Failure, from day two! In my defence, it's the start of the term so I went to campus yesterday, met with my advisor and caught up with colleagues, getting the latest in the academia after a long summer. No TA-ship for me anymore, so I can focus on my dissertation, but obviously that doesn't come with more time for fanfic, alas. I'll do my best to keep up. Many thanks to those of you who left reviews – the supported is much appreciated. Here is the second story, 'inspired' by the prompt 'bloody hands'. It may be edited poorly, my apologies in advance.

Porthos, unlike the majority of the men in his regiment, admired the King's Musketeers.

Not necessarily secretly, but not necessarily overtly either, he admired the newly-formed regiment of the 'most elite soldiers in France' - the accolade itself a prime reason for the mocking they received from the rest of the men. Ever since they'd arrived at the camp two weeks ago, they'd been at the receiving end of many a crude remark, many a cruel joke - though never openly or within their earshot. But going by the hostile glances exchanged whenever a Musketeer passed by an infantryman - that is, the hostile glance thrown by the infantryman returned guardedly, haughtily, indignantly or pompously, as, again, interpreted to be so by the said infantryman, none of those feelings were lost on the Musketeers.

Toy soldiers, the men nicknamed them. Lookin' all pretty in their shiny uniforms and plumed hats; such gentlemen, the lot of them. They looked right at home in the glittery halls and the manicured gardens of the Louvre, basking in the reflected light of the king and the queen. And sure, Parisians loved seeing them with their fancy blue cloaks and ornate swords at their belts as they accompanied the royals on parade, but that was exactly it: they belonged to Paris, to the capital of France, and to the world of the king and his place. They had no place on the battlefield. Within the mud and dust and chaos of the camp, they were too prim, too proper, clean and polished, like china dolls in a store window.

Some felt sorry for them. Poor sods, Maurice, their cook, lamented one day; come the day of fightin', they goin' t'be butchered like a herd of sheep.

Porthos, despite himself, worried -indeed, worried- that Maurice was right.

Campaigning, unbeknownst to be many, consisted, to a great extent, of marching and waiting. Many a soldier went on campaign only to return without ever seeing the battlefield, and of those who did, most never returned. So far, Porthos had been lucky enough to be one of the few in-between; he had marched and waited and fought, and lived to tell his stories. But he was young, and he was hungry for life, and he had a strange feeling at the pit of his belly that, here in the army, he was only getting started.

For on these endlessly long, hot days, as they waited for weeks on end for orders to arrive or for stalemates to end, bored and restless, the men would spontaneously get in line to challenge Porthos to a brawl. It had become a game, one that Porthos enjoyed immensely: rarely did a man came along that could best him in a neat hand-to-hand, and it made for good entertainment, a good distraction for everyone. Sometimes even their lieutenant and captain would join the bets. Porthos loved winning, he loved his share from the bets, and he loved the praise. Oh, he loved the praise.

He loved the good things in life, those he'd grown up seeing and witnessing but never having.

Hence he was intrigued, almost allured by the Musketeers.

For as much as he was a fighter, Porthos was a Parisian; he appreciated an eye-pleasing sight in whatever form it came, just as he appreciated the apparent discipline of these men. He would sit with friends playing cards or needlessly polishing blades, and he would watch the Musketeers spar just beyond the narrow clearing 'separating' the two regiments' camps. The others scoffed at the thin rapiers the men used for blades, and laughed at their lunges and turns, but Porthos, untrained as he was in that noble art, watched them with interest, not unable to notice tactics or patterns the more he observed the men practice one-on-one. Sure, those bendy swords didn't look fit for the battleground, and surely those blue padded vests couldn't pass for armour, but for one, Porthos was intelligent enough to trust that if the king had a new regiment put together and sent to war, the men in it needed indeed to be the best, for their success or failure on the battleground would directly reflect upon the king. And surely they could not be so bad, nor so green, since they were headed by Monsieur de Tréville.

None dared to speak badly of M. de Tréville.

Only the name itself inspired a quiet, but undeniable sense of respect among the infantrymen.

