117. Musings 2

Porthos and Athos:

Athos pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it into the corner.

Sitting on the floor of the infirmary, he pinched the gash across his stomach and steeled himself. Blood still oozed from it, but it needed to be done. Looking up, he got a nod of encouragement from Porthos, who sat on a nearby cot, nursing a swollen hand.

"Sorry I can't do it for you," he said, regretfully.

"Do not concern yourself," Athos muttered, as he lined the needle up. At least it wasn't as big as the one Porthos had used on Bonnaire's back. Nor would his stitches be as large, if he could help it.

He held his breath and gritted his teeth.

"Steady, brother," Porthos murmured.

"Easy for you to say," Athos retorted, letting out the breath he had been holding.

"I can ..."

"Thank you, but no," Athos replied, and at that, he pushed the needle through his skin and drew the left side of the gash together.

Four stitches later and his fingers were bloody and his brow damp.

"Is there any wine in this damned place?" he hissed, as proceeded with the next stitch.

"I'll 'ave a look," Porthos replied, rising unsteadily to his feet and moving clumsily over to the cupboard where Aramis kept most of his medical supplies. Pulling open the door, he crouched down peered inside.

Athos heard a low rumble of laughter and paused in his self ministrations.

"What?"

"Five bottles and a half," Porthos replied, as he began to pull said bottles from the bottom shelf and place them on the cupboard top.

He picked up the half bottle and returned to Athos with a cloth in his other hand.

"Let's 'ave a look," he grunted, as he crouched in front of Athos, his damaged hand cradled to his chest.

Athos had put five stitches in, though his hand was shaking, and sweat dripped from his brow onto his chest.

"Hold on," Porthos said, as he leant over and put the cloth under the half sewn gash.

Athos paused and looked up, a deep crease between his brows.

Porthos pulled the cork from the half full bottle and held it up.

"Should have done this before you started, but I guess it will be alright to do it now."

Athos thought it a waste of wine, and said so, but finally relented and leant his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

"Hold that cloth still, don't want it spillin' all over you," Porthos said.

With that, he carefully poured the wine over the cut. The red liquid ran into the cloth that Athos held, his hand tightening as the liquid seeped into the cut.

"God dammit!" he hissed through his teeth, his eyes squeezed tight shut.

"All done," Porthos muttered, as he reached up and picked up a bowl from a nearby table and tossed the wet cloth into it.

"We'll 'ave to clean that up," he said, looking at the cloth sloshing in the red liquid in the bowl. "It will give Aramis a scare."

Athos looked down and snorted.

"It does look quite realistic," he said.

Porthos passed him the bottle and Athos nodded his thanks.

Taking a long pull, he nodded, holding it up and giving it a shake.

"That's really not bad," he said softly, handing it back to Porthos, who took a swig himself and grunted his appreciation.

Sighing, Athos lifted the needle one more, to finish the job.

Porthos set the bottle on the floor and dutifully kept him company until Athos tied a final knot in the thread. His hand dropped to his side and he breathed out a shaky sigh.

"Here," Porthos said, handing him the bottle once more. After they had both finished it, Porthos stood and held out his hand.

"Come on, up you get," he said.

Athos reached up and took hold of Porthos's uninjured hand and was unceremoniously pulled to his feet and pushed toward the nearest cot.

Porthos then went back to the cupboard and collected two of the remaining bottles in the crook of his arm and brought them over to the cot, dropping them carefully on the cover next to Athos who was sitting on the edge of the bed, with his head down, breathing steadily.

After Porthos had repeated the process with the remaining three, and the five bottles were lined up side by side on the top of the cot, he collected Athos's discarded shirt and sat down on the vacant cot next to him and waited while he shrugged it back on and composed himself.

After a few moments, Athos lifted his head.

Porthos laughed at his expression, a mix of exhaustion and anger, before pointing at the bottles.

"Might as well make a start," he said.

They drank in silence for a while. Porthos had forked his boots off and tossed them across the room. It was going down nicely and before too long, Porthos had a question.

"Can you remember the first time you got drunk?" he said, dropping onto his side and peering across at Athos.

"Yes," Athos said, after a short while. "I do."

"We had a wine cellar at the house," he began.

"As you do," Porthos said.

He had seen the manor house that Athos had grown up in.

