#IM NOT SUREHOW HE NOTICED IT WAS HIM BUT HE FUCKING DID

[butchdykekondraki]

With the Ruin DLC having been released, I saw a LOT of DSAF art on my Twitter feed.

As a result, I played a game of:

"Have I seen this on my Tumblr feed thanks to Ren or is this new to me?"

Which is then followed up with:

"If this is new, how would Ren react, and would this result in her writing an essay about a specific detail she remembered? /pos"

– Verna 🐇

THERES A DSAF FANDOM ON TWITTER?????????

#[ren] #OUT OF EVERYWHERE??????? #THE GAME THAT HAS A MAIN CHARACTER SAY FURFAG??????????????? #i have never been more fucking tempted to get on twitter. #i wont i can resist it . but oh my lord #ALSO #YOURE RIGHT IT DID REMIND ME OF A DETAIL I FORGOT #WHEN DAVE AND JACK REUNITE DAVE SAYS SOMETHING ABOUT NOT BEING ABLE TO SEE VERY WELL #SO IM SOO FUCKING ILL ABOUT THE FACT THAT EVEN THEN HE STILL NEW IT WAS JACK #DO YOU HAVE ANY CLUEHOW FUCKING CRAZY THAT IS #THE GUY IS ALMOST BLIND AND YET HE IMMEDIATELY REALIZES ITS JACK #IM NOT SUREHOW HE NOTICED IT WAS HIM BUT HE FUCKING DID #i am so. ill. about them

[general-du-vallon]

for @rhesascoffee and for the @muskiesrewatch week two: Sleight of Hand and d’Artagnan and the theme was... fuck knows but it’s relevant im sure. prompt was  " put your arm around me - or just fall" if poss could this be a big brother little brother thing with D'art. I also thought with the Dartanian prompt, perhaps that could take place in series 1 canon. Perhaps it is the first time that Porthos and Dartanian have been sent on a mission together without the other two. And Porthos is injured. We didn't see a lot of those to building their relationship together in the first series, so perhaps Dartanian isn't too surehow to relate to Porthos at first, but this shared adventure brings them together.

“What do you mean, ‘take d’Artagnan’?” Porthos says, glowering bad temperdly at Athos. Athos ignores the tone and the expression.

“Aramis is busy, I’m busy,” Athos says.

“It’s just a routine reconnaissance of some rich noble’s household because the king has some paranoia about the poor guy’s loyalty,” Porthos says. “I’m gonna be sitting in the kitchens and chatting to the servants, not getting shot at.”

“He could use the training,” Athos says. Then he glares right back at Porthos. Porthos is sat on the table cleaning his guns and has been running his hands menacingly over their casings, Athos isn’t intimidated he’s known Porthos for years: if he decides to shoot Athos out of irritation it won’t be fatal and it won’t be over this. “You need backup, he’s backup, stop arguing.”

Porthos makes an unimpressed face and raises his hands, widening his eyes, utterly sarcastic. Athos waits. Porthos shrugs crossly and grabs his guns, fingers flicking over them putting them back together, getting to his feet to holster them.

“You like him, anyway, why are you making a fuss?” Athos asks, exasperated with the elaborate display happening in front of him, Porthos checking his weapons and his moustache.

“He’s scared of me,” Porthos grumbles, then glares at the ground between his feet, stilling.

“Bullshit,” Athos says.

“No, he is. Wary at least,” Porthos says, not looking up. Athos frowns, opens his mouth to refute that, decides he can’t and steps into Porthos’s space instead.

“I’m not scared of you,” Athos says. Porthos snorts. “Never was.”

“I was drunk when I met you, our introduction included me falling into the river while trying to fight you,” Porthos says. Athos’s lips twitch, remembering, and Porthos gives a reluctant, surprisingly shy smile. “Alright, you’re not scared.”

“He’s wary of all of us,” Athos says. Then hesitates. “You’re big.”

“Yeah, big. That’s the problem,” Porthos mutters, scratching the back of his neck. Athos puts a hand up to still that movement and drags Porthos into a kiss, absent and ungentle. Porthos laughs. “Fine, fine. I’ll take the puppy.”

“Good,” Athos says, stepping away and brushing his hands on his trousers, job done. “And Porthos? I would like nothing better in all this stinking world than to give you the luxery and privilege of being gentle.”

“What’d I do with that, eh?” Porthos says, bellowing out a laugh, worries cascading off him with a brisk shake. “I’m a soldier, I’d get bored doing anything else.”

“So you would,” Athos says, offering Porthos his arm and heading for the closest Inn. “I know what happens when you get bored, as well. We’re keeping the world safe by keeping you busy.”

“Is d’Artagnan at the inn?” Porthos asks.

“No,” Athos says. “But there is wine at the inn, you’re not leaving until tomorrow.”

