Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were reasons why the 'Sinner's Paradise' was a favorite haunt for the soldiers, especially the Red Guards and the Musketeers, despite the name that would make many a gentleman cringe and turn on their heels to look for a place with a more respectable bearing. Just a stone's throw from the Royal Palace, it was the ideal place for a Musketeer looking to spend his leisurely hours, as he would be close at hand should there be any unprecedented incident at the Palace demanding extra manpower. For every Musketeer knew that he was never truly off duty.

The Red Guards' reasons for frequenting the tavern were simpler and mostly mundane- the wine was cheaper, the cleaner dishes and the fact that it was the closest to their headquarters. A few, however, came specifically looking for trouble either because of boredom or frustration and the King's elite regiment of bodyguards, whose exploits now more often than not overshadowed theirs, always seemed like a convenient target to take out some heat. The Musketeers, never ones to back down from a fight, didn't mind making them learn the hard way as to why they were hailed as the superior regiment.

Tonight, however, few Musketeers could be seen in the tavern. The Red Guards, too, were not up to their usual strength even though they outnumbered the Musketeers.

"I win," the large Musketeer seated at one of the tables at the centre declared, a gleeful grin playing on his lips as he laid his cards on the table.

His opponent, a Red Guard who frankly looked more like a stable boy in uniform than a soldier, if the tangled straw in his hair and the terrible mucky smell of his clothes was anything to go by, laughed as if the big man had cracked a joke. The cheerful expression on his face, however, froze as one glance on the table told him a different tale and he took to staring intently at the cards, as if the greatest puzzle known to mankind was laid out before him. The man abruptly looked up at the Musketeer, his knitted eyebrows and bewildered expression presenting a picture of thorough confusion.

And then, realization dawned on him as the confused lines on his face relaxed, only to be replaced by those of anger.

"You bloody Musketeer!" the man exclaimed, spitting out the words. "You cheated!"

"Better watch out for what you say," the Musketeer, Porthos, warned in a mirthless tone, a menacing glint in his eyes. "Or you will come to regret it."

"It's you who will be regretting it, Musketeer," the Red Guard snapped, suddenly rising up.

"Oi, Gerard! What the 'ell are you shouting for?"

The commotion created by his opponent had managed to garner attention. Porthos turned around to see whom the voice belonged.

Four Red Guards stood directly behind him, their expressions not so friendly towards the Musketeer.

Porthos found himself silently groaning.

The commotion created by his opponent had managed to garner unwanted attention.

In his few days in the regiment, Porthos had hardly failed to miss the passionate animosity between the two groups of soldiers. In fact, it was one of the first things that he had noticed about his comrades- their intense dislike of the men wearing the red uniform.

Of course, the sentiment was returned with equal sincerity by the other party as well.

"This bloody bastard cheated!"

Porthos stood up, his savage look causing a part of Gerard's angry expression to turn into fear instead, as the smaller man looked towards his comrades.

"Well, but that's to be expected," the man who had spoken first and was clearly the leader of this small group, continued in a condescending tone. "He's a King's Musketeer, after all. Them lot has a strict code of honor. Of course he will go about swindling people."

"I won a fair game," the big man declared in his you-would-be-wise-not-to-argue voice. "Tell this to that rat over there."

"Rat?! You're calling me a rat?" the man shrieked, obviously not pleased that the Musketeer had compared him to that rodent. "Well, at least I'm not the one who's cheating people of their money."

"Prove it," the Musketeer bellowed.

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Porthos felt the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against the back of his neck.

"Well, there is only one way to know," their leader mocked from behind and Porthos could well imagine the sneering grin on his face. "We do just as he asks us to. So where shall we start from? The sleeves would be a fair guess perhaps."

Porthos knew he was in trouble now and that he needed to act fast. He kicked back the chair behind him, hoping that it would at least create some distraction. The chair connected painfully with the groin of the man holding him at gunpoint and he gasped in pain. The Musketeer used that moment to turn around and take hold of the man's wrist, twisting it viciously. That earned him a scream as the gun slipped from the Red Guard's fingers and dropped to the floor.

His relief was short lived though, as the others around him recovered from their initial surprise and one of the Guards, a guy almost as large as Porthos, lunged at the Musketeer and they both crashed onto the table behind, with Porthos' back unfortunately taking the worst of the fall.

They landed together on the floor, beside the mess of the upturned table. The Red Guard aimed a punch on Porthos' jaw that was quickly intercepted by the Musketeer's arm. Before he had the chance to reply with a blow of his own, a booted foot made painful contact with his side.

Porthos cursed loudly as he grappled with the opponent on his top. He caught hold of the man's throat, his fingers squeezing the skin underneath. However, a second vicious kick, this time on the arm made him lose his grip.

More kicks began showering mercilessly from different directions. He noticed a particular one aimed at his head and managed to grab the leg just before it hit its target. However, the Red Guard on his top chose that moment to right hook him.

