"So, this is how we die," Aramis muses, raising his nearly empty wine glass in a grim salute.
Porthos meets the toast with a mournful shake of his head. "After all these years..." Still, it's good wine and he drinks deeply, draining the crystal goblet. Waste not, want not.
"Damn tiny cups," he grumbles, shifting his weight as much as possible to his slightly less bruised right side. There is just no good way to get comfortable on this narrow chaise lounge.
Aramis considers the gap between the identical settees. "Elodie left the bottle on the any luck we'll have time to finish it before, you know..."
But there has obviously been some malevolent intent in the placement of the wine bottle. It's almost exactly equidistant between them, close to neither. That Elodie – quiet, but she gets the point across. Aramis well remembers her deadly prowess with her silent bow and arrows.
He stretches out to grasp the green bottle, but it's just out of reach and he teeters precariously on the edge of the lounge. Unwilling to further risk dislodging himself or the cushions that prop up his swollen and wrapped right foot, he gives up the heroic effort. All that for 's disheartening.
"You will have time to finish it," he sighs.
"Needs must," Porthos grunts. He leans out and nearly grasps the neck of the bottle when his bruised shoulder spasms. His hand jerks involuntarily and he tips the bottle on its side, then watches in horrified disappointment as it rolls away.
"You and your bony ass," he complains. "Can't believe you landed on my bad shoulder."
Aramis pulls a glum face. "I can't believe the balustrade collapsed just as you took the shot."
"Which I still made," Porthos pointedly reminds his friend. "Unlike the so-called best shot in the army."
Aramis huffs. "I was trying my best to fall on to the balcony and not off of the balcony, if you'll recall." His face falls then. "I've never lost control of a shot like that, though. It went into the palace. And there were witnesses. It's embarrassing. Thank God I didn't hit anything other than that ratty chandelier."
Porthos tries to look on the bright side. " Louis an' the other kids thought it was good though, squealin', and jumpin' around, and clappin' like that. They probably thought it was all part of the act . I mean they never saw us shootin' stuff off each others' heads in the tavern." Good memories, those. " Don't think our wives were very impressed, though ."
They both heave mighty sighs remembering that sad fact .
"I can't believe she made them cut my boot off just because I twisted my foot. Those were my favorite boots." Even Aramis has to admit that he sounds a little whiny.
"Maybe it's because your foot's swelled up to the size of your head," Porthos suggests.
Aramis flops dramatically back on his pillows.
"I'm not drunk enough for this," Porthos laments.
"Not nearly," Aramis agrees.
"No?" comes a deceptively sweet voice from direction of the glass-paned double doors as they swing open. Sounds of happy chatter and music from the informal party next door follow the Queen Regent of France into their little side-chamber.
"And yet you were drunkenough to land yourselves in here instead of next door with our guests." She aims a meaningful glance at Porthos, "Our other guests," she clarifies.
The Queen Regent is clearly not amused.
Ever the optimist, Aramis graces her with his signature charming smile. At the sight of it, Porthos snorts out a laugh that dies miserably when Anne of Austria turns her attention back to him.
" I do hope you're enjoying your welcome home celebration, General du Vallon . "
Porthos demonstrates that there is simply no graceful way to bow while lying on his side and finally settles for nodding and raising his empty glass, "Of course, Majesty."
"A pity that only our most intimate friends and family were present to witness such a marvelous exhibition. I'm sure Cardinal Mazarin and the red guards would have been quite amused."
"It was -" is as far as Aramis gets before the Queen's withering gaze silences him.
"Such an inspiring example you set for my son." No "our son" now. The end is, indeed, near.
She raises a delicate eyebrow, but never her voice. "My eight-year-old son, who may now labor under the misconception that it is acceptable for the First Minister of France and the country's most decorated general to behave like crazed ruffians and endanger everyone present with their foolishness. Perhaps he can grow up to be a bloodthirsty little Caligula,charging about the palace brandishing his pistols and shooting down the chandeliers and statuary."
That's a bit unfair, Aramis considers mentioning. It had only been one chandelier, and not a very nice one at that. What he actually says, though, is, "I don't believe Caligula had pistols, Majesty."
Predatory sparks ignite in the depths of the Queen Regent's eyes, though her expression otherwise remains serene.
Porthos cringes internally. Don't look at her, Aramis, don't do it, don't do it, please don't do it. But it's too late.
Like fireworks in heaven, Aramis thinks just before he stops thinking entirely. He's never been able to meet her eyes without sinking into them. And right now they're so alluring and so dangerous. Aramis is utterly moonstruck.
God, I love that in a woman.
Passion?
Violence…
Porthos gulps. Maybe he's a little drunker than he thought he was. He's always sworn to defend his dearest friend with his life. Nothing will ever change that; and now that dearest friend is staring into the Queen Regent's stormy blue eyes like a helpless, tiny baby chick hypnotized by the serpent slithering in for the kill. Porthos has always liked little fluffy chicks and he loves Aramis like a brother. There's only one way to save him now.
"Majesty", he says contritely, "The little King's been beggin' to see that trick ever since d'Artagnan told him about it, and all the kids were here, and that balcony was just like a stage. It was perfect. 'Course, we had no idea the balustrade was cracked. And rotten."
In spite of herself, the Queen Regent considers that perhaps maintenance has been a tad haphazard with all the war expenses. Still…
Porthos puffs out his chest a bit and heroically says, "I take full responsibility for our actions."
The Queen Regent's mouth quirks at the corners. She can't help herself. These men! They're a little drunk, and extremely silly, and impossibly reckless, and she loves them both. She will never admit to herself, however, that she rather regrets not having seen their entire performance.
"The children were quite amused," she allows, and her indignation diffuses a bit more.
"Oh, they were!" Porthos heartily agrees.
"But this is not the garrison."
"No."
"Or the tavern. No more shooting into the palace."
Porthos nods solemnly, his open face is flushed with an apology so sincere that the last of her aggravation floats off into oblivion.
I am letting them off too easily, she tells herself in vain.
Aramis is still staring at her like a mooncalf.
She flicks his forehead.
"Ow," he says without much conviction.
She rolls her eyes and gives him a tiny kiss in the same spot. The scent of something sweet is startling and her mouth comes away a bit sticky.
What now? she wonders.
"Is that melon in your hair?"