“I’ll scrape you up later,” Porthos says, disengaging his arm, ignoring Athos’s pout. “I’m gonna go find him so I can fulfill your stupid orders.”

Athos shrugs and sticks his hands in his pockets, sauntering off to get horribly drunk. Porthos shakes his head and goes the other way, toward the Bonacieuxs’ house.

***

Porthos rides in silence, d’Artagnan discovers. He’d been excited to be called on the previous evening and even more excited when it was Porthos at the door with a mission. He’s spent time with Aramis and Athos, Athos especially after the stuff with Vadim last week Athos hadn’t been so pleased with d’Artagnan’s performance and has been making him come do sword practise. It’s been great. Aramis likes to drag d’Artagnan around Paris, showing him the best places to meet people (women) and drink (and find women) and dragging d’Artagnan on guard duty with him (to point out women). Aramis seems a little single-minded but d’Artagnan’s almost sure it’s partly a show. Aramis just wants to be swept up in some great Romance, to be a dashing hero like in stories. Porthos has been… friendly and open and generous but d’Artagnan’s intimidated by him. He’s so nice, so together and collected and sure of his place in the world. Why would someone like that bother with someone like d’Artagnan? So d’Artagnan had been excited and flattered by last night’s call. Now they’ve been riding for half an hour though and there’s been no conversation.

“Ah, where are we going?” d’Artagnan asks. “Are we going to, um, fight bandits or something?”

“Nope,” Porthos says.

“Oh,” d’Artagnan says, when nothing else is forthcoming. “Ok.”

Porthos grins, he hadn’t meant to keep things from d’Artagnan per se it’s just turned out to be great fun. He starts humming to himself, some bawdy song Aramis has picked up from the taverns recently. d’Artagnan looks a bit gloomy riding over there just behind Porthos. Porthos sings loudly instead, joyous about being out of Paris. He hadn’t realised until he joined the army that there even was an out of Paris. He’d theoretically known the world was big but he hadn’t been able to imagine countryside like this, open spaces, trees, no houses for miles about. Paris is behind them now though and they’re out; they’ve escaped.

“You grew up in a place like this?” Porthos asks, breaking off his singing, curiosity winning out over his amusement at d’Artagnan’s dramatic disatisfaction at the silent riding.

“Not really,” d’Artagnan says, leaning forward in his saddle a little to look around. He shrugs. “It was more farmland where I lived.”

Porthos looks about and shrugs; he can’t tell the difference, it’s all nature-y. d’Artagnan waits to see if that conversation goes anywhere but Porthos is quiet again, contemplative. d’Artagnan sighs, then decides to be courageous. He’s going to be a musketeer, afterall, he better get used to being brave. He girds himself and catches up with Porthos, opens his mouth, then notices that his action has made Porthos’s lips twitch and quiver as if holding back laughter.

“You!” d’Artagnan exclaims, letting go his reins to point in indignation at Porthos. “You are winding me up!”

“Little bit,” Porthos says, grinning broadly, starting to sing again.

“Shut up!” d’Artagnan says, nudging his horse into Porthos, letting go his reins entirely and giving Porthos’s shoulder a push. “You find this funny, you’re making fun of me! All this silent brooding type, you’re nothing of the sort!”

“You’re a good rider,” Porthos says, ignoring the rest, giving d’Artagnan an assessing look. “You learn that on the farm?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan says, sniffing and putting his chin up. Porthos’s lips tremble and then he lets out a great bellow of laughter, full bodied, genuine.

“You’re so dramatic about it all,” Porthos says, pleased. “No wonder you get along so good with Aramis and Athos. Dramatizing everything like you’re in the theatres.”

“Whatever,” d’Artagnan says. “Did you grow up in Paris?”

“Yup,” Porthos says, not giving anything else. The rest is his business.

“Are you going to tell me about the mission?” d’Artagnan asks. “Or am I to guess?”

“If you like,” Porthos says, shrugging. “Not much to it really. We’re just going to do some info gathering for his majesty, he thinks one of the noble families is plotting. They’re not, the cardinal would know if they were, but we’re being indulgent. I’m going to go sit in the kitchen and gossip, you’re going to sit in a damp bit of woodland and wait. It’ll be wild.”

“No wonder you didn’t tell me before we set out, I can hardly say no now can I?” d’Artagnan asks. Then, a bit hopefully, “can I?”

“Nope,” Porthos says. “You want to be a musketeer, this is the job.”

“Are you going to pretend to be someone else?”

“Mm, kind of. I’m a soldier going to visit my family, out from Paris on leave, looking for a place to stay. Familiar story not too many lies, I was a soldier for a long time, see?” Porthos says. “I’d bring you with, only Athos wants you as backup so you stay hid and if I don’t return go fetch him.”

