A/N: Thanks to everyone who's reviewed/favorited/followed :) Usually I write whump and h/c and angst, so playing around with humor and getting such a good response from you wonderful people has been so encouraging! ^_^ So thanks for that!

To my guest reviewer uIA, thank you for reviewing! No worries, the pup will have a chapter of his own, but not until 4 of 4. SOMEONE will have to put these boys back together again, so looks like it's gonna fall to him ^_^

Part 2: Porthos

By all accounts, the plan had no right to work as well as it did.

In less than a minute after the sentry came through the door, Athos had a sword, Aramis a pistol, and the guard was unconscious on the floor courtesy of Porthos's unbreakable hold. With Athos at his side, throat still marked in bruises, Porthos didn't feel remotely sorry for the enemy soldier.

"You know what you're doin' with that thing, right?" he couldn't help but ask Aramis, watching his friend running his hands blindly over the stolen gun. At least, he was pretty sure he'd asked the question, but frustratingly he couldn't hear himself to be positive.

Porthos couldn't read lips to know what exactly his friend replied, but from Aramis's exaggerated posture, he seemed unimpressed with the question. Porthos shrugged and turned to Athos, seeing an equally amused but dryly cynical expression as though wondering if Porthos had really asked such a thing.

The big musketeer grinned; Athos didn't need his voice to be able to speak quite plainly sometimes. At any rate, the reaction was justly deserved. He didn't actually doubt his friend's ability for one second, not when he'd played a key role in many a lucrative hustle with unsuspecting victims who didn't believe Aramis could hit a target whilst blindfolded. He knew better than anyone that Aramis was just as dangerous like this as he had ever been.

"Right," he thought he said. "What was I thinkin'?" Porthos moved towards the open door. "Come on, then, the sooner we get outta here, the better-"

He nearly found himself on his backside on the floor as a hand gripped him on either arm, wrenching him back again. Porthos blinked in surprise but quickly recovered his footing. He held instinctively silent as Athos pressed a finger to his lips in warning, then pointed towards the hall. Porthos nodded in understanding.

On his other side, Aramis cocked his head and said something, judging by the movement of his mouth. Biting back a frustrated sigh, Porthos swiveled back to Athos for interpretation.

Athos held up one finger, then used two to mime a pair of walking legs. Ah, just one man, then. Porthos cracked his knuckles and grinned. Good, he still had plenty of aggression to work out of his system.

Movement to his left brought his attention back to Aramis, who was now aiming the stolen pistol in the general direction of the door, but Porthos quickly pushed his arm back down.

"They'll hear," he whispered in what he hoped was his quietest voice. "Let me." Besides, Aramis might have been the best shot in the garrison, with or without his sight, but better to save the shot for a more desperate situation. As dire as their predicament probably seemed on the outside, this was hardly anything they couldn't handle. The Spaniards were about to learn that, to their great misfortune.

Motioning for Athos to push himself back against the wall by the door, unseen, Porthos grabbed Aramis to guide him to the opposite side of the door. He waited with bated breath, eyes glued to Athos for his friend's signal.

Athos was frowning, but it was his intense frown of concentration, which was quite different from his placid frown of cool indifference, which again was altogether dissimilar from his haughty frown of annoyance. Those who didn't know him might find Athos singularly difficult to read, but Porthos was by now fluent in the many frowns of Athos, and he was glad his friend knew without needing to be told what Porthos was waiting for.

One, Athos mouthed, holding up a finger. Porthos clenched his fists.

Two… another finger to join the first. Porthos forced himself to let go of his desperation to hear what he was never going to hear, and clung instead to his trust in Athos.

Three!

Athos nodded with a sharp jerk of his head. Porthos lunged forward, arm already swinging out like a club. He connected solidly with something big and round. Not like a ball was round, more like a whale was round. And whales weren't particularly round, but they were certainly big and didn't like being hit, which made the metaphor a rather apt one nonetheless.

Porthos didn't know if the whale made any sound as it crashed to the ground, though he had never heard a whale fall silently so it probably did make noise. Then again, his experience with falling whales, silent or loud, was limited to… well, nothing. At any rate, the soldier he'd caught straight in the throat collapsed, stunned just long enough that Porthos was able to get on top of him. With his knees pinning the guard's arms, Porthos shoved one hand over the man's mouth and pinched his nose shut with his other. The whale struggled but he was only desperate to save himself, and Porthos was desperate to save his friends.