"A house like that demands one," he added, raising his bottle in salute.

Athos nodded and raised his own bottle in return.

"Thomas and I helped ourselves one afternoon," Athos continued.

"What 'appened?" Porthos asked.

"Slept it off behind the barrels," Athos replied.

"No-one found you?"

"I believe it was the staff who put us there," Athos smirked. "In fear for their jobs. You?"

"Same," Porthos laughed. "But without the servants and the vintage."

Athos raised an eyebrow, wanting more.

"Charon and me used to pull the odd bottle from the drayman's cart and go up on a roof to finish them off," Porthos explained.

"Dangerous," Athos intoned, taking another pull from his bottle. It really was quite acceptable.

"Not really," Porthos replied. "We just fell asleep. There was no-one waitin' for us to go home."

Athos hummed and pushed himself back so that his back rested against the wall to the side of the cot, wincing at the pull of the stitches. He let the empty bottle slip from his hand onto the cover and reached for another, passing it over to Porthos.

They continued to drink and talk of inconsequential things, every so often Porthos burst out laughing at something Athos said, and Athos smirked in return.

"So, did you keep visitin' the cellar?" Porthos asked.

"Did you continue to relieve the drayman of his wares?" Athos replied.

Porthos chuckled.

"Seems to me," Porthos said, his words now carefully enunciated. "They should all 'ave been more careful."

"I'll drink to that," Athos said, raising his bottle in salute.

"Boys will be boys," Porthos agreed, as they both took a swig.

They were four bottles and a half bottles down and looking rather crumpled when Aramis suddenly burst into the room, almost falling over his feet.

"Whoa, steady!" Porthos said, loudly, as Athos straightened and tried to look dignified.

"The guard said ..." Aramis began before he spotted the bowl and gasped.

"It's wine," Porthos and Athos said in unison, before both snorting out a laugh.

"Told you we should 'ave cleaned that up," Porthos grunted.

"You did indeed," Athos replied.

Aramis was standing staring at them, his mouth open, obviously lost for words.

"Seems me and Athos had similar childhoods," Porthos said, filling the void, his eyes a little unfocussed.

Looking extremely doubtful, Aramis weighed up his two friends.

"Are you drunk?" he said, seeing the empty bottles on either side of them.

Athos put the bottle he was holding behind his back.

Porthos wasn't that quick.

"What are you drinking?" Aramis continued, before his eyes strayed to the open cupboard door and the empty shelf within.

"Just wine," Athos growled. His own eyes were rather glassy and unfocussed too.

"Fortified wine," Aramis clarified, turning to glare at Athos.

"Fortified with what?" Porthos asked.

"Brandy," Aramis replied, tersely.

"Bit extreme," Porthos grunted.

"Not, I find, if you have been shot or stabbed," Aramis replied. He leant over and punched Porthos on the arm.

"Feel that?" he asked.

"No," Porthos grunted.

"Point made," Aramis said, tartly. "Excellent brandy, I would add. The wine, not so."

Spotting the way Porthos was cradling his hand, he stepped toward him.

"Let me see," he said, reached out, and taking the swollen hand in his own.

Porthos hissed as he straightened out the fingers.

"No bones broken," Aramis declared. "Does the wall you thumped still stand?"

"Last time I looked," Porthos said. "But the bugger I smashed in the face doesn't."

"It was an excellent punch," Athos confirmed, though the word came out as "essellent."

Porthos started to laugh, which made Athos smirk. He was not always a melancholic drunk.

"Have you eaten today?" Aramis asked, feeling like a gooseberry to these two idiots. "Anything at all?"

Athos frowned in exaggerated thought, which made Porthos laugh louder. Athos gave him an imperious look, before snorting back a laugh of his own. He slid to the side then, and Aramis caught sight of the newly sewn wound on his stomach as his shirt rucked up.

"Madre de Dios, Athos!" he exclaimed, as he leant over Athos and pulled his shirt up further.

Athos tried to bat off his hands. It should have been easy as there were four of them, but he failed miserably.

"I didn't do it," Porthos slurred, from behind.

"I wouldn't allow it," Athos muttered. "Stitched it myself," he added, rather proudly.

He lifted his head and looked over at Porthos, his green eyes glassy now.

"Rude," Porthos grunted.