“Wild,” d’Artagnan says. Then he realises he’s just had an entire conversation with Porthos in which he learnt something about Porthos. He perks up. “Is it far?”

“Few more miles,” Porthos says.

“Good. We can talk,” d’Artagnan says, pleased.

“Great,” Porthos says, less enthused, shifting in the saddle. There’s a long silence that stretches between them. Porthos’s lips twitch again, amusement getting the better of him. “Quite the conversationalist you are.”

“Right. If we’re not talking let’s race. I’m bored,” d’Artagnan says, clicking his tongue at his horse.

Porthos watches him galloping off along the road in a cloud of dust, already leaving Porthos behind. Well, they can’t have that. Porthos nudges his heels into Mercredi’s sides and takes off after the boy. He’s quick and he’s got a good horse but Porthos and Mercredi have been together for years, they’ve ridden into battle together; Porthos knows his horse. Mercredi loves galloping, loves a burst of speed that takes her across the land like a streak of lightning. Porthos whoops as they pass d’Artagnan, getting ahead and then drawing down a bit so they can keep up a good pace. Mercredi doesn’t need Porthos’s input; she speeds up whenever d’Artagnan tries to overtake, tosses her head and whinnies joyfully as she eats up the land beneath her. Porthos is just a passenger and he willingly gives himself up to her expertise letting his thoughts turn to where they might find some wine.

There’s a tavern on the road up ahead, Porthos reins Mercredi in gently as they approach, bending to talk to her. She’s cross about being slowed when she’s in her stride and tosses and kicks a bit but Porthos is used to that as well, his belligerent mount, he chose her for that spirit of rebellion. He lets her kick and snort and reins in far enough ahead that they comes to a giddy dusty stop just as the sign comes level with them. d’Artagnan dashes by shouting his victory so Porthos sits in the saddle, removing his hat, waiting for the boy to realise they’ve stopped and come back. He does, at a desultory trot. Both horses and d’Artagnan are giving Porthos grouchy looks. Porthos laughs and pulls the rein so Mercredi leads the way into the inn yard, jumping out of the saddle and passing her over to the boy waiting. He gets his bag off the saddle and his hat and bends to scratch his calf and get out his gold, tossing a coin to the boy.

“C’mon d’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony, let me show you countryside wine,” Porthos says, jerking his head toward the doorway where the innkeeper is leaning, arms across his chest.

It may just be that Porthos has visited this house before. Porthos tries a broad, charming smile. The inn keeper’s mouth firms. Oh yeah, he’s been here before, and he’s been here with Athos. Porthos hands over a few coins for good-will and is grudgingly allowed inside. d’Artagnan follows eagerly on his heels and the innkeeper is definitely pleased that d’Artagnan isn’t Athos; he leaves his post by the door and goes to get wine. Porthos sits near a window where he can watch the yard and the door and rests his hat and gun on the table.

“Don’t sit with your back to the door, boy,” he snaps as d'Artagnan sits. d’Artagnan umps up as if his arse has been burnt. Porthos kicks out a stool where d’Artagnan’s back will be to the left of the window and d’Artagnan sits warily. Porthos laughs and gives his shoulder an encouraging thwack with his hat.

“Can I get a hat like that?” d’Artagnan asks, forgetting his wariness and scolding in his enthusiasm. Porthos likes that.

“Nah, gotta have been a musketeer a while before they let you have one of these,” Porthos invents, making it up as he goes. “Aramis only got his a year or so ago, you gotta be given it by, um,” Porthos frowns trying to think. “By a captain, yeah?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I mean you could just walk into a shop and buy one,” Porthos says, deciding to up the stakes and make sure this is a story that sticks. “But you would be looked at sideways for that and Treville mightn’t like it. You want to be a musketeer you gotta go by the rules.”

“I’ll earn it,” d’Artagnan says, lifting his chin and glaring at Porthos, setting his own pistol on the table and copying the way Porthos is sitting.

Porthos hadn’t even realised, until d’Artagnan copies him, that he’s artfully sprawled in his chair, projecting calm relaxation. He feel the ready thrill along his body, muscles flexing, prepared always for a fight. He sees it mirrored in d’Artagnan; he shifts a bit, planting his feet on the floor and resting a hand on his knee, messes with his moustache, makes a show of checking his gun over. d’Artagnan copies him. Porthos is grinning widely widely by the time the innkeeper returns with two bottles of wine and two glasses. Porthos reaches but the bottle is pulled back an inch. Porthos makes a face, but he came with Athos last time so the innkeeper may have a point; Porthos pays up front and tips generously.

“Thank you sir,” the innkeeper says. “You have a bill you owe.”

“Oh come on,” Porthos says, losing patience, catching the bottle out of the innkeeper’s hand and drinking directly from it, letting his attention pass on elsewhere.

