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unwhithered · 3 years

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The Clone Wars/Jedi Musketeers prompt fic

@fuzzytale prompted: “ i love you, every part of you. even the parts you don’t like. ” For the Jedi Musketeers boys, whichever combo you like

And I wrote you a whole ass 2k word fic for this prompt & Porthos, on top of the one for Aramis. AND I made it Clone Wars and sad for good measure.

“Any news?” Commander Edee asks, falling in at Porthos’ side as he descends the stairs. Only the roof of the bombed out tower receives enough signal to get a message out, even a local one. Given that what’s left of the roof consists of three durasteel beams and is in direct eye line of enemy snipers, Porthos has banned anyone but himself from venturing above the tenth floor.

Mouth set in a grim line, Porthos shakes his head. “I couldn’t raise any of the other companies, or the ship. I’m sorry.”

“I see.” Edee tucks his bucket under his arm as he pauses to look out a broken window. Below is a sea of green and gray - local Separatists and droids, hunkered down behind their shield generators and awaiting darkness to press the attack once more. Both men know it will be the last attack. Edee’s eyes are golden in the dying light of the twin suns, the scar on his right cheek a canyon of shadow, an entire landscape painted in the grooves and scratches of his black-and-gold armor. The long campaign has left no time for repairing his usually meticulous paint. Force, he looks far too old and weary for someone who feels so young. Grief for a loss that hasn’t even happened yet hits Porthos like a blow to the chest as Edee glances up at him. “It’s not such a bad place to die, is it?”

“No,” Porthos hums, leaning on the opposite side of the window. Ignoring the grind of bone on bone in his chest is becoming steadily harder, his breaths more labored, and he’s silently grateful for the chance to gather himself before descending to join their remaining troops on the 8th floor. “No, I don’t suppose it is.”

Though Edee’s face remains neutral a tidal wave of emotions builds around him in the Force. Porthos lets his eyes slip shut to better see his Commander as he truly is - helpless red rage, guilt spreading like an oil slick between them, grief like the bite of bitter citrus under his tongue, and love. Despite it all, so much love. “I was just starting to believe our lucky streak might hold long enough for you to show me Coruscant, sir.”

Porthos swallows hard. Born and bred for nothing but a war he has no stake in, and Edee still believes in luck. It strikes him again how good this man is, loyal and kind despite his lack of freedom, his constant losses. Porthos wishes he had followed Aramis in refusing to take part in this pointless, brutal affair. He wishes that he could keep his promise to show the 78th the heart of the Republic their brothers are dying to protect. He wishes...but wishes are for children. A Jedi Knight faces reality. Even the reality of his own death.

“C’mere,” he commands, crooking the fingers that still bend. Edee obeys, lurching forward on his probably-broken foot to stand in Porthos’ shadow, just out of sight of any potential snipers. “Close your eyes.”

Porthos ducks to rest his forehead against Edee’s, ignoring the sour scent of their mingled breath and the distant decay of bodies as he breathes deeply. Powdered duracrete scrapes between their brows and the last rays of sunlight retreat to leave them in steadily deeper purple shadows. He tunes it out, tunes it all out, and sinks into a memory of the Coruscant of his youth.

“It’s never dark on Coruscant,” he murmurs, pushing an image of the view from his room in Master Treville’s quarters into Edee’s mind. It’s harder, with a non Force sensitive, but after a year of living side by side in the trenches there’s enough of a bond between them that he manages. The scent of Aramis’ favorite night blooming flowers weaves into the memory, real enough that Edee inhales and doesn’t even smell death on the air.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes.

“That’s nothing.” One after the others, Porthos shares memories that feel a lifetime away. Coruscant from space, a glittering ball of light and life. The sharp taste of adrenaline and exhaust fumes as he weaves through air traffic on an illegally modified swoop bike, Athos and Aramis darting in and out of sight as they race back to the Temple before curfew. A cool breeze off the waterfall in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, Aramis’ laughter bubbling along with the stream they’re laying beside, grass under their fingers and Athos’ thigh warm beneath his cheek. Home.

Edee stumbles back, gasping, as the whine of engines overhead signals the end of the day. As the first bomb lights the night Porthos spots tear tracks carving muddy lines through the dirt and blood on his face.

“Thank you, sir,” Edee says, the last word warped by the speakers as he slams his helmet on. “Oya!”

“Oya.” Porthos grunts, wiping at his own eyes with the back of a filthy glove. “K’oyacyi, Edee, and may the Force be with you.”

Another explosion shakes the already fragile building, raining duracrete around them. Edee salutes informally and turns to take the stairs three at a time, calling back over his shoulder, “Ib’tuur jatne tuur ash’ad kyr’amur.” It’s a good day for someone else to die.

In the half second Porthos takes to send up a prayer to the Force and one last wave of lovegrieflongingI’msorry to the four points of light in the back of his mind, everything explodes in heat and fire and pain.

--------

Porthos wakes, rather unexpectedly given that his last memory is of being blown up. Bacta and ash make an unsettling combination on his tongue, and he finds his mouth too dry to swallow the taste away. The resulting coughing fit forces him into a curled position on his side, one arm reflexively clutching ribs that aren’t broken anymore.

