A/N: This one goes out to See Me As I Am 101. Your reviews are gold.
Spoilers and Tag to: Episode 8.

When Worlds Collide

Shoulders hunched and face half hidden in the shadows, Porthos sat with his back to the door, in the farthest, most dimly lit corner of the dinghy bar.

Usually he was loathe to be found there, drinking the piss that the sleazy barmaids sold as wine, but tonight he had dragged himself away from the comfort of his friends' company and the mirth of their laughter, down to the most desolate tavern in all of Paris, wanting to remind himself what exactly he had been before he was a musketeer.

Nothing.

Before the regiment his life had been worth less than nothing, scraping and begging and stealing for a piece of bread. He had been a worthless filthy bastard child of a slave woman with nothing to his name except big impossible dreams.

Hell, he hadn't even had a name.

And now when he had everything he had hoped for, a brotherhood as fine as the musketeers to call upon, the loyalty of friends who would give their lives for him, a respectable means of earning a living; when he had finally had a place where he belonged, he had wanted to give it up.

A few days spent in the arms of a beautiful woman, surrounded by the rich glamor of her wealth and he had dared to forget those who had accepted him as one of their own.

Porthos did not believe in self-flagellation, life dealt him enough wounds without any more prompting from him, but tonight he did not think he deserved to be in the company of those whom he called friends.

He wasn't a fool, he knew it wasn't wrong to desire a life with a woman, a married life with someone he could love, have children with, travel together maybe. As a matter of fact, a small part of him felt glad. He had always assumed that he was broken in some manner deep inside, to not care about what happened to his life as long as it was spent in serving king and country.

It was a little heartening, he admitted, that he wasn't as damaged as he had thought.

But how he had entertained even the idea of giving up the musketeers, he couldn't fathom. It did not have to be one or the other. He had had no qualms in walking away with the childhood friend he had loved, who had grown into a desirable and strong woman. Flea had not been willing to give up her life, so he had stuck to his own.

But Alice, Alice had shown him another world. A world where poverty was a distant distasteful notion, a world of comfort and luxury and quiet contentment and just for a second, he had yearned to say yes.

A single second was enough. In his eyes, he had betrayed his brothers.

He knew they wouldn't think that. D'Artagnan would passionately tell him he had desired nothing wrong, Athos would resolutely state that he knew no finer man than Porthos and he deserved to be happy and Aramis would…

Aramis would raise an incredulous eyebrow, throw his head back and laugh, and make him realize just how completely idiotic he was being. They would forgive him in an instance, in fact they would insist there was nothing to forgive.

But Porthos did not want forgiveness. Not yet.

Tomorrow he would face them again, apologize to Athos and Aramis and laugh at his own stupidity. But tonight, tonight he was content to let himself suffer in his shame.

The barmaid was loathe to bring the drinks to anyone's table, being the lone server but a couple of coins had convinced her to keep the wine coming. He raised a heavy hand after choking down his sixth glass and a minute later it was refilled. Porthos was about to pick up the glass when a hand on his shoulder made him pause.

He did not tense up. He knew that touch anywhere. But instead of facing the man behind him, his head dropped even lower and he groaned inwardly.

Aramis chuckled.

"Thought I would find you here." Without any further ado, the musketeer got another backless stool from one of the other tables and sat down. "We missed you at the tavern."

Porthos grunted but did not reply. Aramis went on unperturbed. "It was quite a surprising turn of events. Athos was holding back while d'Artagnan seemed intent on drowning himself in drink. The boy really has taken the loss of his family estate hard. And he must have had to move to the barracks too, be away from his lady friend. For someone who had just had his dreams realized, he seemed quite morose."

"Losing a home can do that to a man." Porthos' voice was hoarse from disuse and he spoke without meeting the other man's eyes.

Aramis waved dismissively. "He lost a farm and a house, his home he found among us today."

Porthos wanted to agree, to say that the musketeers were indeed the best family d'Artagnan could have hoped for after the death of his real one, but no words came out. His throat clogged up and he could feel an unfamiliar prickle of tears in his eyes.

A hand rested on his arm, and finally Porthos looked up. Aramis was watching him earnestly, his face somber. "My friend, this will not do. Don't beat yourself over something as innocent as wanting happiness."

Porthos shook his head, and cleared his throat. "You don't understand, Aramis. I… I wanted to go with her, to have that life, to leave!"