So Athos got drunk and locked himself in the cellar and ate all the sausage and bread down there. That’s hardly Porthos’s fault, is it? This is Athos’s fault, Athos sent him this way on purpose hoping Porthos would pay up for peace and goodwill. He clearly doesn’t know Porthos, then. Porthos snatches the second bottle and growls until the innkeeper hurries away with the glasses. Porthos passes the bottle he’s drunk a lot of over to d’Artagnan.

“Hey!” d’Artagnan says.

“Drink up we’ll have company soon,” Porthos says, scanning the room, marking the innkeeper’s men as they come and seat themselves around the place. This is gonna be a good fight. Porthos shifts so he can access his sword and smiles widely, downing more of the wine.

They get ten minutes before the first man gets to his feet. Porthos waits, drinking, nudging d’Artagnan to watching behind Porthos. The man comes on, they wait. They wait. Porthos sticks out his leg and the man trips and they’re up and off. Porthos bellows and gets back to back with d’Artagnan, fighting first with his fists then with his blade, leaping up onto the tables and dancing across them for the fun of it, crying out and making himself big, a good moving target. d’Artagnan calls from the doorway, suggesting they get moving.

“Just getting my hat!” Porthos calls back, jumping from one table to the next, laughing as it collapses under him, scooping his hat up on the tip of his sword and flicking it up. It lands on his head, askew, and he runs for the door before touching the brim, spinning his pistol around his thumb and holstering it. “Thanks for your hospitality, I’m sure my friend will be back at some point to pay what he owes. And for the damage.”

He saunters to the stables and mounts Mercredi in the stall kicking her up to rear, his bag across in front of him. They canter out, clattering across the yard and out onto the road. There’s a shot but the innkeeper is way too late finding his piece, they’re gone. d’Artagnan’s breathless and excited behind him and Porthos, feeling a bit like showing off, draws in when they’re a good way away, opening his cloak to show d’Artagnan the bottle he’s still got. d’Artagnan laughs, looking across at Porthos with very pleasing adoration. Porthos takes a long swig before passing it across for the boy to finish.

“Why did they want to fight us?” d’Artagnan says, when he’s had the dregs and thrown the bottle into the ditch, wiping his mouth, eyes still bright with excitement.

“Ah, that’ll be Athos’s fault,” Porthos says, shrugging, nudging Mercredi into a walk. “Athos drunk is a tad paranoid. Also hungry.”

“You could tell me that story if you wanted to,” d’Artagnan says.

“Yep,” Porthos agrees, and doesn’t.

“Fine. You trusted me to have your back, there,” d’Artganan says, softly, head down, hair hiding his face.

Porthos is surprised. He hadn’t, not really, they were all farm hands, boys; Porthos is a soldier. The inn’s not near any problem spots with bandits and it’s close enough to Paris for soldiers to ride out if there are any real dangers, there hadn’t been much of a fight. d’Artagnan seems to be genuinely grateful, or pleased, or something, though, and he noticed Porthos putting him against his back. It had been the safest place for him. But… maybe there had been a little bit of trust.

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Course.”

They ride quietly after that, Porthos dropping back when the road straightens to a single line winding through the woodlands and scrub and out into the farmed land, letting d’Artagnan take the lead, watching the boy. He’s an odd boy, Porthos decides, watching him ride quite content, whistling to himself, clucking and talking softly to his horse. He’s an excellent rider too, Porthos had been right about that. A real affinity between him and that horse even if they are still getting to know each other. Even Mercredi won’t be able to beat them much longer if they stay together: Porthos is no horseman, not really. d’Artagnan for his part has given up on squeezing conversation out of Porthos and given himself over the enjoyment of the ride, getting to know Lundi, the mare that captain Treville is letting him ride. The land lowers and becomes more worked and familiar, though this is not Gascony by any stretch, the weather’s all wrong for one thing. Having Porthos quiet at his back is actually reassuring, even if he is stubbornly silent a lot of the time, only calling forward if he wants d’Artagnan to do something. d’Artagnan did enjoy watching him fight, too.

d’Artagnan laughs thinking of it; imagine Porthos calling him dramatic and then putting on that show, and that bit at the end with the wine bottle in his cloak. d’Artagnan can’t help but admire that. Porthos had moved like he was conducting an orchestra or something and d’Artagnan hasn’t missed how he got pushed quickly to the doorway where he could easily escape if things went wrong, or how Porthos drew off most of the fight to keep d’Artagnan out of it. He had been surprised how quick Porthos moved when the fight started, how he went sharply from relaxed to up and whirling about. In hindsight he’d always been ready to fight. That thing about the door hadn’t been a game, he’d honestly been telling d’Artagnan something. d’Artagnan files is away carefully; don’t sit with your back to the door, defensible position, even when safe. Safe is relative.

