115. Musings
Athos and Aramis:
"I am old," Athos lamented, as he stretched out his legs on the cot with a tight grimace.
"You are younger than me," Aramis reasoned, as he packed his sewing kit away.
They both had black eyes, but it wasn't a competition. It had been an eventful night.
"Though perhaps, I have more energy," Aramis commented, hiding a smile.
"You do for some things, I agree," Athos replied, resting back on his elbows and turning his feet in tight circles to loosen his calf muscles. Aramis's nightly antics wore Athos out just thinking about them.
Aramis carefully rolled his kit up and neatly knotted the ties.
"The activity is revitalising, my friend," he replied over his shoulder.
"Not," Athos grunted, "If you find a dagger in your back."
"True," Aramis conceded, his enthusiasm somewhat dampened at the image it brought up. "That would be a hindrance."
"I am older than d'Artagnan," Athos mused, pulling on his earlobe as he continued with his original theme.
Aramis turned around and leant on the nearby cupboard. He cocked his head on one side thoughtfully.
"Would you want that amount of energy again?" he said.
"I never had it in the first place," Athos smirked.
Aramis laughed and dropped his kit onto the cupboard top and then reached inside the cupboard, bringing a small earthenware jar over to the cot, uncorking it as he went.
He offered it to Athos, who shook his head;
"You do it," he sighed, wearily.
Aramis dipped his fingers into the paste and sitting, he began to smear it liberally over the neat stitches he had just set in his friend's bicep.
"Shall we stay here for the night?" Aramis asked, as he worked.
"Why not?" Athos sighed again.
They were both too exhausted to move.
Aramis finished and stood, stretching out his back, the opened jar still in his hand. Athos, balanced precariously on one elbow, rolled down his sleeve.
"And Porthos?" he said, squinting up at Aramis with one bleary eye; the other compromised.
"Ah, Porthos," Aramis said, dipping two fingers into the jar once more and smearing a little of the paste under his own eye, before doing the same for his friend. It smelled of lavender.
"Porthos has more of a "wild burst of activity when needed" energy."
"Economic," Athos muttered, amiably. "Though one can quickly burn oneself out like that."
"As you have told him."
"On many occasions," Athos agreed, with a tilt of his head.
Aramis put the cork back back in the jar and placed it on the floor, under his chair.
"Treville is like that," Athos added.
"Wild bursts?" Aramis paused, his lips pursed in thought.
"More like an explosion," Athos grunted as he dropped back down onto his pillows and closed his eyes.
Aramis moved to the bottom of the cot and began to pull off his friend's boots. He had already removed his own, padding around in his stocking feet.
"He does have a temper," he conceded. "Then there is The King," he added. "How The Queen puts up ..."
"Treason, Aramis," Athos warned, quietly, even though they were alone. It had become standard practice now for Athos whenever Aramis dipped into his favourite subject.
"Then there is Serge," Athos suddenly remarked, pulling Aramis from his thoughts of Her Majesty.
Aramis dropped down onto the next cot and propped himself up on his elbow to look across at his friend.
"Serge?" he pondered.
"He and the Captain are similar," Athos replied, quietly.
"In temperament?"
"In temper," Athos explained.
"Ah. Yes, I suppose they are," Aramis agreed.
"A slow burn," Athos murmured.
"Though a short fuse," Aramis added.
Athos lifted his head.
"How does that work?"
"They have perfected it," Aramis replied, with no further explanation.
"Maybe it is an age thing," Athos suggested.
"Maybe it is," Aramis agreed.
"You are a very slow burn," Aramis said then, dropping down onto his back and lacing his fingers together on his chest.
"Outwardly, perhaps," Athos murmured, wondering where this was going.
"Where is this going?" he asked, eyebrow raised in enquiry.
Aramis turned his head.
"Suppression is not good for the soul," he replied, sagely.
"It is to your advantage though," Athos replied.
Aramis thought for a moment. Athos in full flow was indeed, terrible to behold.
"Then, I thank you for the courtesy," Aramis said, scrubbing his hand through his hair and yawning.
"It is not courtesy, Aramis. It is self preservation. I do not wish to be hung for murder."
"Then I thank you for the sentiment," Aramis replied, with another yawn.
"You are welcome," Athos intoned.
They both settled, listening to the odd creak in the roof timbers as the wind got up outside.
"You will make a great Captain one day, Athos," Aramis said, softly.
Athos grunted.
"It is not an ambition I have," he sighed.
"Perhaps not," Aramis said. "But it is ours."
Athos found that he could not speak.
Perhaps it was just as well.
They fell silent then, listening to the distant peal of bells from Notre Dame and the soft rain that has started to fall.
"Enough thinking now," Athos finally managed. "Sleep."
"Yes, Athos," Aramis replied, with a soft, contented sigh.
In the darkness, Athos stared at the ceiling, before turning onto his side with a huff and pulling the blanket over his shoulder.
Captain indeed.
As if.
oOo
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