that…melon?" Intrigued beyond sense, he buried his nose in the dark locks and inhaled fully, missing the way Aramis shivered before pulling away. "And apples. Your hair smells of melon and apples, with just a hint of... brandy."
Aramis huffed. "Well of course it does. Save for the brandy—" he turned stiffly to one side, "—that's your own breath, I expect. As for the rest, there's this wonderful lady in the market who grinds fruit into a soap, just for me…"
Porthos and Athos smirked.
What?" Aramis looked from the larger man before twisting further to look at Athos out of one corner of his eye. "Doesn't everyone?"
A loud warbling groan echoed off the cell walls. Aramis looked quickly at Porthos, and Athos leaned to one side to do the same. "Great," Porthos grumbled. "Now look what you've done. All that talk of apples and melons… you've made me hungry!"
Athos rolled his eyes. "I mentioned brandy too, but you don't see me craving… oh, wait," he thought a moment before shaking his head. "Never mind." The former Comte sighed, deflated. "What I wouldn't give for a bottle of brandy about now. Then I could at least blame this whole debacle on an addled mind."
"Blaming those highwaymen is good enough for me." Porthos growled, eyeing the dried blood on Aramis' face.
"That makes precisely one of us." Aramis menaced. "I want my boots back…" he mumbled. "And my clothes…"
"At least they stopped shy of taking your small clothes," Porthos countered, always one to look on the bright side. Even if there was none. "In this cold, you might've shriveled into lady parts," he couldn't help but add with a laugh.
"Gentlemen," Athos interrupted. "Need I remind you of the impending arrival of Musketeers—our brothers—who should be here to rescue us at any moment?"
There was a none-too-subtle threat in Athos' words that brought Aramis and Porthos back to the issue at hand. All talk of brandy, fruit and lady parts fled their list of immediate concerns in face of the thought of their brothers finding them in such a predicament. Some of the others had, for quite sometime now, taken to calling the three of them 'The Inseparables'. If -God forbid- they were to be seen in their current circumstances, the irony would be hard to live down.
"Alright," Aramis winced, glancing up at his arms, even as he managed to slide further down. "We need to—" he choked off the words and stared straight ahead at Porthos. Mere inches separated them and Athos could feel the marksman tense, seemingly reluctant to move, let alone draw breath.
Athos leaned to the right to ascertain the matter and knew the problem immediately. "Porthos?" he called quietly.
"Hmm...?" the taller man said, eyes crossing as he stared down at Aramis' face.
"Over here," Athos called him to the side.
Porthos tilted to the left. "What?"
"In as much as it is within your power, a little breathing room...? If you please?"
Porthos looked innocently at Aramis, saw him swallow hard. "Do I have foul breath or something?" he asked, sounding more than a little offended. As Aramis' chest pressed persistently against his own, understanding dawned. "Oh!" Actual breathing room. His eyes darted around, anywhere but to Aramis. "Uh. Sorry 'bout that…"
Aramis exhaled in relief. "Where was I?"
"Tied to your best friends, in the middle of a dank prison without bars, about to be discovered by your comrades at arms and mercilessly teased for the remainder of your days."
"Yes. That about covers it..." Aramis shook his head and Athos leaned back as far as he could, to avoid being whipped about the face. "Sorry…arms hurt. Hard to think."
"I'm certain," Athos responded dryly. "Could you also make it hard to toss your head about? I nearly lost an eye at least twice so far and that fruity scent only gets stronger when you move about." A lock of the marksman's hair chose that moment to curl out, straight into his nose. Wonderful, Athos thought, contorting his mouth as if that would help.
It didn't. Nor did the wet sneeze that followed.
"Oy! Hate it when that happens," Porthos said in all seriousness, clearly following the disturbing events happening on Athos' face. "Nose itches, don't it? Rub it into his shoulder, that should take care of it."
"No—" Aramis protested. "Do not—"
Unable to stand it any longer, Athos did precisely that. He darted his head down and crushed the offensive tickle in the surface of Aramis linen shirt. He groaned out loud as relief flooded his head, a feeling akin to drunkenness accompanying it. Almost. Well, not even close to almost. More like… good enough.
"Feels better, right? Told you that'd do it..." Porthos nodded.