It gave him the edge and the will to hold on, and soon the whale slumped down, unconscious. Porthos was a little concerned with how little effort this was taking, but for now he was going to accept the small gift. Even better, the whale was about the right size. Grinning, he reached for the downed soldier and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"You should put on the other uniform, Athos," he suggested. "Might need to blend in, an' you'll be a more believable soldier than 'im with those bandages."

A hand fell on his arm, and Porthos looked up to see Athos's concerned expression. There was barely any difference between this look and the carefully blank one he usually wore, but Porthos was also well versed in the empty expressions. Especially when Athos pantomimed shooting him.

"I know, they could shoot us as spies if we're outta uniform," he agreed, but his grin didn't slacken. "But we're not spyin', we're escapin'. And if they catch us doin' that, we'll probably be shot anyway."

He didn't know what information they'd been hoping to get out of Athos to begin with; but if the Spaniards had been willing to hurt him in a way that he couldn't talk even if he'd decided to, it must not have been important enough that they cared much about keeping their prisoner alive. That didn't bode well. All kidding aside, Porthos was anxious to get Athos home, away from his tormentors.

He and Athos swiftly exchanged uniforms with the downed soldiers, though Porthos gathered his own jerkin and pauldron up carefully and wrapped them in a bundle with his cloak. Athos's had already been taken from him, but Porthos wasn't about to leave his own behind. Fastening the bundle across his shoulder, Porthos took one of Aramis's arms, with Athos at the other one. Since the blinded Musketeer needed guiding anyway, now it would look like two soldiers escorting a prisoner.

Porthos paused when Athos leaned around to hit his arm, giving him an exaggerated nod and then tilting his head towards their compatriot.

"Eh… Aramis, he says yes. About… whatever." Neither of the two clarified for him, so Porthos hoped it wasn't a vital bit of information to their plan that he ought to know about. As they pushed their way into the corridor at last, Athos hit him again, this time shaking his head.

Porthos exhaled in disgruntled impatience. "An' now he says no."

He couldn't hear what Aramis responded through the ringing in his head, but pressed in as he was he could feel the vibration of the sharpshooter's voice. Athos nodded again with his lips twitching suspiciously, and this time Porthos glowered.

"He says yes this time. Here now, you two aren't talkin' about me, are you? I can't hear you, it's not fair."

He felt Aramis's laugh, and Athos was very clearly smiling now, though it would take one of his closest friends to recognize the lightening of his normally expressionless face for what it was. Porthos growled low in his chest and considered steering Aramis into a low hanging beam.

Not like a serious consideration, just a passing fancy.

"Steps," he warned his friend as the trio came upon a flight of stairs, only to have Athos put a warning finger to his lips. Right. "Steps," Porthos repeated in what he hoped was a lower voice. It was hard to be sure. Gripping Aramis tighter in case his feet faltered, Porthos glanced behind them to visually assure himself they weren't being followed. Not being able to hear approaching enemies was starting to set him on edge, the crushing silence—or as silent as turbulent ringing could be—more oppressive than the dark cold of the unfriendly castle.

The trio made their ungainly way up the staircase, not wide enough for all three of them to walk abreast. Porthos pushed Athos to the front, unwilling to take his eyes off either of the two, all but holding his breath as they made it to the top of the steps. Athos held up a hand.

"Wait," Porthos hissed as softly as he thought he could so Aramis would know what was happening. He waited as Athos leaned around the corner of the stairs, head twisting this way and that, before nodding and motioning all clear. Porthos squeezed Aramis's arm and urged him the rest of the way up onto the landing.

Athos took Aramis's other side once more, but turned to Porthos with a furrowed brow of uncertainty. Aramis's body vibrated again from his voice, and then his bandaged face was tilted towards Porthos as well.

Oh… they didn't know where to go now. Athos couldn't be expected to remember how he'd been brought in after a week of captivity and Aramis couldn't have been watching the turns and landmarks.

Porthos jerked his head to the left. "This way," he rumbled.