"Bonnaire," Athos shot back, dropping his head back down and elaborately rolling onto his back, where his eyes met Aramis's own, as he leaned over him. Aramis lifted his hand and, shrugging, waggled his fingers, in apparent agreement with Athos's opinion.

"If I am ever required," Porthos said, drawing himself up, and peering at Aramis, "to step in for you with a needle an' thread," he said, trying to direct a hard look at his Spanish friend, "I will remind you of your uncharitable behaviour toward me and ..." he hiccuped loudly before finishing his declaration, "Shan't help. No Sir."

"That will be a blessing," Athos said, flat on his back, with his eyes closed, his fingers laced across his chest.

"Oi" Porthos replied, pointing at Athos, regardless that he had started to snore softly.

Porthos stood and tottered toward his prone friend and reached for his shirt.

Lifting the shirt, he frowned at the newly stitched gash on his friend's stomach.

"Too many stitches. Could have got away with a few less," he proclaimed.

Aramis sighed as he collected the empty bottles.

"Better too many than too few," he mused, peering over Porthos's shoulder.

Porthos shrugged. And swayed. Afraid he was going to topple on Athos, Aramis dropped his hand on his shoulder and eased him back.

"Sit, before you fall over," he ordered.

"'m perfectly fine," Porthos grunted, but thankfully turned away anyway.

At that moment, Athos opened his eyes and levered himself up, grimacing as his stitches pulled once more.

"What are we doing?" he asked, looking from Aramis to Porthos.

"Eating, 'opefully," Porthos grunted.

"You should have eaten before you stole my medicinal wine," Aramis replied, eyeing them both up.

"Had to do this," Athos replied, waving his hand over his stomach.

"Well, that needs a bandage," Aramis replied, before turning to Porthos. "And that needs some ice."

"Did I tell you me and Athos had similar childhoods?" Porthos said, as he flopped down on a chair and laid his swollen hand on the table.

"You did," Aramis replied, trying to hide a smile.

"So, how did you receive these injuries?" he asked, as he pulled a roll of bandages from the cupboard shelf.

"Breakin' up a tavern fight," Porthos replied. "Got it all sorted, and then one of them sliced Athos as we walked past. So I hit him. His 'head bounced off the table, but he came up holding a plate. So I hit that. Did the trick, it broke his nose."

"And almost broke your knuckles," Aramis replied, shaking his head.

Porthos shrugged.

"Wasn't lettin' him get away with that," Porthos replied, looking at Athos, who tilted his head in acknowledgement.

The wine/brandy combination seemed to be wearing off a little and with food, the process would speed up. Aramis set about bandaging Athos's stomach and then pushed them both through the door in Serge's direction for ice and food.

"You owe me five and a half bottles, gentlemen," he said, as they trudged across the yard. "That's half and half brandy and wine, by the way."

"Half and half?" Athos mused, from behind them. "That ratio cannot be correct."

"What you drank, my friends, was Royal brandy, from the King's own stock," Aramis said, his voice low. "What you replace it with, is up to you, but I would imagine you could not afford what you have consumed, so a cheaper vintage will do the same job."

"You stole the King's brandy?" Porthos said, coming to a sudden stop.

"Procured," Aramis corrected. "The King's own regiment deserves the very best," he added, with a sniff.

"Until now," Athos returned.

"Until now," Aramis agreed, dropping his hand on Athos's shoulder. "Don't worry, it will do the same job of cleaning a wound. But without the comfort of an excellent vintage afterwards."

Porthos and Athos exchanged a look.

"You should have said," Athos said then.

"And how long do you think it would have lasted if I had?" Aramis said, raising his eyebrows.

"You're a cruel man, Aramis," Athos replied.

"Food," Aramis replied, pushing them onward to the mess.

Taking pity on them, he called after them;

"I did give Serge a bottle," he said. "For culinary purposes, of course."

Ahead of him, Porthos clapped Athos on the back and started to laugh. Athos wrapped his arm around Porthos's waist as the two tottered unsteadily on.

Aramis shook his head at his incorrigible friends.

And they all knew that the King's best brandy stock was not entirely safe. Aramis's "procurement" was after all, merely a first, albeit successful, reconnaissance. The future was therefore quite hopeful. Perhaps not for medicinal purposes, but for the comfort it afforded afterwards.

oOo

Thanks for reading! More soon.