AN: Sorry this took a little longer to get up than expected. I may be able to get another up tomorrow, but I make no promises. In the meantime, I hope you like this lovely chapter. See Me As I Am 101 wanted Porthos to throw someone through a window, so voila! Enjoy ;)


The next morning, Porthos noticed Aramis was being unusually quiet again. He actually looked rather ill, and D'Artagnan kept casting concerned looks in his direction, so it might be more than a simple hangover. Flea had gone to get dressed for the day, and the four men were sitting near the fire waiting for her to arrive. They'd spent a very enjoyable evening together. They both knew it couldn't last, so why not have fun while they could? But he was beginning to feel a little guilty about kicking Aramis out; the man didn't look like he'd slept at all.

Porthos waited until Athos and D'Artagnan were busy discussing some detail of the mission to speak. Clapping a hand to Aramis's shoulder, he asked quietly, "My friend, what is wrong? You have not been yourself since we arrived in Calais." Aramis's eyes flicked up to meet his own and he smiled encouragingly. Aramis only sighed and looked away.

"Nothing is wrong," he murmured. "I'm fine." And with that he shrugged his shoulders, dislodging Porthos's hand. Porthos swallowed a feeling of hurt at the gesture. He was at a loss. Aramis had never hidden anything from him for long, nor refused his offer of comfort, and now he wouldn't confide in him at all. He sensed that D'Artagnan, and probably Athos as well, knew exactly what was going on, and it pained him to not understand. He would not let his friend suffer alone without seeking to help. He tried again.

"Aramis, I have eyes. Something is bothering you. Please, tell me what it is," he said, keeping his voice soft so the others didn't hear. Aramis glanced back at him, and there was an expression on his face that Porthos had never seen there before. It filled him with unexpected anger, sharp as steel and hot as fire. He wanted to hurt whoever had put that lost look in Aramis's eyes.

Aramis opened his mouth uncertainly, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by someone clattering down the stairs behind Porthos. Annoyed, he turned to see who had interrupted and found Flea picking her way through the tables towards them. He turned around, an apology for the interruption already on his lips, but Aramis had moved away and was talking to Athos. With difficulty, Porthos resisted the urge to put his fist through the table still struggling with the anger urging through him. Maybe he could talk to him while they were on guard duty later.

But as it turned out, Porthos wasn't paired with Aramis that day. When they were all gathered around a table, Athos informed them that they would all go with Flea and Porthos today to cover Porthos's first incursion into the Fox's court. Porthos was about to argue that Aramis could cover him alone without a problem and that there was no need for them all to tag along when he caught the look that passed between the other two Musketeers. Aramis looked… grateful? Confused, Porthos said nothing. Grabbing his hat off the table, he followed Flea out into the street.


Aramis kept his face shadowed by his hat as he leaned casually on the bar next to D'Artagnan. Athos had tucked himself into a dark corner. Aramis had a sinking suspicion he might be going against his own rules about drinking on duty. The serving girl had gone to the table at least twice. Still, it was necessary to drink something to uphold the ruse. He and D'Artagnan were sipping their drinks slowly to keep from over-indulging and jeopardizing the mission.

Porthos was standing in the center of a rapidly forming crowd that had begun to congregate around him a few minutes after he had entered the bar. Men and women were milling about, trying to get a good glimpse of his face. Already the whispers were running through the crowd. Porthos the Pirate has returned.

A glance at the Fox showed him watching Porthos's growing court with unease, Flea perched on his lap. As Aramis watched, he gestured to a burly man standing guard and whispered in his ear. The man straightened after a few moments and moved through the crowd, nodding to a few other thugs as he went. They were headed straight for Porthos.

"Heads up," he murmured to D'Artagnan, who made a discreet signal towards Athos. Porthos has explained what would happen once he was recognized on the way over. The Fox would set some goons on him in an effort to determine his identity, and when he won would invite him to join his court. It was the old adage of keeping your enemies close, and the Fox would want Porthos where he could keep an eye on him. Athos wasn't keen on Porthos becoming an official member of the court, but Porthos assured him he would have freedom of movement. The Fox wouldn't show his hand too soon, and he would not want to antagonize Porthos or let on that he thought of him as a threat until he knew more about his motives.

Porthos had told them he would win the inevitable fight, and while Aramis in no way doubted him, his stomach still twisted a little at the idea of his friend going into a fight without backup. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to watch men attacking Porthos without leaping to his defense. Of course, if it got to the point that Porthos needed defending, Aramis would step in, mission be damned. Porthos was not going to be injured on his watch.

The crowd around Porthos parted as the thugs pushed through. Aramis was too far away to hear what was being said, but he assumed it was something along the lines of the usual insults that began tavern brawls everywhere. Your father was a drunkard, your mother a whore, you have no honor, you mongrel, bastard, cur, etc.

Porthos grinned broadly at the giant man, who looked smaller when stood next to Porthos's own broad shoulders, and less than a second later had smashed his tankard across the man's head so hard that he fell to his knees.

Aramis blinked. No matter how many times he watched Porthos fight, he would always be awed by his reflexes and sheer power. Porthos was quick as a cat and far lighter on his feet than a man his size had any right to be. His muscles rippled beneath his shirt, his coat left at the inn, and Aramis was momentarily entranced by the movement.

Thug Number One's friends had recovered from their initial shock. One now stepped forward, launching a vicious roundhouse at Porthos's head. He ducked it with consummate ease and snapped an uppercut into the man's stomach that left him doubled over and retching. Another tried the same blow in an attempt that had more heart than skill behind it. Porthos dodged easily, grabbing the man's arm in a viselike grip and swinging him towards the bar, the man's own momentum acting against him until an elbow to the face stopped him dead and shattered his nose. The whole thing took less than thirty seconds.

