A/N: Thank you guest Uia for your review!

Here's the hurt I promised. XD

"High Stakes"

Porthos's thumb and forefinger pinched the cards in his hands, creasing the well-worn paper. He needed a king, but there wasn't one tucked up his sleeve. Not this time. Because his untamed penchant for stacking the deck was the reason they were in this mess now.

He flicked his gaze to Aramis. His friend was standing five feet to the left of the table, arms stretched out tautly as the ropes around his wrists pulled them toward the lateral joists on either side. A strip of cloth had been shoved between his teeth and cinched tightly behind his head, leaving only his eyes to express his tension as they met Porthos's with steady intensity. One man stood to his right, knife in hand, and another stood behind Aramis with a pistol pointed at his back. His shirt had streaks of crimson lining frayed edges, evidence of previous rounds lost.

Porthos's hold on his cards tightened.

"Well?" the man sitting across the table from him prompted.

Porthos finally shifted his gaze back to the game where the pot to be won wasn't coin but spent blood.

He selected his lowest cards and laid them face down. "Two."

His opponent picked up the deck and dealt him the requested cards, then traded one for himself. Beady eyes revealed nothing as the ringleader of this sick game evaluated his hand. He, of course, had nothing of value to lose.

Porthos held his breath as he picked up his last cards. One was a king. He had his four of a kind, but would it be enough?

With every muscle vibrating under barely restrained fury at their captors and his own helplessness, he laid his cards out.

The other player arched a brow at the kings, and then spread his hand across the table, revealing three of a kind and a pair. "Looks like you win this one."

Out of the corner of his eye, Porthos saw Aramis's head dip a fraction in relief.

The cards were gathered up and shuffled, then dealt out again.

Porthos growled deep in his throat. "How long you goin' keep this up?"

"You seemed eager to play the night away an hour ago," the other man said mildly, but his eyes sharpened. "When you were cheating."

Porthos clenched his fists against the urge to launch himself across the table and pummel the pompous bastard into the floorboards. But the pistol trained on Aramis's back and the five other armed men in the room stayed his hand.

"I gave you back all the winnin's."

The man's gaze only darkened. "I don't like being cheated. Now, raise or call?"

Porthos looked to Aramis again, who seemed to be trying to give him an encouraging look, though it was belied by the strain in his arms and the sheen of sweat on his brow. It was Porthos's fault they were here; it was up to him to get them out.

Unfortunately, he just wasn't seeing how. No one in the tavern had bothered to stop the men who'd set upon the two traveling musketeers when Porthos had been caught red-handed with a card up his sleeve. In fact, all the other patrons not associated with these ruffians had fled, including the barkeep.

Claiming they were the King's men hadn't really done them any favors, given Porthos's somewhat less than honorable approach to card games. It'd only ever gotten him into brawls before, which he'd never minded and enjoyed just about as much as the cards.

This, though, this time he felt the weight of guilt like a blade pressed up against his gullet.

His opponent narrowed his eyes. "Pick them up."

Porthos scooped up the cards grudgingly and evaluated them. Immediately he knew he was at a disadvantage with the wide scattering of suits and kinds and nothing to build on. He traded three cards, hoping for something to miraculously be dealt him to spare Aramis the knife once more.

But Lady Luck had turned her nose down on him and he watched with a sinking pit in his stomach as his paltry pair of fours were outranked by a set of three jacks.

The other player, Porthos had never even gotten his name, nodded to his man with the knife, who stepped up to Aramis and dealt a swift slice across his ribs. Aramis grunted into the gag, and Porthos knocked the table as he started to rise without thought. A rough hand clamped down on his shoulder and shoved him back into his seat. He almost snarled at the man the offending appendage belonged to, but a warning tut from the leader drew his attention to the blade now pressed to Aramis's throat.

"I'm done playin' your games," he spat at the man. "You want satisfaction, let's you and me settle this outside like men."