"I've changed my mind," Aramis sagged. "The idea of being caught like this is pretty mortifying, but now I'm not so sure this here, right now, isn't worse." He glared at no one in particular. "Debased to the level of a simple handkerchief…"
"Just think," Athos put in, leaning over Aramis' shoulder to speak directly into his ear, after he blew some of those ridiculously massive curls out of his way—the man really ought to keep his hair trimmed. Possibly shaved close... "Months of taunts and whistles, offers to cuddle and shoulders to cry upon, accused of taking the concept of Inseparable too far… being compared to low hanging fruit..."
Aramis eyes widened in alarm. "On second thought... we need to get out of here, tout suite! Athos," he turned his head to speak vaguely in his direction, "see if your bindings are at all lose."
The swordsman's hands wiggled between Aramis and Porthos, causing the larger man to jerk back, trying to stifle a laugh. Aramis looked at him askance. Athos stopped and tilted to one side to see what the matter was this time.
"What are you doing?" Aramis asked, looking skeptically at his friend.
"Nothing. I—" Porthos swallowed what he wanted to say. "Sorry..." the larger man murmured. "Just keep going."
Athos resumed his shifting, only to stop short as Porthos burst out laughing.
"Porthos!"
"What?" he shouted back. "I'm ticklish!" He waited a moment, steeling himself for their taunting and when none came, braced his feet. "Alright, try again. I promise I'll not move." He threw up a steely gaze, staring right into Aramis' eyes and held absolutely still. Aramis did likewise, failing to find any sort of humor in their current situation.
Athos rolled his eyes. "Don't bother. There is no give in these bindings." He tilted his head at the larger man. "How about you, Porthos?"
"You think I didn't try that already?" He shook his head. "They ain't coming apart."
"No need to get testy," Aramis admonished.
"Told you I'm hungry. You know how I get."
"Oh, right." Aramis twisted towards Athos. "He turns into a bear when he's hungry," he whispered, even though Porthos stood, quite literally, glued to him.
"I can hear you, you know," Porthos commented.
Athos felt as if he was slowly losing his mind dealing with those two. "Yes, well, at this point, a bear would be of more use, given that one could chew through these ropes and get us out of here before we are discovered by our friends!"
"He gets testy when he's sober," Porthos grumbled. Aramis nodded in agreement.
Athos sighed.
"Fine…" Aramis began again. "What if..." he tilted his head back to look up and Athos yet again narrowly missed being head-butted.
"Aramis!" Athos shouted in frustration.
"Sorry, sorry," Aramis stilled, looking straight ahead. Porthos slowly tilted to one side for breathing space. "What if I go up, like before."
"As I recall," Athos began, "that did not work so well."
"Yes, but this time, I climb."
"How so?"
"I wrap my hands around the rope and pull up, just enough to get my foot up on both Porthos' knee and yours, which will offer the perfect foothold for me to reach Porthos' shoulders and, hopefully, that blasted hook. Brilliant, no?"
"Can you do that? Climb up, I mean?" Athos leaned back and looked where Aramis hands were bound at the wrist. The skin looked red and angry, his fingers swollen. "You've been hanging there an awful long time and you've lost some blood."
"Besides," Porthos joined in. "What about your arm?"
"Yes," Aramis winced. "Thank you for reminding me of all that. Can we operate on a little faith here?"
"There's blood on your left arm," Porthos pointed out, "where those bastards cut you."
"Bastard," Aramis corrected. "And yes, thank you for that reminder as well."
"You're most welcome," Porthos replied, with the utmost sincerity.
Athos tilted to make eye contact with the larger man. "Porthos…. are you certain you weren't hit on the head?"
Porthos thought about it a moment. "Pretty sure."
"That makes precisely one of us," Athos repeated Aramis' earlier words regarding their attackers.
"All good points gentlemen," Aramis cut in. "But unless either of you has a better idea…"
Athos thought a moment then looked to Porthos who shrugged. "I got nothin'."
"Then it is settled," Aramis decided. "I must try."
"Very well." Athos looked at Porthos, bending his right leg. "Bend your right leg—"
Porthos bent his right—
"No." Athos slammed his eyes shut. "You're other right—your left knee."