“Hey, let’s settle to a walk, boy,” Porthos calls softly.

“Boy,” d’Artagnan mutters, pulling back to Porthos can see his glare. “I’m nineteen, hardly a child.”

“Oh well then, that’s me told. Nineteen, you’re an old man already,” Porthos says, lips twitching at corners, laugh lines wrinkling around his eyes. He puts a finger to his lips when d’Artagnan opens his mouth to hotly respond. “Shh, quiet down old man, we’re coming up on the Duke of Épernon’s lands we need to change. His lordship is not too fond of musketeers, us being loyal to the king and all.”

“Huh?”

“He helped Marie de Medici,” Porthos says, guiding Mercredi off the road into some trees and swinging out of the saddle, opening his bags. He has a soldier’s uniform for himself and a less conspicuous clothes for d’Artagnan. They get changed as they talk. “He’s loyal enough to Louis now but Louis makes us come and get the gossip every now and then, just in case he’s up to something.”

“Oh. Why isn’t he beheaded or something? Don’t you get beheaded if you’re a traitor?”

“Nah, not this kind of nobel, he’s old and boring,” Porthos says, then laughs, tugging his jacket together and tying it up the front. “Nah, I dunno. Politics. He’s good at politics, always involved in some intrigue or other. The Cardinal’s in a better position to spy on him really, he’s always up at court and around that way. We’re just here to assuage the king.”

“What if we find something,” d’Artagnan asks, looking at the trousers he’s supposed to be putting on in distaste. Porthos draws his knife and cuts d’Artagnan’s belt to get him moving. “Hey!”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Porthos says, shrugging.

“I liked that one,” d’Artagnan says, eyes all wide with shock.

Porthos shrugs again and puts his belt with his weapons back on, waiting pointedly until d’Artagnan gets into his trousers. He shoves their clothes into his saddlebag and secures it to his saddle again, mounting Mercredi and waiting impatiently for d’Artagnan to get himself onto Lundi. He’s been working with Athos and Aramis too often, they always know what he wants from them, none of this confusion and wide-eyed hurt. It was just a belt. Porthos sets off again, putting a bit of distance between himself and the boy.

d’Artagnan follows Porthos’s back, Porthos’s stiff shoulders and irritable countenance. He’s not sure what he’s done to deserve Porthos’s ire and decides he has in fact done nothing. It was Porthos who cut his belt off. Suddenly he’d had a knife pointing at d’Artagnan, a sharp knife with an angry looking blade, held easily. d’Artagnan had been sharply struck with how little time he’d known Porthos, how little he knew the man. And then it was just his belt and he’d been angry with himself, frustrated with Porthos. Afraid. He’s still a little afraid, Porthos moves with such certainty and d’Artagnan feels like he’s struggling to keep up. Also like Porthos isn’t giving him much chance. He’s not telling d’Artagnan what he wants he’s expecting d’Artagnan to just know. Porthos whistles between his teeth from up ahead, pulling his horse back a bit. d’Artagnan remembers Porthos getting Aramis’s attention that way a few times so he draws level with Porthos.

“Sorry about your belt,” Porthos says, softly, grimacing. “Didn’t think it’d matter.”

“It doesn’t,” d’Artgnan says. “You drew a knife on me all of a sudden, I barely know you.”

Porthos blinks, head jerking so he’s not looking at d’Artagnan, and Mercredi pulls forward sharply catching some agitation off her master. d’Artagnan might not be able to read Porthos for shit but he can read the bloody horse. That makes him laugh which just makes Porthos stiffen more and more until Mercredi whinnies and dances, trying to take off like she wants to escape. Clearly that was the wrong thing to say.

“You should ride further back,” Porthos says. “I’ll whistle when you need to leave the road, I’ll go alone from there.”

“It’s getting dark, shouldn’t you wait for morning?” d’Artagnan asks.

“No. Why’d a soldier need food and rest at the start of a day, boy?” Porthos snaps, pulling ahead out of hearing.

d’Artagnan rides alone, dejected, listening out for Porthos’s whistle. It comes once they’re almost past a well-tended copse of trees and d’Artagnan clucks at Lundi to get them off the path. Porthos whistles again so d’Artagnan stops, turning back, hopeful. Porthos just throws a bag at his head. d’Artagnan catches it and watches Porthos ride off, on down the road. He opens the bag and finds food. He smiles, confused and a bit worried but glad to have something to eat, and heads into the trees. He finds a less well-tended area of trees and ties Lundi up, finds her water, and sets himself up for a long wait.