A known favourite of the king, it was said that M. de Tréville wasn't noble-born, nor was he a courtier. It was said he'd risen through the ranks, a soldier through and through, and that he'd had the honour of teaching the king sword-fighting in the monarch's not-so-distant youth. Then surely, Porthos thought, a regiment of Musketeers led by this man would consist of men who knew what they were doing. Surely, soon enough, when the fighting began, everyone would get their measure.

But Porthos never got the chance to observe them up close.

Come the day of fighting, they learned that the Musketeers, divided into three groups, would be leading the charge, their part in the battle moving on and ending before Porthos's regiment ever caught up.

That morning, in the frenzy of preparations, Porthos did not spare them much thought.

Until, around the afternoon, in the heat of battle, he ran across the field and ducked behind cover to hide from an oncoming volley, and found himself pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with none other than Monsieur de Tréville, captain of the Musketeers.

He didn't have time to properly bask in that awe - the ground shook with a violent roar and Porthos instinctively ducked again, throwing an arm over his head with a startled cry. Dust and gravel rained down on them, showering them in dirt and dried mud. When it finally settled and Porthos brought down his arm, coughing and looking around, he saw the man beside him slumped against the rise, looking dazed under the blood pouring down his face.

"Oi – sir, you aligh'?"

He barely heard his own voice over the melee, and Tréville did not answer him, staring instead at something beside him on the ground. It was a body, lying face down. A blue sash wound above his hip, and a large, wet stain still spreading over it. Cursing aloud, Porthos whipped out a kerchief from his pocket and pressed it onto the bleeding gash on M. de Tréville's brow without ceremony, trying to see if the downed man was still alive. Tréville winced, but otherwise, did not react.

Neither did he raise a hand to hold the cloth. Porthos turned his attention back to the man.

"Hey – hey, look at me! Look at me – Monsieur de Tréville, right? What're you doin' 'ere – where are your men? Sir!"

But Tréville was still staring, though at something else this time, even as he blinked distractedly while Porthos held the kerchief to his brow. Porthos followed the blue gaze to see a bloodied sword, with a flat-blade and plain hilt. He turned his eyes back to Tréville and noticed only then that the man's hands, gloves shredded to pieces, were dripping with blood.

He cursed again. He couldn't fathom what had happened, but he needed to get Monsieur de Tréville out of here.

Trying to ignore the fact that he was practically manhandling the king's favourite, Porthos tied the kerchief around the unresisting man's head, then, apologizing under his breath, he turned to remove the sash from around the dead Musketeer's waist. He half-worried if Tréville would object to what he was doing, but there was no response at all from the man. Keeping his head below the ground and his ear trained on the goings-around, Porthos quickly cut strips from the relatively clean parts of the sash and wound them around Tréville's hands. Then, as soon as he caught a lull in the assault, he threw Tréville's arm over his shoulder and took his chance.

It was a dangerous climb and run, but soon enough, they were out of the battle zone, safely under the trees of the forest edging the camp on the other side.

M. de Tréville, worryingly pliant, walked with him easily enough.

But he did not speak.

Finally reaching the camp, breathless after the fight and the exertion, Porthos directly guided Tréville to the first empty tent that he found. He directed the man to sit on a stool just within the open flap, and grabbed the bottle he glimpsed lying on the floor, not believing his luck - sour as it was, it was wine.

He took a glorious sip, then turned to offer the bottle to Tréville, only to stop when he remembered about the man's hands.

Short of... feeding the man the wine... he couldn't make Tréville drink. Merde - what an awkward position this was!

"Monsieur Tréville. Come on, look at me. Lemme take care of these hands, Monsieur, hm?" He glimpsed at Tréville's face as he gently grasped the man's wrists, and was half-disappointed when he met no resistance. He turned the hands palms up. "Wait 'ere."

He scrambled to his feet and rushed about the camp to procure a basin of water. With the fight still going on, there were very few men milling about. When he returned to the tent, he was both relieved and somewhat anxious to find that the Captain had not moved. The bloodied hands remained open, propped on his knees just as Porthos had left them, while the blue eyes roamed slowly over the camp, although, finally, finally, with a flicker of awareness in them.