Suddenly, the men who were busy raining kicks on him quickly began disappearing one by one and Porthos heard several thuds and yelps, in addition to the distinct sounds of a pair of feet hurrying its way towards the exit door.

The big Musketeer had no time to wonder about this apparent miracle as his opponent's fist flew in his direction again. This time, though, Porthos was prepared and grabbing hold of the arm, he gave it a sudden vicious twist and heard the satisfying crunch of bone against bone. The man howled in pain as he was greeted by Porthos' large fist that successfully knocked him out.

As Porthos pushed the unconscious weight off his body and sat up, panting heavily from his recent exertion, he noticed three other bodies lying, in various positions and states of consciousness, on the floor.

He was wondering about this sudden reversal of fortunes when a figure kneeled beside him, tapping a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you all right?"

Porthos turned his head to meet a pair of concerned brown orbs, on a young face, staring enquiringly at him. The big Musketeer blinked a few times as he tried to place the very familiar looking face and discovered that stars were still creeping into the periphery of his vision.

"Are you all right?" the young man repeated his question, waving a hand in front of Porthos.

"Um…yeah. I think so," Porthos replied unsure, still trying to assess the condition of his body when he noticed the pauldron on the other man's shoulder.

A Musketeer, then.

Ah, that explains it.

Well actually, that explained a lot of things.

"Can you stand up?"

Porthos responded to the enquiry by getting to his feet. It was obviously painful but not as bad as he had expected. His back though felt particularly sore and it wasn't a hard guess that it would soon be decorated by several lovely colored bruises.

It was then that he noticed the presence of another man, his blue eyes regarding him with a curious expression.

"Can you walk? Or do you need any help?" the first man asked him.

"Nah, I can manage. Just a few bruises. Nothing broken," Porthos replied truthfully. He wasn't the one to usually lie about his injuries. He had witnessed way too many seemingly innocent and thus ignored wounds turn fatal, both when he was in the Court and during his time in the infantry.

Still, the young Musketeer regarded him skeptically for a few moments, before looking satisfied, seeing that the big man indeed was fine for the most part.

"Thank your stars that Aramis was particularly whiny today in dragging me here with him," his companion spoke for the first time. "Or it would instead have been the Captain dragging us all out of our beds, early in the morning, to attend your funeral."

Aramis.

Of course, that's his name!

"Liar!" Aramis accused with a smile. "He is the one who pulled me here so that he could flirt with the pretty barmaid."

"'Pulled you'? So, you're telling me that you are not the least bit interested in the tavern owner's daughter," his friend smirked.

"It doesn't hurt to make a polite acquaintance. Besides, she is engaged."

"Even more reason for you to pursue her."

"Marsac, my friend, it wounds me to know that you hold such a poor opinion of me," Aramis said with a hand on his chest and voice laced with false hurt.

Aramis and Marsac.

Now that Porthos had finally recognized them, he wondered why he hadn't done so earlier. These two were always in the Garrison headlines for some spectacular reason or the other. From what he had heard, Porthos was amazed that Treville hadn't just kicked them out of his regiment already. Aramis had an uncanny charm about him though. That and the fact that he was rumored to have wizard-like abilities when it came to a firearm must be the reason why he had survived the Captain's wrath. Till now.

"So, tell me, mon ami." Aramis returned his attention to Porthos. "Why were you having such a jolly good time with those Red Guards? Pray tell me that you didn't attempt to correct one of their many illusions surrounding our great Cardinal. They fail to appreciate the good intentions behind such actions."

Aramis' tone was jesting but his inquiry produced a wave of uneasiness and an unexpected dilemma in Porthos. These men were his brothers-in-arms and theirs ought to be a bond of trust. Moreover, they had just saved him from a thrashing. Surely, the least they deserved was the truth from him.

But the big man had his doubts.

Would he be judged?

Would they think less of him?

What if they reported to the Captain and he is deemed unfit to be a Musketeer?

"We were having a game of cards. They thought that I was cheating," Porthos replied, sticking as close to the truth as possible. "Then one of them pointed his gun at me and things kind of escalated from there."

Porthos had the creeping suspicion that he didn't sound half as convincing as he had wanted to. At least that's what Marsac's funny expression told him. Aramis, however, readily accepted his answer and didn't look or sound skeptical at all.

"That's a group teeming with spoilsports. Cards or swords, they just don't know how to take defeat with some dignity."

"You're speaking as if you are the most modest person of this world," Marsac scoffed.

"There's no harm in acknowledging one's talents," his friend replied.

"By 'acknowledging', I'm sure that you mean 'bragging'."

"I never brag!"

"Except yesterday when you regaled that girl with anecdotes of your daring escapade from the Spanish bandits," Marsac countered.

