AN: Athos despairs that there's no inns on the sea and stocks up, D'Artagnan despairs that there are no earplugs on the sea, Aramis despairs that there's no land on the sea, and Porthos just despairs.
He could see the port of A Coruña far ahead, Spanish flags waving in the bright sunshine. Porthos let out a sigh of relief; he honestly hadn't been sure they'd make it this far. It was only a two day voyage, three if the weather was poor, but it was a voyage with two utterly inept companions and a third who caused more trouble than he solved.
Even now D'Artagnan was swinging wildly through the rigging, no doubt tangling lines that Porthos had only just finished straightening. He sighed. He couldn't fault the lad for enthusiasm, not when he'd been much the same during his first voyage.
At least D'Artagnan was enjoying himself.
Athos appeared on deck rarely, leaving his darkened cabin only to consult with Porthos on the best course to take and what they would do once they reached the city. The rest of his time was spent below decks drinking through the three bottles of wine he had somehow smuggled aboard and refusing to share.
Aramis came up only to empty his stomach over the side.
Porthos loved the sea, loved being back on a ship with the wind in his face and the spray on his skin, but he'd give it up to get Aramis back on dry land.
To say Aramis had not taken well to sailing would be an understatement. Porthos had never seen anyone being as violently ill as Aramis had been these last two days. He could barely keep water down and had even refused Athos's grudging offer of wine.
He also couldn't seem to find his sea legs, staggering every time the deck rolled. Might've been better to take horses after all, Porthos thought grimly, correcting their course by a few degrees to the east.
Athos appeared at his shoulder, somehow managing to move totally silently even on a ship rocking in a three foot swell.
"What are you doing up here?"
Athos shot him an irritated look. "I'm running out of wine." The bottle in his hand was only half full.
Porthos choked back a laugh at the mixture of anger and dejection on Athos's face. Athos glanced around. "Where's D'Artagnan?"
"Where do you think?" Porthos chuckled, pointing up at the crow's nest, where D'Artagnan was perched.
Athos rolled his eyes heavenward, not even glancing at the boy. "I don't have enough wine for this."
He turned to leave, but Porthos stuck out a hand to stop him. "Wait. I actually need you to go change the angle of the jib."
Athos looked at him. "The one in the front," Porthos sighed. "Just untie it and swing the boom to port and tie it down again."
He motioned with his hands, imitating the proper angle, and Athos set off with a determined expression, leaving the wine bottle with Porthos in an act of surprising trust.
Two minutes later he was somehow hanging half upside down from the rigging above the boom, with D'Artagnan scrambling towards him to cut him loose.
Porthos was doubled over the wheel, laughing so hard his vision was beginning to blur. "How did you even do that?" he called, amazed. "You didn't even need to go up in the rigging!"
Athos fell to the deck in an ungraceful heap, shaking off D'Artagnan's offer of help. His face was set in hard lines as he stalked over to Porthos, though the effect was ruined by the fact that his hat was tilted crazily on his head.
"Next time, send him," he hissed, jabbing a finger at D'Artagnan, swinging from the robes like a monkey. "I handle the maps. The maps!" Without another word he turned and disappeared inside, snatching his bottle on the way.
D'Artagnan dropped easily beside Porthos, a wicked grin on his face. "Nice one," Porthos chortled.
"He didn't even see the trap until he stepped in it!" D'Artagnan's face was the picture of glee as he cackled.
"Trap?" came a weary voice from behind them, and Porthos glanced back to see Aramis clambering out of the hatch that led down to the captain's cabin. He had insisted Aramis take it.
D'Artagnan immediately moved to take the wheel, allowing Porthos to step hurriedly to Aramis's side, though Aramis pulled back before he could offer his support.
"I'm fine, Porthos," he said, waving off his concern.
"Yeah, you look it," D'Artagnan called helpfully. Porthos shot a glare at him.
Aramis looked terrible. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin had a grayish, waxy quality. Despite Aramis's protests that he was just paranoid, Porthos was sure he had lost weight. He was struck again by how glad he was that the port was in sight.
"Now, what was this about a trap?" Aramis asked, some of his old bravado back in his voice as he walked unsteadily towards the wheel. Porthos did his best not to hover too blatantly.