Aramis felt his heart clenching painfully in his chest at the thought of the other man leaving them, but he did not let his hurt show. Instead he squeezed Porthos' arm and leaned forwards. "But you didn't. That's what matters." Aramis watched the other man's face. It was clear he his point wasn't getting through, the anguish was still plain as day. "My friend you are the strongest, most resilient man I know. We all have our moments of weakness, and yours proved to be not greed or rage, but rather love. And where there is love, there can never be any wrong. Even if you had left, I would not have held it against you for I would have taken comfort in the fact that my brother is happy."

Porthos tried to smile, but settled for a brief shake of the head. "I wouldn't have been, not without the musketeers." Aramis straightened up and smiled. "I would have been downright miserable, begging to be let back the next day itself."

Aramis grinned. "Somehow, I don't doubt that." He raised a hand to catch the barmaid's attention. The stout barmaid huffed in exaggerated annoyance but walked over with another glass and put it on the table.

Porthos watched the musketeer take a tentative sip, and gave the man credit for not spitting the vile wine out as soon as it had touched his lips. Instead, he only grimaced slightly and swallowed. "Have you ever felt it?" Aramis raised an eyebrow. "Love for something other than our duty, so intense that you would do anything to keep it?"

"Once."

Porthos nodded at the brusque answer, not expecting an elaboration. Aramis however seemed to be in an indulgent mode. "She did not agree with my circumstances and changed her mind at the last minute."

Porthos looked at him in surprise. "And yet you remain such a firm believer in the power of love?"

Aramis looked at him like as if he was a young naïve child and smiled. "Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

"The woman who loves you will love what is most important to you. She will not seek to change or alter you in any way. If you believe in anything, believe in that."

Porthos looked down and blinked, discreetly trying to get rid of the tears that threatened to fall. "It must be the wine talking, but that…" he looked at Aramis and smiled, heart finally becoming lighter and mood lifting greatly, "that was beautiful."

Aramis touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement but before he could say anything, a loud voice interrupted. "Oi pretty boy!"

Aramis glanced at Porthos and raised an eyebrow.

"I think he means you," Porthos commented helpfully. Smirking, Aramis turned around.

A short round man stood a few feet away from the table. He was dressed a little more fashionably than the tavern's other customers, most of whom where beggars and whores. His face was red, his eyes bloodshot and he was obviously drunk. "What's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?"

Aramis smiled good-naturedly. "I'm having a drink monsieur, now if you'll excuse me." He turned back around and was about to drink from his glass when a hard clap on the shoulder caused it to go flying.

"I'm not done talking to you." The man was standing right behind Aramis now, "How about you dump this poor sod here and I'll show you a good time?"

Aramis brushed the hand off, without turning. "You are obviously drunk, which is the only reason why I would let that go. Go home."

The man's expression changed rapidly from leering and suggestive to anger in a second. "Who do you think you are, you worthless piece of shit, telling me what to do!"

Porthos was about to intervene, but Aramis stood up. He turned towards the man, who took a step back. "I am Aramis of the king's musketeers. Now I suggest you call it a day and go back home and we will speak no further of your insinuations."

The man seemed shaken for a second before he found his courage again. "A musketeer no less. My, my, why does the king get to have all the pretty ones?"

Porthos had had enough. His friend was handling the matter way too calmly for his tastes. In these areas it was best to talk with your fist or sword rather than try and reason with the brutes who lived here. Besides he knew men such as this man. They would come into the tavern, the only place they knew they could find a young body willing to do anything at all to fulfill their twisted desires for a couple of sous. He had seen several boys letting themselves be led out, nable to meet anyone's eyes in the morning.

He straightened in his stool, flexed his shoulders, tilted his neck on both sides to work the kink out of it, and got up. He stepped out of the shadows and stood at Aramis' side. "What part of go home did you not understand?" he growled.

The man seemed to visibly deflate. He took in the six feet and 200 pounds of pure muscle towering over him and sweat broke out on his forehead. He opened his mouth to speak and Porthos tilted his head. He shut it back quickly and looked between Aramis, whose face had lost all its easy humor at the slight to the king, and Porthos. "I…I think I'll…-" he stuttered but then changed his mind. Abruptly he turned around and scurried away as fast as his short legs could carry him.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Porthos watched the man go with a grim look. He turned to Aramis who was grinning at him and raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Aramis chuckled, turning around to place a couple of coins on the table. "Nothing, I was just wondering," he took Porthos by the elbow and steered him out of the tavern, "who would look after us if you are gone, indeed?"

Porthos just smiled.

Thoughts and reviews are appreciated as always. :)