Title: Five Times Aramis' Womanizing Got the Musketeers Into Trouble
Author: Victoria LeRoux and Red Tigress
Rating: T
Chapter WC: 1284
First Written: March 19, 2014
Posted: March 21, 2014
A/N: This series is co-written between Red Tigress and Victoria LeRoux. Victoria LeRoux wrote this chapter, while Red Tigress edited. Thanks for reading.

"Find Aramis, he said," Porthos growled, cautiously peering around the corner of the stone house and half expecting to be shot in place. "As if Athos wasn't perfectly aware of where he is."

Porthos glared sourly at the well-maintained house; Aramis had ensured they were all more than distantly aware of his latest conquest. The Musketeer inhaled deeply, eyes narrowing as he tried to throw together a hasty plan.

Three entry points – front door, servants' entrance on the side, second story porch in the back. The first route would be too obvious – if the lord heard him, he had no official reason to be lurking about. The second could be feasible – if he knew how to find Aramis quickly. But the last… Porthos grimaced at the thought. The last surely led to the master's suite, as no servant or child would be given rooms overlooking an ostentatious pond.

Porthos eyed the balcony something closer to horror than mere dread. "Curse it all, Aramis," he grunted then froze.

It couldn't be. Porthos now had another item to add to his list of grievances against his current Aramis-fetching expedition: the clatter of hooves ringing down the street. If he hadn't already decided the front door was a poor solution, he would have eliminated the idea entirely.

Athos owed him a drink for this. Aramis too. And d'Artagnan. As Porthos moved around the house at a sprint, he added Treville, the Cardinal, and the King in a fit of mulish annoyance. Although he'd never be able to collect, this entire damned mess might as well be their fault, too.

Porthos chose the if less valiant route, then the safer one. To his relief, the servant's door was unlocked when he pushed against it, opening without a squeak. For a moment Porthos considered – where would the lady's rooms be in the household?

Deferring to a childhood spent on the streets, Porthos took the stairs. He could hear a commotion near the front door, likely the reason he ran into no one on the way up. At the landing, he paused, glancing down the hall and trying to remember the porch's location from the outside.

He could hear booted feet getting closer – about to come up the stairs, perhaps? Hurried by the sound, Porthos chose a likely looking door and shoved it open.

To his relief, it was the right one. He could see Aramis – luckily faced away from the door – leaning over his mistress, head nuzzling along her neck. Porthos couldn't help but groan aloud.

"Aramis!" Porthos hissed.

Aramis startled, falling off the bed with a crash and an oath. The lady screamed at Porthos' entry, her eyes meeting his with a shock. This was… not exactly in his plan.

"Shh!" Aramis said desperately, looking frantic as he started scrambling for his clothing. "Porthos what-"

Porthos tipped his hat to the woman, giving her a smile, "My apologies, mademoiselle. Duty calls."

A clamor arose from downstairs, and the booted feet Porthos heard earlier thumped up the flight of stairs. They had precious few seconds to escape notice.

"But – my lord-"

"Tell him we were thieves," Porthos grimaced as Aramis scrambled upright, throwing on a long shirt that thankfully hit him midthigh. Porthos gathered what gear he could, grabbing Aramis by his shirt collar and dragging him to the balcony. "Once again, sorry for the interruption."

Porthos opened the balcony door, checked the drop and winced. "Bend your knees," he told Aramis as the woman straightened what looked to be a dressing gown.

Porthos shoved Aramis as the door opened, hearing a splash as his friend landed and a sputtered curse. Porthos heaved the gear over the edge, and heard a man – likely the lord or some guard – give a curse of his own.

"Thieves!" the woman screeched.

No, none of this was in the plan at all.

The Musketeer adjusted his saber and leapt, just as a shot rang out.

The pain in his side took him by surprise, and Porthos hit the ground before he was ready. He heard the snap before he felt it, ankle folding underneath him as his feet landed in the water.

"Aramis!" he said, the sound more strangled than he would like. Porthos would later blame the splutter on the fact that he fell facefirst into water that, unfortunately, wasn't as deep as it appeared.

It was deep enough, however, to leave him completely soaked.

This time, it was Porthos who found his shirt collar gripped and yanked. He groaned at the motion, cursing Aramis for more than just the sudden, sharp burn in his side.

"Time to run," Aramis told him, but Porthos could see a flash of concern under the mischief in his eyes. "Unless you prefer to stay?"

"I admit to some disappointment from the lack of pastries," Porthos grunted as Aramis let go of his shirt, trying to take a step and almost tipping over. The two of them startled at the sound of another shot and a bullet striking the ground a foot or so away.

Aramis lent him an arm out of the pond – Porthos noted with some satisfaction that Aramis, too, was soaked. However, the smug feeling vanished when he attempted to step with his twisted (well, broken, if he couldn't walk on it) foot.

"Aramis," Porthos said. "I-"

"You know I was jesting when we left d'Artagnan. I won't actually leave you to be arrested by-"

"I was going to say, if you leave me to face your lover's jilted husband, I will personally oversee your execution."

Aramis looped Porthos' arm over his shoulders, wrapping the other one around his side and ignoring the Musketeer's hiss of pain as he jostled the wound. "I was going to offer to shoot you and put you out of your misery. Porthos, are you bleeding?"

"Something like that," he replied, skipping as best he could. He heard a door crash open as Aramis pulled him along. "You owe me for this."

Aramis laughed, but the sound was strained. "Would it be possible to move a little faster?"

"I was shot and broke my ankle," Porthos began in what he considered a reasonable tone. Judging from the slightly wary look Aramis gave him, he probably came across as more homicidal than anything else, "And you want me to move faster?"

"Well," Aramis' pace picked up and it was all Porthos could do to hop determinately alongside him. "Well… yes. I don't suppose you thought to bring a horse?"

A growl was all he could spare – Porthos blinked, vision swimming momentarily as his foot was jarred by the transition from nobleman's courtyard to unpaved Paris streets. Aramis kept up a brutal pace, dragging him along when Porthos stumbled.

Porthos wouldn't remember much of the journey back to the barracks – in fact, it was only when Athos (and where did he come from?), grumbling about the waste of good alcohol, shoved half a bottle down his throat that he roused.

"Aramis!" he sputtered, choking on the potent mixture. "Athos, stop holding me down. I am going to kill him."

"Porthos," d'Artagnan, sounding a little too eager, said.

Porthos ducked the shot he knew was coming, letting it hit his jaw rather than his temple like d'Artagnan meant. "Damn it, d'Artagnan, let me-"

"Porthos," Athos said, in that infuriatingly all-knowing tone of his, "Aramis needs to set your ankle and stitch the graze."

Porthos considered that, grunted and motioned for another drink of alcohol.

"Only if you promise to make him put on trousers."