***

d’Artagnan wakes up in the dark and at first he thinks it’s the rain that’s woken him- beating on the cloak that’s spread over him and coming in at him where he’s wrapped up in blankets. Then he wakes up a bit more and Lundi’s nudging him, and then he wakes up enough to recognise that it’s not Lundi it’s Mercredi and it’s Mercredi without Porthos and he’s on his feet and in her saddle without a thought, forgetting his boots. She’s not got her saddle so that’s bad. d’Artagnan tells her to take him to Porthos and hopes against hope that’s where they’re going. She’s a good mount, quick paced but agile. He hasn’t got the kind of rapport he’s seen between her and Porthos but she trusts him well enough even if her master isn’t entirely certain yet. She takes him back to the road and then in a gallop down it to a set of gates, thrown open and unguarded. Mercredi is through before that really registers with d’Artagnan so that’s lucky. They break away from the path and then Mercredi stops.

“What is it?” d’Artagnan whispers, leaning forward to rub her flank, scritch at her neck, sooth her. She’s heaving with exertion. “Where’s Porthos, huh girl?”

The answer to that question comes not from the horse but from a figure coming out of the bushes cursing harshly, bearing a saddle and bags, the feather in his hat limp with wet. d’Artagnan grimaces and slides off Mercredi’s back, noticing his stockinged feet for the first time as he stands in a puddle.

“That bloody fucking horse,” Porthos says, catching her head and passing d’Artagnan the saddle and bags, getting the bit between her teeth. d’Artagnan saddles her. “What’d you go and bolt for? You’ve heard gunshots before you stupid animal.”

“Gunshots?” d’Artagnan says. “She came and got me.”

“Fine,” Porthos snaps. “Get up there, then. What are you waiting for, more shooting? Stupid boy.”

d’Artagnan opens his mouth to argue then just mounts. Porthos takes Mercredi’s reins and leads her off the road into the undergrowth.

“We could both ride, she can bear us as far as Lundi,” d’Artagnan suggests, tentative.

“Of course she can’t not after her headlong rush to fetch you,” Porthos snaps. “Anyway I’m not trying to mount the bloody thing.”

“Why not?”

“Where on earth are your boots?” Porthos says.

“I didn’t put them on,” d’Artagnan says.

“That’ll teach you to take them off to sleep,” Porthos says, sounding viciously pleased about that.

Up until now Porthos has seemed mostly kind and gentle but this trip seems to be proving him a bit of a bastard. d’Artagnan perches on Mercredi’s back feeling stupid the rest of the way to his makeshift camp. Then, though, Porthos makes a cut off sound and drops to his knees. d’Artagnan gets down from the horse and ties her with Lundi before dragging Porthos under the semi shelter of his cloak.

“Tell me what happened,” d’Artagnan says, trying to insert some of the steel he’s heard his father use into his voice. His father had been all steel and hard edges, sometimes. A soldier, a farmer on hard land, a good man. d’Artagnan bites his lip to keep himself from saying more.

“Fucker shot me,” Porthos says, raising his head wearily. “In my side. Bullet’s not in anymore it’s gone all the way through don’t worry, I’ll live.”

“Who shot you?” d’Artagnan asks, shocked and scared despite the grouchy assurance. “The duke of Épernon?!”

“Of course not,” Porthos says, huffing out a laugh and actually looking at d’Artagnan through the wet darkness. “Sorry I called you stupid before, I should’ve saved that one up for now.”

“Wow, what an apology,” d’Artagnan says. “Which side?”

“It’s fine,” Porthos says, tucking his elbows in defensively.

d’Artagnan jabs each arm in turn and decides the left, levering Porthos’s elbow away and yanking the jacket undone. He can’t see much but he can see enough to know that Porthos hasn’t bound it or stopped the bleeding or anything sensible. d’Artagnan gets out of the ugly shirt Porthos brought for him and joyfully uses it to staunch the bleeding and then as bandages.

“So,” he says, when he’s sure Porthos isn’t going to bleed to death. “Who shot you? Does this mean they’re traitors?”

“Sadly not, I never got that far. Stop fussing!” Porthos exclaims, shoving d’Artagnan’s hands away. He pulls his jacket shut again with a shiver. d’Artagnan slaps his hands away and tugs the jacket open all the way and then off, replacing it with the driest blanket and sitting close. “Fine. That is a little warmer.”

“Who shot you?” d’Artagnan asks.

“You’re stubborn, you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I ran into a poacher,” Porthos says. “I was getting Mercredi settled and I heard a noise so I went to look. It was stupid.”

“Ah,” d’Artagnan says.

“Do shut up,” Porthos says, between his teeth, tipping forward against his knees, pressing his forehead there and shivering as if it’s his new occupation. d’Artagnan hesitates then puts another blanket over him. “That’s not going to help everything’s wet.”

“Why didn’t you go into the house?”

