"I still say it is a terrible idea."
Athos sighed, growling, "Aramis," in a warning tone.
The Spaniard waved his hand as one would away unpleasant smoke. "I know, I know, our petite Gascon is best fit for this mission, but by all that is holy, his back is only a day mended enough for the boy have rightfully left his bed!"
"An' two days later than d'Melliuor got him out of bed," Porthos grumbled. He yelped a moment later as his knife slipped and caught his finger. Dropping the potato he had been working on, he stuck the injured digit into his mouth, glaring at his two friends, daring them to make comment. Beside him, Gauthier wordlessly took up the half-mangled vegetable and continued peeling it. The former quartermaster ignored the men and their conversation. Even though he was privy to their scheming he had shown no inclination to assist them. The man's spirit had left him the day d'Melliuor had taken away his armoury.
Athos rolled his eyes and took another mouthful of wine. They had taken to sitting in the kitchens whenever one of them had been assigned there, though as yet Athos' stable duties had shown no sign of abating.
"None of us have reason to be in d'Melliuor's offices, nor opportunity to try," he repeated.
"And if he gets caught, what's the worst d'Melliuor could do?" Aramis said, voice dripping sarcasm. "Only beat him into a cripple."
"Enough, 'Mis," Porthos snarled, no heat behind the words, just tiredness. "We'd all rather be in the whelp's place and he knows it."
That had rather been one of the problems, Athos thought glumly. Since his humiliation upon the square, d'Artagnan had fought more than ever to gain their approval. He worked with a furore of purpose that they had all been shamed into mimicking, barely allowing himself any rest since the day a little over a week ago.
D'Melliuor had quieted too, seemingly happy that the inseparables were suitably cowed into obedience for now. The exhausting duties had continued at the same pace, but there had been no more tricks with the rota, though they still scrutinised it with each change. D'Artagnan himself had been the model of reform in their captain's eyes, performing his duties not only with diligence but with an eager smile. The way he kowtowed to Jussac and d'Melliuor made Athos nauseous, though he knew it was only a pretence. All for the good of the mission, he reminded himself, swallowing down wine like water.
"It could still be a trap," Aramis reminded them. It a deeply gnawing worry that had Athos awake most nights since the scheme had been broached.
"The boy was sincere," he said, for his own benefit as well as his companions', "I tested that commitment myself after all, and I am by far the greater prize if they were seeking to goad one of us into illicit behaviour."
"True," Aramis agreed begrudgingly, "were Antionne the same spoilt little shit as before, you would have been swiftly tried for assault of a superior officer."
"Assault," Porthos said with an explosive chuckle, "I'd say it was fair payback."
"Antionne is not his father's whipping boy," Athos reminded the man forcefully, steel in his tone, "We are not like Henri."
Porthos looked suitably chastened, and mumbled a quick apology.
Athos let his eyes remain on his fellow inseparable for a few seconds longer, checking that the man was suitably contrite. "No matter what is done to us, retaliation will serve us only ill."
"Yeah, I got it," Porthos said. He met his brother's gaze and gave a sincere nod to accompany his vow.
"Aramis," Athos clipped.
"Yes, yes, I understand, mon frère." Aramis stopped as Athos turned to fix him with his uncompromising eye. "I understand, Athos. No unnecessary retaliation."
"Until we got evidence," Porthos said, his mouth a deadly grin, "Then I'm skinning that arsehole."
"My dear Porthos, you shock me. I wasn't aware of your predilections!"
"Shut up, 'Mis."