"Little thing called the war."

x

"Hey," Porthos barks, skewering d'Artagnan with a glance. "What'd I say about re-doing your cartridges?"

D'Artagnan remains motionless, supine near the tucked-under wall of the tent, one arm slung across his eyes. The posture says more about the collected exhaustion from the past four days than words can, but Porthos is unmoved. "Hey," he repeats.

"I did re-do the cartridges."

Shaking his head, Porthos unslings his shoulder armor and weapons belt, hanging them near head of his roll, then reaches over to fix d'Artagnan's, readjusting for accessibility and biting his tongue against another lecture. Completing that endeavor and plucking up d'Artagnan's belly box, Porthos crouches near him and plonks the kit down by his head. "They're too loose. You're losing powder through the paper, which becomes a very easy way to lose your head from your shoulders."

D'Artagnan slides his arm off his eyes, revealing dusty streaks of mud, and the livid bruise he'd gained across his face when his flintlock hadn't fired. A common enough occurrence for any soldier on a line, but Porthos would never settle with d'Artagnan for common.

D'Artagnan sighs, ignores the cartridges and stares stiffly at the wavering ceiling. "When is Athos set to return?"

"Sick of me, are ya?"

"Of course not."

Porthos chuffs. "Not sure." He watches d'Artagnan's face, then distracts himself from a sudden run of unwelcome thoughts by pilfering his own kit for paper and tallow, and folds out his leather staging.

"It's been three weeks."

"Should be soon then. Come on. I know you're tired, but you do this now, you won't be caught off later when we're called back out. And I'd prefer you be alive when Athos comes back."

"I don't load fast enough even with the cartridges."

"You'll get better," Porthos grits. "Now sit up. Aramis had a trick with the tallow he taught me on our first campaign together – I'll show you."

Tension lights through d'Artagnan's body, and he does sit up, but to counter purpose. "I get it, all right! I haven't been a soldier since I was 17, like Aramis. I don't have ears like a bat, like Aramis, and I'll never be able to load the pistol under 15 seconds, like Aramis."

Porthos feels his body shudder, a completely involuntarily tremble he can feel in his teeth. Even so, he finds himself leaning forward on reflex. "Hey," he breathes, sharply patient. He feels a lump rise in his throat, and can't tell if it's anger or longing. "You're doing fine. More than. But you need to learn this stuff."

"Sorry," is the sullen reply. "I just don't like being treated like… I don't like feeling like a rookie again. It's not as though I haven't been in my share of battles. More than, in fact."

"War is different."

D'Artagnan blows out a breath. "So. I'm. Learning." His laconic tone emerges in direct opposition to the clipped spacing.

Porthos clenches his teeth and stares beyond the tent flap. They're fraying, both of them, the way that happens after long days of pushing lines. The way that he and Athos and… and Aramis, had learned to take in stride.

"I'm sorry, Porthos. I didn't mean that. Not the way it sounded," d'Artagnan says warily, losing some of the distance from his exhaustion. Who knows what he's reading from Porthos's silence, but –

Porthos shakes his head and the silence thickens.

"I'm sorry if I've been hard on you," they both say at the same time.

A short chuckle follows, and Porthos feels the tension in his muscles break for a space as he pats d'Artagnan's knee. "I'll try to lay off the Aramis stories for a while." He nods his head out the tent. "I'll get the boys to do the same."

"Don't. I like the stories. It isn't that. I — I miss him too."

Porthos rubs a hand to his head, glancing briefly at the ground.

"I just feel…"

"Compared?"

D'Artagnan shrugs. "I never felt compared to him when he was with us. But now…"

"Yeah." There's more he should say, he knows, but the words are stuck. He can't find them. Can't shake them loose.

"Right then," d'Artagnan finally says. He looks haggard, but determined, gesturing at the paper and tallow. Show me again."

Porthos sits back to make space, fingering and shaping the paper with the tricks Aramis once showed him. "I'm not expecting you to be him," he finally says. "No one is. This is just — "

"I know." D'Artagnan grins. "As Aramis would say — It's yet another thing I need to learn if I'm to be a good Musketeer."

It's weary when it emerges, but they both laugh.

x