“I’m not exactly…” Porthos stops talking and sighs, giving in to this stupid happening. “I can’t. They’re not gonna wonder where I am I only got as far as the stable and no one was about, I couldn’t just show up at the kitchen door bleeding. I’m known there but I’m known as a lazy, indolent soldier who’s a coward. They like me for my charm. I’m not exactly good at being injured.”

“That I had noticed,” d’Artagnan says, dryly, and Porthos supposes there may have been one or two indications of that this evening. “Why’d it take you so long to get there, anyway?”

“I’ve got to need to stay, there’s no point in turning up when there’s enough light left to get to an inn. Soon as it started raining I went to the stables,” Porthos says. “Does it matter?”

“Not really,” d’Artagnan says. “You’re right.”

“About what?”

“It’s too wet. Let go of your knees and let me undress you.”

“Trying to get me into bed?” Porthos says, automatically.

d’Artagnan just snorts, which is not flattering. He tugs and yanks and isn’t as gentle as Porthos would have expected, getting Porthos naked to the waist but not bothering with his trousers. He does take Porthos’s boots, much to Porthos’s chagrin, and he ignores Porthos’s crossness over that. Eventually though Porthos is in his usual clothes, dry stockings, d’Artganan’s mostly dry boots (‘and that is why I don’t sleep in my boots, see how nice and dry they are? See that?’), in his jacket, a blanket around him, d’Artagnan pressed close. He has to admit that it’s warmer and feels a lot better than trudging through the rain.

“See? I’m not totally useless,” d’Artagnan says.

“Who called you useless?” Porthos grumbles.

“Stupid, then. And you.”

“I only said stupid, I never said useless,” Porthos says, then thinks for a bit and gives in a bit more, scrunching up his face and speaking with great dignity. “The rest was only implied.”

d’Artagnan laughs at that so Porthos does, too, trailing off tiredly and accidentally leaning into d’Artagnan. He sits up again and takes a deep breath.

“I don’t mind,” d’Artagnan says. “You leaning, not the rest of it. I mind being called stupid and useless. Alright alright! Implied to be useless. I mind you implying.”

“You’re afraid of me,” Porthos blurts out, hunching in on himself, wrapping his arms around himself, sitting up and away from d’Artagnan. He rests his forehead on his knees and hides just how much that hurts.

“Shouldn’t I be?” d’Artagnan says. “I’m afraid of Athos and Aramis too, are you not dangerous?”

“Bullshit,” Porthos says. “You’re scared of me.” Then, softer, “When’d I ever give you reason for that?”

d’Artagnan doesn’t answer right away, thinking about it, thinking back. He considers pointing out that Porthos had tried to kill him when they met and hadn’t known they weren’t going to until Athos told Constance but he’s pretty sure that Aramis and Porthos had been joking about that. He’s seen Porthos fight; Porthos would have had him on the ground in seconds if he’d wanted to. Since then Porthos hasn’t been anything except kind and supportive, it was him who put d’Artagnan’s name forward to do the thing with Vadim and it had been Porthos who’d taken him aside before the duel and told him quietly and seriously how to get himself out of a tight spot, what to do if he was taken down, how to get out of handcuffs. He’d looked out for d’Artagnan plenty. He’d even given d’Artagnan trust.

“You haven’t,” d’Artagnan says, feeling a flush of shame. “I don’t think I’m actually afraid of you.”

“We ain’t close,” Porthos says, voice raspy and harsh. He’s trying not to cry because he’s wet and cold and he hurts and he’s far from home with a man he’s not sure of right now. “You’re close to Athos and Aramis.”

“You mind that?” d’Artagnan asks, curious. Then he goes on quickly before Porthos can answer that. “Never mind, sorry, shouldn’t have asked. How’s your side?”

“Hurts. Fine. I’m not going to die so that’s an up side,” Porthos says.

“I could probably put some stitches in,” d’Artagnan says. “I’ve done it for the farm animals and for my father once, on his arm. He wasn’t impressed with the result but he didn’t bleed to death.”

d’Artagnan’s whole inside lurches and he goes suddenly hot all over while at the same time shivering violently, he thinks he’s going to be sick as he realises that actually yes his father had on a night like this in a puddle, he’d soaked d’Artagnan in blood bleeding to death.

“Hey,” Porthos says, close, body against d’Artagnan again, arm across d’Artagnan’s shoulders and hand in his hair, cradling his head. “Back with me, old man. I’m not letting you stitch me you’ve done good though.”

“I could stitch,” d’Artagnan says, voice coming out breathy.

“Bet you could,” Porthos says, lightly. “I wouldn’t like it much though, might punch you or headbutt you or scream or something. Aramis usually knocks me out. I’m not good at getting stitched up.”

“Oh.”

“Always says he doesn’t but I swear to his God that he punches me out,” Porthos mutters, scrubbing at d’Artagnan’s head in odd, rough affection.

