"It's the best way with Porthos. We've learned from experience." - Athos, s01e03, "Commodities"

The barn was not large, nor defensible, but it seemed empty; that would have to do. Sword out, clutching the collar of a half-conscious Aramis in the other hand, Athos kicked the door in and lunged into the dark, dusty shack. Porthos fired his second pistol in the thieves' direction and was inside before the smoke cleared, slamming the door and leaning against it in the absence of a bar or, thanks to Athos, a latch.

"I hate Gascony," he snarled, pressing one hand to the stitch in his side.

Athos took stock of their sanctuary: one door, no windows, hayloft. "Apparently Gascony returns the sentiment." He spotted a nearby pile of straw where he might safely and one-handedly deposit Aramis, but after the first step, Aramis roused and batted at Athos' shoulder and arm; for the trouble, he was not exactly dropped, but not exactly pillowed down, as Athos endeavored to keep his struggling friend clear of the blade in his other hand. Aramis groaned and sat where he landed, pressing his palms to his forehead. A dark bruise radiated from his left temple, where he'd been struck with a pommel

Athos sheathed his sword. "He won't make it as far as the horses."

Porthos nodded. "I'll double back around and bring them."

"I think I'd better go."

"Wh—" Porthos looked down, following Athos' gaze, and saw a spreading bloodstain under his hand. "Ah, hell," he said with feeling. "Now it hurts."

"What happened to Porthos?" Aramis wanted to know, looking up from between his hands.

"Same thing that happened to you, mate." Porthos wadded up the side of his shirt and held it more firmly over the cut. He had already decided that it was merely a cut and not a gash. "A good Gascony welcome. I say we give them a Musketeer farewell."

"I think we already have. Listen." Athos held up a hand for silence, and they heard nothing from outside.

"Be careful anyway," said Porthos. "It's not exactly been our day."

They clasped hands briefly, and Athos went.

Night was just beginning to rob the forest of its colors, and a chill hung in the air, promising frost. Slipping through the woods was child's play and, though Athos' nerves hummed with wariness, part of him relaxed at the familiar sounds and smells. The wet autumn assured his own silent passage, and he heard nothing amiss, smelled no smoke or unwashed highwayman, as he used the setting sun to make his way to the horses. A quarter of an hour, no more, and he held Drum and Cricket's leads while Darkness tore up the fallow fields with long, powerful strides, back to the mangy barn.

They hove a protesting Aramis into his saddle, where he promptly slumped unconscious from the sudden movement. Athos lashed him in place with his own spare sash and gave Porthos a leg up, which occasioned a blistering oath and a bloom of fresh blood on the white shirt. Then all were mounted and away, leaving behind their makeshift shelter and six splayed bodies cooling in the twilight.

oOo

"No," said Porthos.

"Fine," said Athos.

"Not fine," said Aramis, without opening his eyes. It was their third or fourth time through the argument and, although lying down in an inn was infinitely preferable to lurching about in the saddle, he was not inclined to continue chatting all night. He went on, "If that hasn't stopped bleeding yet, it's not going to. You know I'm right."

Porthos made a noncommittal noise. Athos, arms crossed, glared at him.

Carefully, Aramis reached up and turned the wet cloth on his forehead to the cooler side. "Porthos, I can feel the room spinning even with my eyes closed, and if I sit up I'm going to throw up again. Nobody wants that."

The problem was this: the three companions had a system. The system was, whenever Porthos got on the wrong side of a sharp object, he got blackout drunk and Athos put him in a headlock while Aramis sewed as fast as possible. The system worked tolerably well, but it did require two able-bodied Musketeers, and they were down to one. Although they had been plying Porthos with wine since arriving, it was still only half of a solution to the problem.

Porthos was somehow glowering and pouting at the same time. Athos was, fortunately, immune to both, and done fooling around. "Sit down," he ordered.

Porthos sat, facing backwards in the writing-desk chair, wineskin dangling from one hand.

Athos held his hands up in an exaggerated look-I'm-unarmed and approached Porthos, whose shirt had been sacrificed entirely to make the thick pad and wide strip of bandage wrapped around his chest, terminating in a twisted mass secured by the ramrod from one of his pistols. Athos untucked the thin metal rod and loosened it a few turns, enough to pull back the pad and see that, no, there was no clot or scab forming, just the same raw gap flexing in time with Porthos' breath and oozing blood. He unwound and removed the bandage and, turning to the desk, unrolled Aramis' suture kit.

Porthos was growling, a deep, sustained rumble. Maybe drunker wasn't necessarily better? Athos glanced at the supine Aramis, hoping he would spring into action and reinstate the usual system. No such luck. Athos picked up a threaded needle and, placing his other hand on Porthos' side above the wound, said, "Deep breath."

The growl grew louder.

Athos had barely touched the skin before he was on the floor with the wind knocked out of him and the needle through the webbing of his left hand. Porthos was on his feet, swearing, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists, and almost before he knew it, Athos pushed himself up and used the momentum of his whole body to put a right uppercut just under Porthos' stubborn chin.

The big man dropped like a boulder in a wishing well.

There was a long, still moment, and then Aramis said, "My god, it's genius." He had lifted his wet cloth and turned his head just enough to observe the commotion, and now he was smiling.

"What?" Athos pulled the needle from his hand with a grimace.

"That's it. I mean, that's it."

"Shall I punch you, too?" Athos offered, glaring.

"Don't you see?" Aramis asked. "No more headlocks, no more shouting. All you have to do is lay him out first."

Athos considered this with a frown. "He won't like it."

"You like the old way so much?"

"I suppose there are some things worth the idiocy of punching a man in the face." Athos' knuckles ached; normally he remembered to hit the soft parts with his hands and the bony parts with a weapon.

"Amen to that." Aramis replaced the cloth and settled back into the pillows with a sigh. "Better sew him up before he comes to."

Ah, Athos thought sourly, flexing bruised knuckles before bending to his work. Friendship.