"I set a trap for Athos," D'Artagnan sniggered. "Caught him up in the rigging."
Aramis raised an eyebrow, looking impressed. "I would've liked to see that." He smiled for a moment, and then the ship hit a particularly high swell and he paled again.
Porthos hurriedly stepped out of the way, leaving the path to the rail clear, but Aramis shook his head in irritation. "Not going to be sick," he said, disgust twisting his handsome features. "Don't think I've got anything left to bring up."
Porthos reached out and ran a hand soothingly across his shoulders. Aramis leaned into the touch, accepting the offered comfort.
"We'll reach the port soon," Porthos promised, smiling at the look of relief that flashed across Aramis's face.
"Can I steer it in to port, Porthos?" D'Artagnan asked excitedly.
"First of all, you call ships 'her.' And secondly, absolutely not." He watched the boy's face fall and added, "You can steer until we reach the mouth of the harbor though. Call me up when it's in sight."
D'Artagnan nodded, eyes already glued to the approaching port. Porthos shook his head fondly and caught Aramis's fleeting smile. Turning, he led the way back below decks to collect his kit before they reached land.
Most of his things were still packed in the corner of the captain's cabin, since he'd spent every waking moment above, handling the ship, and only slept when it had become absolutely necessary. He'd woken up half-convinced that Athos might have steered them into a reef in his absence.
Aramis's things were mostly scattered on the floor near the small bed, within easy reach. He packed them up efficiently while Porthos changed out of his sea-stained shirt. When he turned around, Aramis was watching him oddly.
"What? Have I got blood on my shirt or something?"
"No, it's just…" Aramis hesitated, and for a second worry burned white hot in Porthos's stomach. "I'm feeling much better," and now his voice was lower, more alluring.
Oh.
Oh.
"Are you now?" Porthos asked, a broad grin creeping across his face. Aramis smirked in response as Porthos closed the gap between them, one hand finding Aramis's waist.
"Well, perhaps we should-" Porthos began, but he broke off when the boat lurched suddenly. They both paused listening. Sure enough, a moment later 'Porthos!' drifted down from above.
"Qué chingados es eso?" Aramis swore crossly in Spanish. Porthos grinned at the put out expression on his face.
"We'll be on land soon enough, love," he murmured, an invitation in his tone. Aramis raised an eyebrow at him, dark eyes flashing. Porthos chuckled and dipped his head, but before his lips could find Aramis's, D'Artagnan called again.
"Mierda!"
Athos poked his head in, not even remotely alarmed to find the pair of them moments from ripping the other's clothes off.
"From the degree of swearing, I know you heard D'Artagnan," he said mildly. Porthos sighed in resignation and followed Athos out on to the deck, Aramis at his heels, still muttering darkly in Spanish.
"How is it we're facing the wrong direction?" he asked D'Artagnan as the boy sheepishly stepped away from the wheel.
"Sorry."
"No, really, how in God's name did you even manage this? The ship shouldn't even be capable of turns that sharp." Shaking his head in disbelief, he guided the ship back into position and took her the rest of the way to port himself, D'Artagnan watching him avidly.
It only took a small bribe to convince the harbormaster's assistant to let them dock. Aramis was the first off the ship, and the joy on his face at being back on dry land at last was priceless. D'Artagnan followed more reluctantly, casting longing glances back at the ship.
"Please tell me I can ride back to Paris," Aramis muttered to Athos as they made their way down the crowded dock.
"Porthos and D'Artagnan can take the ship back and collect our horses and gear from Le Havre. You and I can find horses here," Athos promised. But for now we'd best find our man."
He tapped a passerby on the shoulder. "Pardon me; can you direct us to the harbormaster's office?"
The man stared blankly at him. "Better let me, Athos," Aramis said, pushing past him with a smile. A rapid exchange in Spanish followed before Aramis turned back, grinning smugly. "This way."
He led the way to a weathered building sitting at the end of the pier, where a small, officious man was directing a dozen sailors in a flurry of activity.
He eyed them beadily as they approached. "¿Sí? ¿Qué quieren los extranjeros?" Aramis made some form of introduction and some gold passed hands before Porthos at last heard the word Reynard enter the discussion.
The official beckoned for a boy to bring him a large book, presumably the records, and scanned down the page with practiced ease.