"Don't get mad at me." Porthos sulked as he lifted his left knee. "Not my fault you can't tell my right from your left. You certain you weren't hit in the head?" he offered back, bitterly.
Athos dropped his forehead against Aramis' back and shook his head. "This is, without question, the worst day of my life," he moaned, unaware that the added weight of his head put pressure on the marksman's already taxed arms.
The extra weight swung Aramis forward and Porthos, unprepared, lost his balance momentarily, pulling all three of them backwards. They swung like the pendulum on a church bell, both Athos and Aramis complaining loudly at being tossed about.
"Enough!" the larger man growled, using his body to stop the marksman's nearly uncontrolled swing and squeeze Athos into submission. "Quit your moaning and be about the business of getting us out of here, ey?"
"Yes." Aramis whispered painfully. "Please… we'll never get out of here if we don't get to it, and besides, the pull on my arms is growing very uncomfortable."
Porthos lifted his knee, pressing Athos' into doing the same. The right right knee this time around. "There, footholds' are in place… now, get your foot up here."
Aramis tried a few times but the last downward shift on his arms had sapped all his strength to pull upward. He sagged ever so slightly, taking advantage of the fact that Porthos' massive chest was right there, offering a place to rest.
"Having a wee nap, are we?" Porthos pushed, his voice holding a kindness to it that robbed those words of their sting. "Perhaps after we're out of here?"
Aramis nodded against the linen of his black shirt. "Yes… after," he agreed. "A nice, long, warm nap…"
Porthos looked over the mass of dark curls to Athos frowning face. "We need to wedge him between us to lift him again, then I'll give him my knee."
Athos arched a fine eyebrow. At the moment, Aramis seemed unfit to take two steps forward in the same direction, much less climb over them and onto a rope to get them free. "Fine," he eventually agreed, crouching as best as he could. "On three…"
In a repeat of the same movement they had done before, the two Musketeers moved as one, pressing Aramis in between them. Athos was forced to shift his legs back in order to keep Porthos from knocking him off his feet.
Relief proved to be an instant balm as Aramis sighed and opened his eyes. "Thank you, mes amis!"
"Much as we share a tremendous feeling of joy at your lack of suffering," Athos gritted, trying to keep Aramis up between them, "...perhaps we can get on with it before this precarious hold collapses on itself and we have to do it all over again?
"Yes, yes," Aramis looked up at the rope where it looped over the hook, trying to gage how high he'd need to climb in order to gain enough slack to secure his freedom. "Now if I could just get my foot…"
Athos felt him shift clumsily, reaching behind to place one knee over the swordsman knee. He closed his eyes to concentrate on keeping still and his balance properly seated when Aramis' weight shifted dramatically, until his other socked foot came down perfectly on the Porthos' knee. Well, more the thigh area but it was enough to distribute his weight some…
Aramis immediately lifted his other foot, looking for another foothold. Weakness from blood loss seemed to be playing a greater factor and the single point of leverage proved unworkable. "I need to get my other foot... somewhere," he strained.
Athos looked across at Porthos, who was doing much of the work in taking Aramis' weight upon himself. The man couldn't very well lift both feet and Athos was too short and in no physical position to offer better. He had, however, a brilliant idea.
"His belt buckle," the swordsman suggested. "See if you can get your other foot… more in the center."
"Yes," Aramis huffed, his eyes trained once more upward on the hook overhead, "… that should help."
Athos felt him shift yet again. He closed his eyes to concentrate on keeping his balance as Aramis bent his leg, foot moving incautiously between them, searching for the protruding object of their discussion, a singular key to their success and possible liberation. And impending mortification at the arrival of their brothers.
One could not forget the mortification part. It was important.
The foot glanced off Athos' hands where they were tied in front of him, but he made no complaint, determined not to express his own discomfort.
"Ah!" Aramis gave a triumphant hiss as he shifted his entire body upward and locked out his knees to stand straight. "Got it!"
Athos sighed at the back of Aramis' knees. The air was quite chilly, but even without the protection of a shirt, he could feel sweat tracing down lines across his back. He smiled at Aramis' enthusiasm over having achieved such a small task, which in their current situation, was not so miniscule.
Porthos' rather verbal lack of enthusiasm became a distressed whimper, followed quickly by a pained grunt. The noise held something akin to agony, and something else entirely that seemed impossible to define.
