In which two of our heroes meet for the first time, and Porthos does a fair amount of wondering.

This is a tag to the "Bloody Hands" chapter of my Whumptober stories.

XII. A Meeting (of best friends)

"Any of you Aramis?"

"That's me?" a man with a meticulous chestnut moustache turned to look at him with raised eyebrows. Water dripped from his hands as he lifted them from the basin he was standing over, the voluminous sleeves of his grey shirt rolled all the way up to his elbows.

Porthos gave him a greeting nod. "Monsieur de Tréville needs you."

"The captain?" the Musketeer frowned, reaching for a cloth to dry himself off, "He's not fighting? Where is he?"

"'e was fightin', now he ain't," Porthos returned, not rudely as he looked over in the large tent. Low cots were occupied by wounded soldiers, a surgeon standing over one of them. There was a strange quiet in the tent. A stillness - no groans, whimpers, screams - something that would change soon, Porthos knew; soon - for the real fighting had just begun. An abrupt impatience flared in him at the thought - what was he doin' here, wasting time - there was a battle he needed to fight!

He turned to Aramis again to continue. "He's hurt. Come on, I'll take you to 'im. I left 'im in a tent - don' know whose it is." He started back towards the flap without waiting, but to his annoyance, Aramis did not move.

"Who are you?" he inquired instead, staring intently at Porthos. Suspicion was clear in his deep brown eyes - despite his impatience, Porthos found that he could not fault him for that. No love was yet lost between an infantryman and a King's Musketeer, after all.

"Porthos," he supplied civilly, "infantryman, Captain Morrel's regiment. Look, I don' mean to be rude, but there's a battle I'm supposed to be fightin'. Are you gonna come? 'cause Tréville's bleedin' an' he's asked for you."

"Bleeding?" His frown deepening upon hearing that, Aramis's countenance changed. "Take me to him," he said, grabbing a leather bag from a table nearby. With a nod, Porthos turned to leave, but stopped abruptly when he remembered Tréville's cautionary words. He twirled on his heel but found himself nose to nose with Aramis, who checked himself at the last moment to avoid crashing into Porthos's chest. He took a step back, blinking.

"I forgot," said Porthos, "your captain's said you're to go to 'im when you 'ave the time. Do you 'ave it now?"

Aramis blinked again.

"Excuse me?"

Porthos clamped down on an impatient huff. "I mean are you busy now, do you 'ave time to come check on Monsieur de Tréville. He's insisted you come only when you're free."

"I am free to help my bleeding captain, Monsieur Porthos, as any man of conscience would be," replied Aramis rather perplexedly, staring at Porthos as if trying to determine whether he was being played for some reason, or taken for a fool. But Porthos was surprised to detect a hint of amusement in his eyes as well.

He shrugged. "I'd guess so. 'e was rather particular on that, that's all. Come on then."

Without any more delays, Aramis fell into step with Porthos's broad strides, and the two of them began to navigate the quiet camp towards where Porthos had left the wounded, dazed, and still admittedly impressive Monsieur de Tréville.

"What has happened?" Aramis asked as they strode on, "Where did you find the captain? Is he hurt grievously?"

"Nah, he's not. Sorry - should've said that earlier," Porthos shook his head, "'e's got a head wound, but 'e's talkin' just fine. His hands are cut pretty bad, though. I don' know what happened." He remembered the dead Musketeer he'd found along with Tréville.

"Is he wounded elsewhere?"

"Don't think 'so. I tried to wrap 'is hands but didn' do a very decent job." Focused as he was on his path, he did not see the appraising look Aramis gave him upon that.

"How did you find the captain? Where was he?"

"In the battlefield. I don' know what he was doin' there - " he glanced at the man beside him, "weren't you Musketeers supposed to lead the attack this mornin'? What could Tréville be doin' in the trenches when I found 'im not half an hour ago?"

"If he hasn't told you, then I have no idea, my friend," Aramis muttered, brow creasing once again. In a few moments, they had reached the tent at the edge of the camp.

"He's in 'ere. Monsieur de Tréville?" Porthos pushed the flap and stepped inside.

Tréville was sat at the edge of the cot, frowning at his hands, which were still poorly bandaged with the strips Porthos had improvised from the deceased Musketeer's sash. Now he felt an unexpected stab of guilt at the sight, wondering briefly whether what he'd done had been inappropriate, disrespectful of the man's honour or memory.

He didn't linger on that thought, but if Monsieur de Tréville hadn't made the impressions that he had on him, would such a thought -such a doubt- cross his mind about his habitual pragmatism?

No, it would not.

On the battlefield, men survived. Preservance of memory, pride, honour, deference – these were luxuries while in the thick of a fight. One made use of what he could in order to stay alive.

War had a way of making men equals.

And perhaps, that was one reason why Porthos thrived in it.

The Musketeers' captain looked up upon hearing them enter, but before he could rise, Aramis pushed past Porthos and kneeled on the ground before his captain without waiting for acknowledgements.

"Captain?" he inquired, taking in the dried blood on Tréville's hastily-cleaned face with one worried look.

"I am well," said Monsieur de Tréville. The words were soft, but an invisible edge in them stayed Aramis's hands from reaching out. Porthos could not help but frown a bit at the exchange - the concern on Aramis's part and the reassurance on Tréville's were difficult to miss. Yet again he wondered about this man before him, the way he seemed to lead his freshly-formed regiment, and his relationship with the men under his command. One thing was now clear to Porthos: the King's Musketeers were no ordinary regiment.

As Aramis dug into his bag to take out bandages and vials, Tréville's gaze returned to Porthos near the flap.

"That was very quick," he commented, staring at him unnervingly. Once again, Porthos found himself suppressing an urge to fidget.

"I did ask, if that's what you mean - 'e said he 'ad the time." What the heck - had he just tried to justify himself like a boy before a priest? Monsieur de Tréville seemed to think something along the same lines because he smiled - a proper smile even as he allowed Aramis to take his wrist and turn one lacerated palm upwards to examine it.

"I am sure you did. Thank you again, Porthos. I would shake your hand, but..."

"I did nothin', Monsieur," Porthos shook his head again. He looked at Aramis kneeling on the ground peering into his captain's wound, and randomly wondered what Tréville had meant when he'd said Aramis had 'nimble hands'. He'd said Aramis was not a medic. Yet there was an air of focused confidence about him that struck Porthos as rather remarkable - he knew a seasoned soldier when he saw one, and Aramis, he felt, was definitely one.

Not all the Musketeers were quite as 'green' in the battlefield as most of Porthos's comrades believed them to be, it seemed.

"I should return to the field." Because he'd felt awkward enough for a lifetime in the half-hour he'd spent in Tréville's presence. He gave a departing nod; Tréville returned the gesture, and Aramis looked up briefly from his work.

"Well met, Porthos," he said, "God go with you."

Porthos nodded at him, turned and left the tent with long strides in order to return to the field. Fifteen minutes later, all thought of the Musketeers was gone from his mind, and his sole focus had become, once again, to survive.

Don't forget to let me know how it tastes! It's been a while since I last cooked up a snack, after all. :)