Title: A Restlessness in Common
Author: JenF
Chapters: 4 of ?
Disclaimer: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.
Looking back, Porthos will swear blind he knew exactly what he was doing but right now, lying on his back, looking up at the heavy foliage of the ash tree he finds himself under, his plans are unformed to say the least.
He can hear shouting in the courtyard below him and he catches Athos' and d'Artagnan's names in the breeze. Part of him wants to crawl to his feet, peer past the cover of the boulder before him to check on their beleaguered comrade, but he won't.
He can't.
And he can't quite believe how undeniably stupid he's been. He can feel his blood pulsing through his veins, slowly dripping on to the ground beneath him from the bullet wound in his side. He thinks it's only grazed him but it hurts like hell and he knows from bitter experience if he tries to move too soon he'll only end up swooning like a girl. He'll be no good to anyone like that.
Slowly, it dawns on him that his name wasn't mentioned. He's not as intellectual as Aramis, poetry and reading were never his pastimes of choice, but he's street smart. Growing up in the Court does that to a man. It can only mean one thing, he realises. Whoever is down there thinks he's dead. Or at least, not a threat.
He lets a slow smile find its way on to his face. That, he thinks, is their first mistake. He turns his head to see what he can see from here. A shadow passes over him and he winks at Athos as the older man steps gracefully over his outstretched legs. Athos acknowledges him with an imperceptible nod, not breaking stride for a second.
Porthos relaxes. He's known Athos for so long, fought alongside him so often, that they hardly need to speak to know what each of them is thinking. He knows Athos will stall for time, will get the message to d'Artagnan and Aramis that he lives still and that when the time is right, when Porthos is ready to swoop in, guns and swords drawn, Athos will make sure they are ready for him.
He lets his eyes fall closed briefly. In his mind, unbidden, he relives the moment he knew he was going to be hit. He can see himself rise to his feet, unable to stand the tension any longer, needing to know Aramis is still with them. He can't remember what he said – shouted – to his brother in arms, he doesn't think it's important anyway. The only thing that mattered to him in that moment was Aramis' face, his eyes locking on his friend.
Porthos raises an arm and wipes it across his face, dislodging midges that have settled there in the rapidly encroaching twilight. There'll be bites to contend with in the morning but their discomfort pales into insignificance when he pulls on the wound in his side.
He should, he reflects, be doing something about it. Athos is long gone and he can faintly hear voices floating up from the courtyard below. He thinks he can hear d'Artagnan's indignant tones mixed in with Athos and another voice he doesn't know. He strains to hear Aramis but, try as he might, he cannot sense anything.
He lifts his head to examine his wound as best he can. The bleeding has slowed to a sluggish drop from time to time and, if he concentrates really hard, he can feel the skin tightening around the graze. A few more minutes, he thinks, and he'll be good to go.
Which is a few minutes too long and Porthos has never been renowned for his patience where someone's life is in danger. He raises himself to a sitting position, wincing openly, knowing nobody's here to see his discomfort. He blinks a few times, beating down the nagging pain, pushing it to the back of his consciousness in order to focus on the courtyard below.
If he crawls on his belly – not a good idea but needs must – he thinks he'll be able to get a better view of the scene below. He pulls his jacket closed, covering his injury as best he can and shuffles as far forward as he dares.
In the fading light, he can't see expressions on his comrades' faces but their posture is unmistakable. Athos is standing, feet astride, at the end of the courtyard, his hands resting at his side. To all intents and purposes he's relaxed but Porthos knows that look, knows the man behind it and is absurdly glad he's on his side. Porthos can't tell from this distance, but he thinks Athos is talking, he can see the way he has his head tilted to one side and the way his fingers flutter from time to time as though to emphasise his point.
Probably, Porthos guesses, Athos is directing his words at d'Artagnan who is, true to nature, not taking kindly to being held against his will. Porthos can see the ropes digging into the youngster's wrists, secured at his back. He smiles wryly as he watches d'Artagnan struggle regardless against his bonds and the man who has taken hold of his shoulders in a vain attempt to still the boy.
But his smile drops as soon as he takes in Aramis' stance. Even without seeing his face, Porthos knows Aramis has been defeated, crushed in spirit and possibly in body. His shoulders are slumped and he's paying no attention to his rescuers. To an onlooker he seems oblivious even to their presence. The hulk of a man behind him has a hand fisted in the back of his jacket, preventing him from moving but Porthos thinks it's probably the only thing keeping his friend upright. Take away that support, Porthos muses, and Aramis would be flat on the ground.
He shuffles back again, out of sight, to consider his options. Athos clearly has command of the situation and he knows Porthos is biding his time but whether he'll be able to get the message across to d'Artagnan is looking unlikely. As for Aramis…
The injury nestling below Porthos' ribs nudges at his consciousness, reminding him of the attention he should be paying it. He absently rubs it with his hand, nodding to himself when his hand comes away sticky with cloying blood but no more freely flowing blood. In his head he can hear Aramis, the ever-consummate doctor berating him, telling him to rest and recuperate before doing anything stupid and he silently offers apologies, knowing that's just not an option at the moment. He'll rest and recuperate when there's time, when Aramis is beside him to administer his own unique brand of first aid.
Porthos makes his decision and sits back to guard over his friends and wait for nightfall to implement his plan.