Aramis gazed down at Porthos, while Athos tried to glance in between Aramis' legs. they could see Porthos' brow wrinkled and the grim set of his mouth, rows of white teeth gritted tightly together.
"Oh," Aramis paused, trying to look further than Porthos' face. In such close quarters, all he could see where tight curls and his friend's closed lids "Am I hurting you?"
The big man let out a breath, long and careful. "In a manner of speaking," he whispered, his eyes beseeching. "The place your foot is currently squashing… not my belt buckle!"
Athos stared at him in confusion, then tried to follow the line of Aramis' leg, only to find it impossible to get the proper angle to see his foot placement. "Then where…?"
Porthos glared at the swordsman through the gap in Aramis' legs. "You really want me to spell it out for you?
"Hang on," Aramis interrupted and started to wiggle. "I'll just move my foot—"
"No!" Athos ordered and Aramis stilled. "You're too weak to balance on one foot."
"Athos…" Porthos hissed, eyes wide, tears pooling at the corners. "He really, really should try…"
Athos glared back at him as he continued but spoke to both of them. "Do that and you'll only succeed in falling again and I do not want to start this over."
Porthos stilled, whimpering again. "That's my future children you're trampling on...can you please keep your damn foot still?"
"Sorry…" Aramis offered plaintively. "Just trying to help."
"Well, it's not helping!"
"Enough, both of you!" Athos snapped. The dilemma was clearly putting some strain on their efforts to keep a level head and escape. The swordsman flexed his fingers to test his range of motion and began feeling blindly about. "Just… let me find where…"
Something large bumped his palm. Porthos squeaked and the swordsman knew immediately where he'd stopped. Not Aramis' foot.
Refusing to make eye contact with the larger man, he whispered, "Bear with me…"
"Easy for you to say…"
"I am at least in the right vicinity," Athos reminded forcefully.
Instead of answering, Porthos slammed his eyes closed and suffered his fondling in silence. Athos moved his hands up and found something of soft wool. He grabbed hold and squeezed. "Is that your foot?"
Aramis giggled but kept still, the difficulty of it reflected in his clenched jaw. "Oh, Dios… that tickles," he explained quite vexed.
Athos muttered under his breath, leaning his forehead to rest against the back of Aramis' legs, the heat of his own embarrassment ripping up and down his face. "I've got my hands under your heel," he braced, widening his stance. "Shift back, slowly and I will take your weight partially in my hands."
The deal was done, success measured in Porthos exhale of relief and Aramis quiet prayer of thanksgiving, along with Athos determination to not drop his friend and thus restarting this entire mess from the beginning.
"Gentleman," he ground out, huffing against the weight and Aramis' attempts to balance between the two of them. "I prefer to celebrate after we are free of this insanity."
Porthos was having his own difficult standing on one foot, the other still raised to offer a foothold for Aramis. "Now what, though?" He looked up at Aramis then back at Athos. "I'm fresh out of… belt buckles."
"If…" Aramis seemed nearly hesitant to offer any suggestion that might rile the bigger man. "If I could get my foot from Athos' hand onto your shoulder…"
And rightly so for Porthos glared up at Aramis. "If you miss…"
Aramis pressed his lips together. "I won't miss," he said haughtily.
"You missed my belt buckle."
"Smaller target."
Porthos glowered up at him. "Oy! Watch what you call a small!"
Aramis smirked back and opened his mouth to reply—
"I have some mobility," Athos offered quickly, eager to move this along before things got physical…er, more physical. He did not want to imagine what a fist-fight in this position would look like. A wiggling worm, perhaps. "I can help raise his foot, get him closer." Porthos glared back at him next. "Well, we can't just stand here all day, like a circus number."
"And as much as I wish I could lift myself up the rest of the way with just my arms, I lack the strength at the moment."
"Fine…" the larger musketeer relented but tossed a quick glance heavenward. "Just … please, God, don't let him miss..."
"Once I start lifting," Athos offered, looking up at the back of Aramis' legs and finding no other support point other than the round cheeks of his rear. God… the things he did for his brothers... "I'll get my shoulder under your… backside... and shove."