Together, he and Athos frog-marched Aramis down the stone corridor, the marksman concealing his hands under his cloak to hide the stolen pistol. Porthos guided them along the same turns they'd been forced along after being taken captive, retracing their steps and waiting with bated breath for the slightest twitch from the other two that there were voices approaching.

Thankfully the lower halls seemed to be mostly empty. Porthos's stomach told him it was probably suppertime and the castle denizens were likely gathered to eat. He noticed they hadn't bothered bringing food to the prisoners. That was unbelievably rude.

But of course their luck wasn't going to last. Athos and Aramis both slowed down, a grim set to Athos's jaw that needed no translation. Porthos straightened, trying to look the part of a Spanish soldier escorting a prisoner. They came to a stop as two more guards rounded the corner.

The Spaniards drew to a halt as well, eyeing the trio. Porthos grunted and jerked his head to the side in what he hoped was a gruff order for the two to let them pass. If only he and Aramis's positions had been reversed… Porthos didn't dare speak up, as it would be a trifle difficult to pass as a convincing Spanish soldier who only spoke French.

The two soldiers traded a look, then one stepped forward with a narrowed squint. His mouth was moving, so he was evidently saying something, not that it would have mattered if Porthos could hear or not. From the corner of his eye, he saw Athos shaking his head.

"No," Porthos barked, following Athos's lead, grateful that the word was fairly universal.

The guards' suspicious squints darkened. Once again, Porthos felt the thrum of Aramis's voice for a split second before the marksman jerked against him as though fighting to escape. Taken by surprise, Porthos's fiercer grip as he yanked Aramis back was utterly genuine. Not knowing how to order his "prisoner" to hold still in Spanish, he settled for another low growl.

Their charade was barely passable and Porthos had an inkling that the newcomers weren't fooled, but when the second guard narrowed his eyes on Athos, he knew they'd been discovered. He had a split second to act as the guards drew their pistols. Porthos saw the flash of a blade dance forward from his periphery but his full attention was locked on the guns aimed at Aramis, who couldn't see the danger.

Leaving Athos to dispatch of the two, Porthos whirled around with his back to the soldiers, pulling Aramis against him to shield his friend with his body. For a long moment, he didn't dare move, aware of nothing but his thudding heart and the vibration of whatever Aramis was saying.

Then, Athos was pulling them both around, face pale and sword dripping with blood. Aramis wriggled away, mouth moving rapidly. Turning to look over his shoulder, Porthos noted the two dead guards.

"Well, that was excitin'," he thought he said. He wondered if either of the two sentries had managed to get a shot off before Athos had killed them. Then Athos held up his hand, and Porthos's eyes widened when he saw the blood. "Athos! You hit?"

Athos shook his head, jabbing his finger towards Porthos instead. His mouth formed a word easy to read: YOU.

Oh. Well, he'd known they were getting out way too easy and it was only a matter of time before something went wrong. Funny, he hadn't even felt it happen. Even now, Porthos didn't feel any obvious pain.

"Me? Where?" he asked, raising an arm and trying to twist around to look- OH there was the pain, it had just taken a second. Porthos winced, feeling the flesh of his side throb in protest at the movement. Nothing vital then, like his heart, or his liver, or Aramis.

It wasn't until Athos tapped his arm and pointed to said musketeer for Porthos to realize his friend was gripping his cloak and seemingly shouting.

"Hey, whoa, I'm fine," Porthos cut in. "Athos got 'em and he's not hurt, and I'm just nicked a bit."

Aramis's mouth continued yammering as he pushed his gun towards Porthos, leaving his hands free to rip off a piece of the sash around his waist. Porthos hoped Aramis remembered that he couldn't hear, so whatever he was saying wasn't going to get an answer. Sometimes Aramis forgot little things like that.

In any case, Athos was the one who nodded, so Porthos dutifully translated, "Athos says yeah."

This seemed to calm Aramis down—honestly, so high strung—as the marksman held out the fabric so Athos could press it against Porthos's wound. The big musketeer hissed, but loosened his belt so he could refasten it tighter around the makeshift bandage to hold it in place. That would do for now, but more guards might have heard the ruckus and it was time to move.

They still had some escaping to do.