“Easy,” a familiar voice soothes. “Breathe, Porthos.”

Something cold presses against his lips and Porthos opens his mouth automatically, lets a steady hand push an ice chip between his lips. The sweet relief of cool, clean water dissolving on his tongue draws a groan from him and chases the lingering coughing fit away. More ice chips follow, fed by a hand that lingers on his cheek in between, until Porthos is conscious enough to recognize the presence beside him as Athos.

“That’s enough,” he grunts, batting Athos’ hand away as reality begins to filter through the haze. Sifting through his memories feels like struggling out from under a heavy blanket, a feeling he recognizes as Force-assisted sleep. He must have Athos to thank for that. It takes him three attempts to sit up, the last time finally accepting Athos’ steadying hands on his shoulders. Only then does he crack his eyes open. There are deep bruises under Athos’ eyes and lines on his face that weren’t there when Porthos last saw him, nearly a year ago now. “Happened?”

“We arrived just in time to watch a tower collapse on you,” Athos replies. Usually the least physically affectionate among them, he can’t seem to stop touching Porthos. Reassuring himself the other man is in fact alive and whole by holding his shoulder, cupping his cheek, threading his fingers through the tangled hair behind Porthos’ ear and rubbing his thumb over the thin skin there. “You’ve been in bacta for two weeks.”

“Edee?” he asks, bracing himself for the answer. “My Commander? My men?”

“I’m sorry, my friend. We found another company sheltered elsewhere in the city, nearly intact, but your flagship was destroyed in orbit, and none of the men in your location survived.” Athos digs in the pocket of his robe, offering a scuffed and cracked object to Porthos. A gauntlet. Edee’s gauntlet, a golden 78 in scratched paint above the knuckles, blood between the finger joints.

-------

Athos has to step back quickly to avoid being knocked over when Porthos surges to his feet with a wordless snarl. Machines scream as he pulls wires and tubes from his arms and chest - Athos silences them with a wave of his hand before any of the medics come running into their private room. A growing prickle of unease at the back of his neck, something he has learned not to ignore over the years, tells him this is a moment no one else should see.

“What took you so long?” The very air around them shimmers as Porthos rounds on him, the room suddenly too small for his presence. “Where were the reinforcements we asked for weeks ago? We were abandoned! A hundred fifty thousand men in that invasion and you’re tellin’ me a hundred survived.”

Something behind Athos cracks loudly, and across the room trays of instruments crash to the floor. He stands steady and watches as Porthos prowls the space between them without ever closing it entirely. “Your messages never reached the Council or the Senate. My battalion wasn’t sent to rescue you, Porthos - I came because I felt your distress as we were returning to Coruscant.”

“Never reached the…” Porthos’ expression collapses from rage to grief, an unfamiliar hopelessness in his eyes. He wavered, the energy draining from the room, leaving a cold void in its place. “Force, they just left us out there alone. All my men, and no one even knew.”

Just like the flash of knowledge that tells Athos where a blow or a blaster bolt will land a breath before his attacker even moves, Athos steps forward to catch Porthos just before his knees buckle. He’s lighter than Athos remembers, a larger than life figure made small by the endless grind of war, campaign after grueling campaign that wears them all into shadows of their former selves. He goes easily into the nearest chair, Athos folding himself down to kneel at Porthos’ feet.

“No one left to remember them.”

Catching Porthos’ hands before they can cover his face, Athos threads their fingers together and squeezes. “You will remember them.”

“How long until I’m gone, too, and then there’s really no one?” Porthos barks out a painful laugh. “Kriff, how long until all of us are gone? Our whole Order? Aramis was right. We lost this war the second we started fightin’ it.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Athos snaps. His jaw flexes and he takes several deep breaths, deliberately softening his voice before he speaks again. Kriff it all, he wishes Aramis was here. He’s always been better at this comforting business. “We made a pact. One for all. I’ll hear no talk of you dying without us.”

Porthos snorts and tries to lean back, stopped by Athos’ unrelenting grip on his hands. “That was a lifetime ago, ‘thos. I don’t even know who the boy who made that pact is anymore. ‘M not him anymore, that’s sure. Force,” he looks to the ceiling, blinking hard, “maybe we shoulda listened to all that attachment talk. ‘Mis left us, you and Constance and d’Ar are all across the galaxy, fighting this war I barely even believe in for Senators who never see the sufferin’. Leading an army that’s no better ‘n slaves. I’m out here on my own and I don’t recognize myself anymore.”

“I recognize you,” Athos replies, quiet but fierce as he kisses Porthos’ scarred knuckles, then the palm he opens to cup Athos’ bearded cheek. “This war has changed us all, it’s true, but I recognize you. Porthos du Vallon, Jedi Knight. My friend.” Looking up at Porthos’ disbelieving face, he searches desperately for the right thing to say. Remembers something he and Porthos had told Aramis once, and Aramis and Porthos had told Athos in turn. “Whatever this war has changed in you, I still love you, every part of you. Even the parts you don’t like. Even the parts you don’t recognize anymore. That will have to be enough.

#the musketeers fanfic #the clone wars fanfic #porthos #athos #original clone characters #mandoa #tw character death #tw injury #prompt me?

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