Aramis gave a quick nod and Athos lifted, then... shoved. Aramis' foot had made it all the way to Porthos' chest when the larger man lost his balance and his raised leg came crashing down. Aramis flailed abortively at the sudden loss of support, at which Athos overcompensated and pushed from behind, sending him forward. In the end, the marksman landed, both knees on Porthos' shoulders, the other man's face inches from his… belt buckle.
~§~
D'Artagnan came charging in through the opened door. His sword was drawn, waving in the air, threatening anyone who dared to challenge him. A threat that never materialized as he skittered to a halt, staring at the odd assortment that made up his brothers.
For some reason, one he wasn't entirely sure he wished to find out, Athos had his head pressing against Aramis' ass and the marksman, devoid of his breeches, had his knees around Porthos head. The big musketeer stood with his arms around Athos glaring at d'Artagnan.
The younger man stared hard, blinking in the faint hope that at least one dash of his lids would succeed in wiping that vision away. In the meantime, his mouth hung open. "Um…"
"Well," Porthos snapped, "you going to just stand there? Cut us loose before our captors come."
"Hmm? Oh, no," D'Artagnan closed the distance, an odd smirk on his face. "I mean, of course." He reached up with his rapier to slice the ropes on Porthos' wrists and took a step back to avoid being smacked as Porthos' arms shot up to get his hands around Aramis, securing the marksman's balance. "What I meant was," the Gascon continued as he reached up next to cut the ropes around Aramis' wrists. "There are no captors. Just me."
"You fought off all five of them?" Athos asked, incredulously.
"Never mind that…" Aramis added hopefully as he was helped down and finally stood, albeit wobbly, on the cold stone floor. "Did you find my boots?" D'Artagnan looked down and noticed how his toes curled in immediately, making the absence of his footwear all the more prevalent.
"And my doublet?" Porthos chimed in.
D'Artagnan looked questioningly at each of them before pivoting back to Athos. "No, I mean, I came back and the place was deserted," he confessed, sounding rather embarrassed. "Well except for the three of you… over there, doing…" he flopped a hand out, indicating the space where he'd seen them when he'd first entered, "whatever it was you were...doing." His brow furrowed, a pained expression on his face. "I have a headache," he murmured and began rubbing the top of his head.
"So, no…" Athos' gaze swung to the door before settling back to the younger man. "...regiment?"
"What? No," D'Artagnan gave a careful shake of his head, his dagger back in his sheath. "I didn't want to lose track of where they were taking you, so I followed them instead of returning to Paris," he continued to rub his head.
"Wha's with your head?" Porthos asked.
"Oh, I hit the door on the way in," he confessed, a red flush spreading through his cheeks. "Too low… who built this place, anyway? Dwarves?"
The three older Musketeers traded a look amongst them, a silent agreement swiftly taking place.
"Aramis," Athos called in all seriousness. "Didn't you once tell me that the mind sometimes plays tricks after receiving a serious blow?"
The marksman looked at him mutely for a moment before his eyes widened. "Oh, I believe I did. Uh huh," he nodded emphatically. "It definitely has been known to do… you know… that."
"Makes you see odd things, that does," Porthos joined in.
"So…" d'Artagnan looked at each of them, "That… peculiar sight I caught upon entering… was just my addled brains, that it?"
"Yeah," Porthos agreed. "The worse your head aches, the worse the images you see."
"Think—" Athos corrected quickly, "you see."
"Right, that's what I meant," Porthos continued. "'cause those weren't real, not really," he pressed. "So, since you didn't really see them—"
"—no point in talking about them," Aramis interrupted. "You wouldn't want to embarrass yourself with wild tales of things that never happened, now would you?"
"Oh, of course not," the young man readily agreed. "Wouldn't want to ruin any sort of… reputations."
"Good… glad that's settled," Athos looked at Porthos and Aramis, the three of them nodding.
"Me as well because," d'Artagnan took a deep breath, exhaling, "what I saw...that was… disturbing." He waived with a slight flourish to the entrance. "Now, if you three want to get out of here, we have a long walk back to Paris ahead of us."
d'Artagnan turned and strode from the room, a small smile on his face. Before he reached the door, he heard Athos whispering conspiratorially.
"We shall never speak of this again,"
END