His adversary scoffed. "You cheat at cards, who's to say you don't cheat in a duel?"

Ire rumbled in Porthos's chest. "I don't cheat at duels."

"Forgive me for not taking your word for it. Besides," he leaned forward across the table with a leer, "I'm having plenty of fun right here."

And that was the crux of the matter: these scoundrels were taking pleasure in the bloodletting. And when they'd had their fill, they were more likely to dispose of their playthings than release the pair of musketeers. If only Porthos could see a way of getting the upper hand before either he or Aramis were shot on the spot. But if—when—it came to it, Porthos would rather take down as many of these bastards as he could with him.

The tavern door creaked open and all eyes shot toward it. Porthos shifted in surprise but otherwise tried not to move as a most unexpected guest entered.

D'Artagnan pulled up short, eyeing the situation in apparent nonchalance. "Seems I've interrupted something," he remarked.

"You have," the cardsman snapped. "Get out."

D'Artagnan hesitated. "Well, it's just that…this is the only tavern, and I've been riding all day and could use some wine and a hot meal…"

Porthos frowned at the utter lack of acknowledgement of either him or Aramis. What was d'Artagnan even doing here? He and Athos weren't due to rendezvous with the other pair until the day after tomorrow, thus Porthos indulging in cards when they'd stopped in this village in the first place. Was Athos with d'Artagnan?

The leader rose from his chair into a menacing stance, and his men shifted as well, including the one with the pistol in the back of the room. Porthos didn't really register it until a shot cracked the air and made him jump. He whipped a frantic gaze to Aramis, but it was the man with the gun who fell backward.

D'Artagnan drew his pistol without missing a beat and shot the man nearest him just as Athos came sweeping out from the kitchen with second pistol raised. Another sharp report split the air and someone yelled. The scrape of steel signaled the switch to swords.

Porthos surged from his seat and slammed his fist into the jaw of the man standing behind him. He then spun toward the one with the knife, who had thankfully foregone slitting Aramis's throat in favor of meeting the new threat. He shouldn't have underestimated the marksman, even bound as he was. Aramis drew his leg up and kicked out at the scoundrel's hip, sending him crashing into the table and breaking it in two. Cards fluttered around him as Porthos stomped his boot on the hand holding the knife and ground his heel. He then leaned down to grab the man by the collar and hefted him up, swinging him around and throwing him into the joist. He crumpled bonelessly.

Porthos spun to find the man who had initiated all this and spotted him dueling d'Artagnan. With a raging bellow, Porthos charged forward and clamped his hands on the back of the man's shoulders, propelling him forward and ramming his head straight into the wall. He dropped to one knee and punched him three more times before d'Artagnan yelled at him to stop.

Porthos sucked in a ragged gasp, struggling to control his rage. The sounds of fighting had died down and only the blood roaring in his ears made him feel the battle was still heavy at hand.

A grunt had him twisting back around as Athos undid the gag in Aramis's mouth and pulled it free. The swordsman then quickly set to slicing the ropes.

"God bless your impeccable timing," Aramis said tiredly, rubbing his wrists when the coarse hemp fell away.

"What happened?" Athos asked, surveying the bloody tatters of Aramis's shirt.

Aramis briefly flicked a look at Porthos. "We had a…disagreement with some locals. They weren't partial to our attempts to appease them. Lucky you arrived when you did. We weren't expecting you for another two days. Everything go well?"

Athos ignored the veiled attempt at redirection and roved his gaze over the broken table and scattered cards before settling dark eyes on Porthos. "Did you pay for a room before this disagreement?" he asked mildly, but there was a storm brewing in his eyes.

"Yeah," Porthos replied. "Inn's across the street."

"D'Artagnan, go find some rope we can use to secure these men before transporting them back to Paris. Aramis, go get cleaned up."

"The rope they used still looks long enough," d'Artagnan started to point out, but a single look from Athos had him snapping his mouth shut and nodding jerkily. "Right."

