Title: A Restlessness in Common
Author: JenF
Chapters: 8 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.


Porthos has never been good at waiting when his friends' safety is in question. He may have the patience of a saint in a card game but put him in front of a real life, honest to goodness, matter of life or death situation, then the first thing he loses is his patience.

Lying on his back, watching the sun set gracefully and slowly over the horizon, he shivers. In the back of his mind he knows he should be paying more attention to his own condition but with the lives of his three dearest friends on the line a momentary chill is nothing. He may, he realises, regret this decision later but as long as there is a later he can live with that.

He absently lets his hand rest on his ribs, pressing down gently over the bullet wound there. The blood has dried and the waves of pain have receded from agonizing spikes to a gentle throb, reminding him how easily he could reopen the wound if he's not careful. He lets his fingers wander inside his shirt, probing the skin around the clotted blood. It feels hot to the touch, hotter than the rest of his torso and he knows he should worry about that. On reflection, he decides, maybe crawling along the dusty ground hadn't been one of his better ideas.

He closes his eyes briefly, allowing his other senses to take over. He can smell the heavy scent of honeysuckle and if he concentrates really hard he can just make out the unmistakable aroma of a stable in desperate need of mucking out. The breeze is gentle on his face and he can almost feel the daylight receding. He can hear the evening symphony created by the crickets and birds in harmony and wonders if it's like this every night or whether he's being treated to a special performance.

And then, as his hearing sharpens to new levels he can make out not just voices, but words floating up from the courtyard below.

"… very touching …"

"… shut him up …"

"… really, Athos …"

Porthos frowns, the disjointed words making little sense on their own but uniting in his head to form a picture more complete than he needs of the action playing out below him. Shaking his head, regretting the movement when a headache nags him, reminding him he's not in full health himself right now, he hauls himself to a sitting position, opening his eyes again to the world around him.

"This is going to hurt," he mutters to himself, protectively bringing an arm across his chest. He wonders if he can regain his original position without sliding along the ground this time. He rises to his knees, casts an eye around to satisfy himself that no one has gained an advantage on him before finishing the manoeuver, rocking up on to his heels.

Moving as swiftly as the pain in his side will allow, he shuffles to an outcrop of rocks, conveniently looking over the courtyard. A little voice at the back of his head is suggesting that maybe he should have made this his hideout previously but he squashes the thought quickly. There's no point thinking what if now. He's done what he's done and now he's got to make the best of it.

Straightening up as far as he dares, Porthos bites his lower lip to stave off the constant nagging pain from his side. His breath falters as he takes in the tableau below him. Athos has made it to Aramis' side and Porthos can't quite describe the relief he feels to see a solid hand on his friend's shoulder. He's known Aramis hasn't been alone but to actually see it with his own eyes eases a burden from his heart he didn't realise he'd been carrying. He finds himself nodding in satisfaction and allows himself a moment of amusement, wondering where the action came from.

d'Artagnan, however, doesn't appear to be faring so well. Athos seems to be making a declaration of leadership and Porthos doesn't know how he knows, but he senses there's a history between Athos and their antagonists. d'Artagnan has a dagger at his throat and the man behind him has a cold smile on his face.

Porthos' world stops. He can't tear his eyes away from the man behind d'Artagnan. Porthos learnt many things growing up in the Court, some good, some not so good, and the lessons have stayed with him for all this time. One of the skills he's picked up is the ability to read a man's face. He can't hear the conversation below but he can see the expression on the face behind d'Artagnan. He can see the muscles in his knife hand twitch and he knows the instant the man has made the decision to slice d'Artagnan's throat like a butcher slaughtering a lamb.

Looking back, Porthos can't remember the moment his musket was in position. He doesn't remember loading it but he supposes that's another throw back to his slightly unsavoury upbringing – never have an unloaded weapon in a dangerous situation, whether the danger is personal or not. He does remember shooting though. He remembers the retort of his weapon echoing in his ear, remembers the pull against his shoulder, sending shock waves down his arm and chest, remembers the sharp protest from his wound as he knows he's reopened his injury. And he remembers how the man behind d'Artagnan falls, dead the second he decided to pull the trigger.

He ducks back down behind his shelter of rock, cursing inwardly as he slowly thinks through the ramifications of his actions. There was, he considers, no alternative. Athos and Aramis were in no position to help the boy and there was no way he could have let him come to harm. Okay, so he's shown his hand now, nobody will believe he's dead any more. They're probably on their way to find him right now. And that, he thinks, isn't going to help anyone.

He sighs deeply, wondering what Athos is thinking at the moment. Hopefully, he's busy looking out for Aramis and d'Artagnan. Porthos groans quietly as he slips his hand over his ribs, only for it to come away covered in fresh blood, bright red and hot. What he needs, he decides, is a doctor, someone to stitch him up. But that would mean abandoning his brothers in arms and that is something that he cannot and will not ever do.

So, in the absence of a doctor, he needs a plan. Athos is the cool headed one of their band, Aramis the sweet talker and d'Artagnan the hot head of their group. Porthos isn't used to having to make these decisions but there's a time for thinking and a time for action. He counted at least a dozen men in the courtyard and he knows he can't tackle them alone but maybe, just maybe, if he can get to Athos, if they can free Aramis, if d'Artagnan isn't hurt too badly, then maybe they have a chance.