Just as Porthos approached, Tréville seemed to shake himself, took a deep breath and absently raised a hand to rub at his face.

"'ey- no –!"

But it was too late. Tréville dropped his hand with a violent flinch and a vicious curse, having left a smear of blood on his cheek. Hastily Porthos put down the basin and cloth in his hand, only to raise himself and find he didn't know what to do with his own hands. He stood awkwardly, towering over Tréville's sitting form.

The captain raised his head slowly, looked at Porthos with a frown, and asked, in a commanding tone, "Who are you?"

Porthos blinked. "Porthos. I.. pulled you from the trench. Remember?"

Tréville's eyes narrowed as he stared intently at him, and Porthos felt himself slightly fidgeting. After what felt like an eternity, Tréville released him.

"My apologies... Porthos," he said, hesitant, no doubt feeling the effect of that head wound, "I... seem to owe you my life...?" He looked at him questioningly, unsure.

"Nah, I've done nothin'," Porthos said. "Are you... well, sir? Anythin' I can do?"

Tréville frowned again as if he did not understand the question.

"That's a nasty wound on your head. An' your hands – they need tendin' to."

"My hands..." Tréville repeated slowly, lowering his gaze to contemplate the lacerated palms, or, perhaps, the remnants of the once-blue sash of the dead Musketeer. He remained like that for long moments, as if seeing things only visible to himself, until he shook himself with an effort and looked at Porthos again.

"Are you skilled at this, Porthos?"

"What - sewin' wounds?" Surprised and horrified at the thought, Porthos shook his head vehemently. "No. I dig out a bullet or cauterize a cut alrigh', but with somethin' like this," he nodded towards the man's hands, "I wouldn' put my faith in me. Sir," he added as an afterthought, feeling awkward again.

Tréville smiled faintly. "Very well. I thank you, Porthos, for your help. Do me one last favour, if you would? Find the Musketeer Aramis, ask him to come see me when he can? He must be here in the camp."

"Aye, sir." So polite. Ask him to see me when he can - Porthos could almost hear him say 'cordially invite' instead. Honestly, he'd never had any superior like M. de Tréville –never had a proper Monsieur for a superior, for that matter. Captains and lieutenants he'd had, had been either too greedy or too full of themselves for their own good, and he'd served under generals he'd only heard of but never seen. With a nod, he half-turned to leave, but then hesitated. Tréville, with his hands in those haphazard strips and Porthos's ruined kerchief around his head, looked pretty much... ruined.

"Are you...uh, you gonna be alrigh'? You're not gonna be able to 'old anythin' with those hands, or do much of anythin'." He worried momentarily if he'd overstepped a boundary by pointing out the obvious but Tréville just smiled again - tightly, but sincerely.

"That is what Aramis is for."

"He's a medic?"

"No. But he has... nimble hands. Or so goes his reputation," he added, smile turning crooked. Porthos, serious, nodded.

"I'll find an' send 'im here-"

"Porthos. When he is able."

Porthos knew an order when he heard one, and this was definitely an order. But Porthos had never been ordered politely before.

"Right," he mumbled, "When 'e is able. I, uh... I'll take me leave." And not giving himself more time to be more awkward around the man, he quickly left the tent, muttering 'bout actin' like a shy raw recruit, and went in search of the Musketeer Aramis, cordially invited to his captain's tent, whenever he was able to attend.

Two months later, after the hardest of the battles were fought and the tallies of the dead and injured filled rolls and rolls of parchment for the archives, the reputation of the Musketeers took a drastic, even dramatic turn for the better, word got out that Captain Tréville was looking to recruit men. And before that day was out, Porthos found himself personally summoned to the Captain's tent, to be offered a place in the King's most elite regiment.

He accepted without hesitation, like it was a loaf of bread up for grabs in the Court of Miracles.

He was now Porthos... of the King's Musketeers.

None dared to speak ill of them from that time onwards.

... until the Red Guard came along.