Aramis hesitated, looking torn between staying to stand by Porthos and succumbing to his own exhaustion. Porthos cocked his head toward the door for him to go. He could take what was comin'; he certainly deserved it.

Aramis gave him a sympathetic grimace as he followed d'Artagnan out.

Athos didn't speak as he moved among the bodies, seemingly checking for hidden weapons. Porthos bent to do the same and used the rope d'Artagnan had mentioned to start binding the men who'd only been knocked out.

"I gather the disagreement was over a game of cards," Athos finally said.

Porthos shrugged with a noncommittal grunt. "I tried to give the winnin's back. They didn't think it was enough."

"You know my feelings on cheating."

Porthos crossed his arms. He did know. He just…couldn't help himself. The game of chance was just as fun as the game of sleight of hand.

Athos took an earnest step toward him. "I will not impede a man's vices if he's intent on his own self-destruction. But I will not allow it to bring harm to others, especially not our brother."

Whatever knee-jerk retort Porthos may have wanted to lob back was doused by a fresh wave of guilt and the sight of blood drops on the floor. Aramis's blood.

Porthos ducked his gaze in deference. "It won't happen again," he promised.

Athos nodded. "You can come back in, d'Artagnan," he called.

The lad poked his head through the door, looking sheepish. He had an armful of rope and the barkeep trailing behind him.

"Our apologies for the disruption to your establishment," Athos said to the owner. "We will do our best to make reparations."

The man shook his head. "Just gettin' those swine out of our village and makin' sure they don't come back is enough."

"I assure you, a grave penalty for attacking a King's musketeer awaits them in Paris. Is there a place we can keep them locked up until morning?"

The barkeep nodded. "Sure."

Athos gave d'Artagnan a look that said to handle it and then headed out. Porthos followed, his intent to check on Aramis, which seemed to be Athos's as well since he was heading across the street to the inn.

Once inside, Athos stepped to the side to let Porthos lead the way to their room. They found Aramis sitting on one of the two beds, shirt removed and dabbing at the cuts on his torso with a damp cloth. By the barely concealed winces and hisses at each touch, it was probably soaked in spirits.

Athos wordlessly walked over and took the rag from him, proceeding to clean the cuts himself. Aramis just angled a look up at him but didn't say anything, leaning back to allow the gesture of concern for what it was.

"You alright?" Porthos asked.

Aramis flashed him a grin, but it quickly turned to a grimace even under Athos's careful ministrations. "None of the cuts are very deep. They won't even require stitches."

Lady Luck had smiled on one of them, at least.

"Aramis…I'm sorry."

His friend's expression softened. "It was hardly your fault you sat down to play cards with a mad man."

"Pissin' off a mad man made it worse. If I hadn't cheated, he wouldn't a' had cause to do what he did."

Aramis shrugged one shoulder, then sucked air through his teeth as Athos gave one of the longer cuts a gentle swipe. "All's forgiven, my friend. Though if you still feel penitent, I wouldn't mind a cup of wine and some food to chase it down. It has been a trying night."

Porthos nodded quickly, eager to help. He paused for a brief moment, waiting to catch Athos's eye. The other man had accepted his contrition in the tavern and his word that it wouldn't happen again, but he had been utterly silent through the exchange with Aramis. Having secured the marksman's forgiveness, which had never been in doubt to begin with, Athos finally looked up and met Porthos's eye, and the absolution was complete.

With another nod, Porthos headed downstairs to get both his brothers some food and drink. He met d'Artagnan and made sure to order a portion for the boy as well. For the lad's part, he didn't even look upon Porthos with the slightest hint of recrimination, just smiled and helped him carry the platter of wine and bread back upstairs.

But Porthos knew their forgiveness and understanding would not be pressed a second time. The next time he decided to sit down at a game of cards, he'd remember what more was at stake should he fail to keep his promise.