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan whispers, turning his head and swallowing hard, rubbing away the rain on his cheeks. Porthos politely ignores that. For all of ten seconds.

“You’re allowed to cry for your Dad,” Porthos says. “Or for anything really. Aramis laughs at me when I cry but you know. Fuck him, really. Even God cries, I mean look at this rain. Sobbing away over some woman up there in heaven, probably.”

“I think that might be blasphemy,” d’Artagnan says, not sure one way or another.

“Maybe,” Porthos says, shrugging one shoulder. “Are you better now?”

“Yeah. He did… you know.”

“Yes, he did. In your arms, with you, loved and cared for. I’ve seen a lot of death and believe me right now, don’t you doubt for one second that you did good by your father and gave him comfort and warmth and made his passing easy. You hear me? Don’t you doubt it. I’ve seen men… your father went peaceful, d’Artagnan, you did really good.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“So. Now we’ve had a heart to heart, and I’ve bled on you, you’ve patched me up, ridden my horse. You think maybe you could get over being scared?”

“I’m not scared of you,” d’Artagnan says, and it’s the truth now. “Wasn’t certain when you pulled that vicious knife on me earlier.”

“Vicious-” Porthos breaks off to laugh, a cracked croaking one that sounds genuine enough. “That was a kitchen knife, old man, I took it from Serge earlier for cutting up an apple. Athos has my knife, he keeps it for good luck when he’s off fighting without me.”

“He does?”

“Yeah. He’s sentimental, believe it or not. Oh thank fuck for that the rain’s letting up,” Porthos says.

He’s right, it’s slowing and in five minutes it’s stopped. Porthos relaxes against d’Artagnan, mutters something about being on guard, then starts snoring. d’Artagnan gazes down at him as the night passes, utterly bewildered by the strange intricacies of him. Asleep just like that, trusting in d’Artagnan now, somehow. Well, d’Artagnan gave his trust, didn’t he? He’s not afraid of Porthos. He’s not entirely sure he ever was. In awe, wary, a little uncertain perhaps, but not afraid. He’s too stubborn to be scared. He’s not sure he’s going to get along with being called ‘old man’ but it’s a sight better than ‘boy’. He watches over Porthos until the sun starts coming up, then he wakes Porthos and they curse and bellow and yell at each other until Porthos is mounted on Mercredi.

***

Porthos is tired by the time they reach Paris and by the time they make their way to the garrison his side hurts, he’s bleeding again, he’s hungry. He’s knackered. He keeps on listing complaints in his head as Mercredi comes to a placid stop. She’s cross with he, he can tell, she hasn’t got dancing at all today, not once has she skipped about joyfully. Just plodded, doing as she’s told in passive aggressive obedience. There’s a stable boy holding her head right now. Porthos squints at him and recognises him.

“Jacques. Give her plenty of apples, eh? She’s angry with me maybe apples will sweeten her up,” Porthos says.

“Yes sir,” Jacques says, pointedly not asking Porthos to get off so he can see to Mercredi.

“Fair enough, I’m getting gone,” Porthos says.

“Here, let me-” d’Artagnan says, coming over as Porthos slides sideways and down, hitting the cobbles and leaning into Mercredi who stands wonderfully still for him. “Ok. Put your arm around m- or just-”

Porthos topples against d’Artagnan, leaning into him.

“Or just fall on me,” d’Artagnan says. “That too.”

“He does that,” Aramis says.

“Hello,” Porthos mutters, face smushed against d’Artagnan’s neck.

“What happened?” Athos asks, from somewhere else.

“He got shot by a poacher, we didn’t fulfill the mission,” d’Artagnan says.

“Never mind,”  Athos says. “The king’s forgotten about it anyway, he’s decided to give his attention to Ninon Larroque, she’s in great favour. He likes ‘listening to her pretty nonsense’.”

“What’ve you done to yourself now, hmm?” Aramis asks, close, warm. His hands are familiar fiddling with Porthos’s clothes. Porthos shoves him away.

“d’Artagnan did it, d’Artagnan did it,” Porthos says. “He saw to me. Come on, d’Artagnan. I’ll show you my bed, you can undress me again if you like.”

“It’s not- that’s not- I wasn’t,” d’Artagnan stutters.

Porthos straightens himself out and takes d’Artagnan’s elbow. He knows Athos and Aramis will follow which is probably a good thing, he probably needs stitches. He plans on passing out before that happens though and he wants to do it before Aramis manages to punch him. He mutters at d’Artagnan who obediently speeds up, supporting Porthos’s weight while he’s stiff from riding. Porthos’s rooms are nice and his bed is soft and d’Artagnan has his back, so Porthos falls blissfully asleep.

#General Porthos du Vallon #My fic #prompts #porthos and d'Artagnan #MuskiesReWatch