"Sí, sí. Reynard fue a las Antillas Españolas esta mañana."
Aramis groaned under his breath and thanked the man before gesturing for the others to follow him out into the street.
"Well? Where's Reynard?" D'Artagnan asked impatiently.
"He left for the colonies this morning."
"You've got to be kidding me," Porthos said flatly, staring at Aramis in stark disbelief.
"Are you sure?" Athos pressed. A deep crease had formed between his eyebrows.
"He's got a record of a Reynard taking a berth the merchant frigate La Doncella, bound for the Spanish Antilles."
"Are you sure it's him?" D'Artagnan broke in.
"How many Reynards do you expect to find around here?" Aramis retorted, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. To have come so far, only to lose the bastard now…
"That's it, then," Athos said quietly. "We've lost him. We'll need to head back immediately and report our failure to the king."
"I should not have gone with you," Aramis sighed. "I slowed you down."
Athos shook his head. "Treville should not have sent us in the first place."
That was the closest Athos had ever come to questioning Treville's judgment in front of them, and they all stared, shocked.
All but Porthos, who was gazing over the water with a thoughtful expression.
"You're being very quiet." Aramis nudged him with an elbow, hoping to snap him from his reverie.
"I was thinking," he began slowly.
"A dangerous pastime," D'Artagnan smirked. Porthos ignored him.
"We may not have lost him yet." Athos's eyes jumped up to Porthos's, his gaze calculating. Aramis just stared at him uncertainly.
D'Artagnan voiced their collective confusion. "How exactly? He's halfway across the ocean by now."
Porthos snorted. "It takes four months to cross to the colonies. He's not too far yet."
"I don't see how that helps us," Athos put in dryly.
Porthos didn't answer. Turning to Aramis, he asked, "The harbormaster said it was a merchant frigate, right? The ship Reynard got on?"
"Yes."
He nodded, looking pleased. "If they're headed to the colonies, they'll have a hold full o' goods to trade. Frigates aren't fast. They're built to be defensible."
"Is there a point to this show of knowledge?" Athos cut in impatiently.
"We came in a flute," Porthos informed them, grinning. "A small one, maybe, but still a flute. And flutes are fast. Faster than any fully loaded frigate."
"Surely you're not proposing we chase them?" D'Artagnan asked, sounding scandalized.
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
Athos shook his head. "We aren't equipped for a trans-Atlantic voyage."
Porthos shot him a scornful look. "I'm not saying we go all the way. We just chase him down, flying Spanish colors, and convince the frigate's captain to hand him over."
Aramis stared at Athos as he thought over Porthos's proposition. Part of Aramis wanted to finish the mission no matter what it took. They had seen this begin and he wanted to see it end. But another part of him, located primarily in his stomach, prayed Athos would declare the plan insanity and take them home.
"It would only take a few days at most," Porthos added.
Aramis could see the moment the decision was made. His stomach tightened in anticipation.
"Very well. We will attempt to chase down the frigate. But if we have not sighted them within three days, we will return to France. I won't risk this craft out on the ocean for too long."
"She can take it," Porthos argued.
Athos fixed him with a piercing stare. "But we cannot." His eyes flicked towards Aramis, who flushed despite himself. He hated feeling weak.
Porthos blanched slightly and nodded his understanding.
"Aramis, did the harbormaster say where exactly La Doncella was heading?"
"Hispaniola."
"Then we know what direction they were going in. I want you to head back to the ship. I'll meet you there shortly."
"Where are you going?" D'Artagnan called after him, but Athos had already vanished into the crowd.
They shrugged at one another and made their way back to the ship. D'Artagnan was back over the side in a heartbeat, but Aramis hesitated on the dock. His stomach rolled with the unpleasant memory of the past few days.
"You could stay." Porthos placed a gentle hand on his shoulder as he spoke, and the contact grounded Aramis, pulling him from the foul memories.
"No, I need to finish this."
Porthos did not question his statement, and Aramis imagined he must feel the same way. He knew how terrible the voyage had been for Aramis. He would not have suggested it if he did not want to wrap up this terrible business just as badly as Aramis himself.
Taking a deep breath, he boarded the ship. Even moored, it bucked alarmingly beneath his boots, sending his stomach into dizzying flops. It didn't make sense. Aramis had always had perfect balance. He was known for his grace while fighting. So why did a moving floor make his legs feel like jelly?