That took care of the three thugs, but this was a seedy tavern, and the rest of the scum had taken the lightning fast fight as an excuse to begin an mass tavern brawl. A chair shattered against the bar beside Aramis, making D'Artagnan jump. Aramis used his glass to deter an overly enthusiastic young brawler and knocked out another with a clean strike to the jaw. He saw Porthos surrounded by a knot of men, but he had a huge smile plastered on his face and was tossing them around like sacks of flour, so Aramis figured he was probably fine. One man lay prone at his feet with what looked like a soup spoon protruding from his shoulder. Porthos had always loved to improvise.

Athos waved a hand to get Aramis's attention and gestured towards the door. He grabbed D'Artagnan's collar and hauled the boy backwards. Porthos had passed the test, and he would enjoy the brawl immensely. They could wait outside until it was time to return to the inn.

They managed to shove their way through the brawling patrons until the made it out to the street, hunkering down beside a window where they could keep an eye on the proceedings. D'Artagnan's lip was beginning to swell and Athos was nursing bruised knuckles, but other than that they'd all escaped unscathed. They sat breathless for a moment before Athos glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should check on him?" he suggested.

Aramis glared, not thrilled by the idea of sticking his head up in front of a window during a tavern brawl. Still, someone had to, so he cautiously peered over the ledge.

He saw the danger just in time and dropped flat as the glass above his head shattered. A body sailed through it and flew almost the width of the street, crumpling to the cobblestones. Thug Number One had found his feet again. Aramis dared to look in, hoping Porthos was finished tossing men out of windows like birds. The crowd had gone still, staring at Porthos in awe. A perfect alley was formed between him and the window. Porthos was dusting off his hands with a smug grin. No one seemed inclined to continue fighting and gradually they began to drift back to their tables.

Porthos the Pirate was now more than a whisper.


"My master requests your presence at his private table, sir," a small, weasel-faced man said formally, gazing up at Porthos in a fawning manner. Porthos frowned at the title but shrugged, grabbing his drink and following the man to the Fox's table. His foot ached a bit where someone had stepped on it during the brawl, but other than that he was fine. He'd been relieved to see his friends had all escaped unscathed, though he thought he'd seen Aramis's head outside the window just before the tossed that great ugly blighter through it. He hoped he hadn't hit him.

"Come, my friend, have a seat!" the Fox cried jovially, waving a careless hand at a seat directly across from him. Porthos sat, catching Flea's eye. She smiled coquettishly at him, batting her eyelashes like the rest of the girls. One of her hands clenched and released in a familiar gesture. It meant, essentially, are you alright? Porthos winked at her and sat gracefully, feeling the eyes of the Fox upon him.

"Watching you fight was a great pleasure, friend," the Fox said, a pleasant smile on his face, but Porthos could see the intelligence that lurked behind his eyes. Fox was right.

"My thanks," he grunted, leaning back in his chair, "But I don't think we're friends. I don't even know your name."

"My apologies," the Fox cried at once. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Marcel Chartrelain, though you may know me better as the Black Fox." He was watching Porthos, clearing expecting him to be impressed. Porthos was happy to let him down.

"Yeah, I might've heard of you once or twice," he said, scratching at his chin. "You in charge around 'ere, then?" He let his voice pick up its old accent, the one he'd fought so hard to get rid of after he became a Musketeers. The Fox spoke in an assumed aristocratic accent that sounded foreign in such a place, so Porthos deliberately made himself the opposite. The Fox fancied himself a noble; Porthos would be a man of the people.

"Well, I do what I can," the Fox said, a note of feigned modesty in his honeyed voice. "But you have not introduced yourself, my friend. Am I right in guessing you are the man known as Porthos the Pirate?"

Porthos cracked his knuckles idly, giving off an aura of boredom. "And if I am?"

"Well then, that would be simply marvelous!" the Fox exclaimed. "The tales would have us believe Porthos the Pirate is dead, and yet unless my eyes deceive me, here he stands! And my, do you live up to your reputation." The man's false flattery reminded Porthos of the way the Cardinal spoke to King Louis. Insincere but wary, attempting to stay on his good side and keep his favor even as he undermined him.

"Well, I'm not dead," he said simply. The Fox's smile broadened at the confirmation.

"Indeed you are not. What brings you to Calais, friend?"

"Just passing through," he grunted. Then, in a fit of inspiration, he added, "May be looking for a ship soon." Couldn't hurt to play up to the nickname.

"Ah, of course!" the Fox cried happily. "I do hope you will join us here until you decide to move on, friend. I keep a court of sorts in this very tavern. It's comprised of a few close friends and acquaintances. We would love to have you."

"Yeah, might do," Porthos told him, draining his tankard. "Maybe I'll be back tomorrow Got things to take care of tonight." With that he rose and nodded a farewell to Flea, ignoring the Fox's invitation to remain longer. He would be followed the moment he set foot outside the door, which meant he would need to actually visit the docks before losing his tail on the way back to the inn. If he were seen at the docks, the Fox would have no reason to doubt his story.

Outside, he could make out the shapes of his friends standing around the tavern. Athos and D'Artagnan were down an alley behind him, and Aramis was lounging casually against a wall, chatting with a pair of washerwomen. Porthos caught his eye as he walked past, nodding to let him know that he and the others should wait for Flea before heading back to the inn. He would meet them there. One of the women laid a hand on Aramis's arm and Porthos felt the familiar bite of fire in his stomach. He swallowed it with the ease of long practice and continued on his way.


Next time we'll get a bit more of the legend of Porthos the Pirate. Let me know what you think of the way it's shaping up in the reviews!