Porthos was watching him sympathetically. Aramis flashed him a weak smile. "I'm sure I'll get used to it eventually." His cheerful tone sounded forced even to his own ears.
Porthos's hand found his shoulder again, but he was not offering comfort this time. Instead he looked Aramis up and down critically, examining his balance with a practiced eye.
"You're standing wrong," he conceded at last.
"Standing wrong? What other way is there to stand?"
"Well…" Porthos hesitated. "It's like when you're shooting, right? You gotta find your balance first. It's just instinct. Think of it like that."
Aramis was about to snap at him and point out that his advice was about as useless as a bucket in a rainstorm when he realized his body was automatically trying to do as Porthos had instructed. But it wasn't enough yet, he still felt ill.
In a fit of inspiration, he whipped his gun from his belt, sighting along it at the small flag flying above the ship beside theirs. Instantly he felt his body begin to shift into position, compensating for wind resistance, motion, angle…
And then he was standing easily against the rocking motion of the ship. Porthos's broad grin told him he had it at last. "See? Not so hard once you figure it out."
Smiling back in delight, Aramis took a few steps, marveling at how freely he could move now that he'd found his balance at last. Porthos reached out and gave him a good-natured shove, laughing when Aramis caught himself immediately and pushed back.
This devolved into a mini wrestling match on the deck that ended with Aramis's wrists pinned in Porthos's large hands, their bodies pressed together. Porthos was laughing, light dancing in his dark eyes, and on impulse Aramis began to lean forward to kiss him, pulling back sharply when he remembered people might see.
Porthos had no such compunctions, yanking Aramis closer and capturing his mouth in a burning kiss that left him gasping.
"Porthos," he hissed breathlessly, attempting to shove the larger man away. "Someone might see."
"It's a port, Aramis," Porthos replied, grinning wickedly. "No one here cares."
"I care," said a plaintive voice from somewhere behind them, and they turned together to see D'Artagnan hanging from the rigging with a vaguely traumatized expression. They immediately lapsed into a fit of laughter that D'Artagnan joined after a moment.
The arrival of several unknown men on the dock bearing large barrels cut their amusement short.
"Who are you?" Porthos asked challenging, but a moment later Athos strode up behind them. He appeared to be directing them.
"Yes, load them right into the cargo bay," he called to the two men in the lead.
"Athos?" Aramis called. "What is all this? I thought our hold was supposed to be empty."
"I bought wine. It's not that heavy," he said shortly, before turning back to continue supervising the loading of what now appeared to be three dozen barrels of wine. They gaped at him.
"How long do you expect we'll be at sea?" Porthos asked dazedly.
"I ran out last time. All that was left was some kind of miserable alcohol that smelled like rat piss. I refuse to drink the swill that is associated with ships. Besides, the wine from this region is supposed to be exceptional. I'll simply take what's left back to Paris."
"Of course, why didn't we think of that?" D'Artagnan snorted.
Soon enough the last barrels were loaded and the men paid. Athos turned to Porthos with an air of expectation. "So, where are we headed?"
"Why are you asking me?" Porthos asked, looking rather alarmed. Aramis fought the urge to grin at his obvious discomfort. It was unusual for Athos to pass on the mantle of leadership, and when he did, it was not to Porthos. Aramis had served in the regiment longer than any of them, and in the event that Athos was wounded or simply not present, he naturally took command.
But poor Porthos looked on the verge of panic, so he interceded quietly. "I do believe he's asking for our heading, mon capitaine." He hoped the teasing edge to his tone would set Porthos at ease.
It seemed to work. Porthos squared his shoulders and began calling out instructions, and soon enough the boat was beginning to glide slowly out of the harbor, wind swelling in the sails.
Aramis joined Porthos at the wheel, still reveling in the ease with which he could traverse the deck. He let his hand rest on the small of Porthos's back as his lover turned their ship to face the open ocean.
Still enjoying it? Let me know! Also, if you like Musketeers and the Avengers, you should go check out this fic I proofread a chapter for, because it's actually pretty amazing. It's called Fire and Ice by Lokimis and has some very interesting ships ;) I've also been promised lots of whump and angst by one of the authors.