"None of it was an exaggeration. It's all true, you know it."

"All but the fact that you ran for ten miles in the forest before losing the bandits. I caught up with you with our horses before you had barely covered two."

"Well, I left out the part where I had to save your pathetic behind when your horse, spooked by a bullet, threw you in the mud when those bandits caught up with us. You never complained about that little alteration," Aramis pointed out.

Marsac simply rolled his eyes.

"So, if we are quite done with our bickering, I suggest that we all head back to the Garrison. Our friend here could do with some rest after the little adventure he's had," Aramis smiled as he looked at Porthos, assessing his condition one last time.

Marsac headed out first, followed by his friend and then Porthos. Once they were out on the streets and Marsac was walking a little ahead, Aramis fell back, smiling as he reached Porthos a couple of steps behind him. He put an arm around Porthos' shoulder, the big man a little surprised and more than a little confused at the gesture.

As they continued with their walk, the young Musketeer said to Porthos, "Do get yourself checked by the physician once we reach the Garrison, mon ami. Bruises can be an annoying nuisance. You can request the Captain not to put you in the training yard tomorrow."

Porthos didn't fancy himself having to explain to the Captain, or anyone for that matter, about the manner of gaining those injuries.

"It's just bruises. I've had much worse," the large Musketeer said. It wasn't untrue.

"Sure enough, you are lucky to have escaped with just some bruises, but it won't do any good if you aggravate your sore skin. Besides," Aramis continued and there was a mischievous glint in the dark eyes, accompanied with a knowing tone to his voice, "it's not like Treville is going to check your sleeves, holding you at gunpoint."

Porthos froze in his tracks. How much did the man know?

He opened his mouth to speak but the younger man beat him to it.

"Next time, please choose a place which is not infested with Red Guards before deciding to show off your card skills. Not every day can a couple of your comrades accidentally come to your rescue, can they?"

It was at that moment that Porthos noticed. There was no judgment in those eyes, nor any trace of condescension in his voice. In fact, the big man could detect just the slightest hint of pleading camouflaged in the cheerfully jesting tone.

Porthos looked Aramis straight in the eyes. The smile on his face roguish but neither was it lacking in its friendliness.

And just like that, Porthos knew it. He knew that this was a man he could trust his back with.

"Come on now, what are you waiting for?" Marsac called out from ahead.

"Marsac, my friend, I am grateful for your fountain of patience. Just give us a moment," Aramis answered. He returned his gaze to Porthos.

"Please." The plea was more pronounced this time. Porthos realized that he strangely didn't have the heart to disappoint this earnest young Musketeer. He quickly put it down to the gratitude that he was still feeling.

He nodded. If it would please the young man, then he was willing to take the risk. He would face Treville.

But perhaps not with the entire truth.

Aramis' smile brightened at his acquiescence and Porthos found himself reflecting the action.

After all, it did warm a part of him to see this man, an almost stranger, fuss so much about his well-being.

"If you are quite done with your flirting, Aramis, may we continue on our way?" Marsac's drawl could be heard.

Aramis chuckled as he and Porthos resumed their walk. "Don't mind him. He's just jealous that while he seeks the attention of all the lovely ladies, it's the lovely ladies who seek my attention," the Musketeer winked.

The large man wasn't too surprised.

"Sadly, even though we have jumped to the flirting part, I still don't know your name. I'm Aramis. The personification of patience walking ahead is Marsac."

"Porthos du Vallon." The words came easier than it should have towards an almost stranger, the big man realized.

"A pleasure to meet you, Porthos."

The feeling was mutual, Porthos thought.

Chapter Text

Remaining static was something that Porthos was never good at. He suspected that it partly had something to do with his upbringing; from where he came, survival depended upon constant movement. Staying still was not an option. It could either get you killed or put you in an even worse situation.

So, whether he was standing attentively during his hours of guard duty at the royal palace, or as in the present case, chained up to the rotting walls of a dark cell stinking of piss and excreta, of not just the human species, Porthos was always itching to do something.

"Will you stop doing that?" Athos, who was mostly silent for the better part of the last hour, exclaimed in an irritated voice. The rattling caused by the large musketeer's spectacularly failing attempts at yanking the chains off the wall was doing no favors to the awful throbbing in his head, courtesy of a moron who didn't have the guts for a frontal attack and hence, conveniently chose to hit the swordsman with the butt of a pistol from behind. He knew that the pain wasn't going to help with the hangover that was sure to come in the morning.

"Athos is right," Aramis said from the opposite corner, where he was chained in a similar fashion. "Believe me; these walls are stronger than they look."

Porthos sighed as he finally allowed his hands to rest on his lap. He had figured that out a few minutes ago. The marksman was right, he should be saving his energy.

"You sound like a regular visitor," the big man quipped, feeling the need of a distraction from their current situation, now that he indeed was still.

"It's merely an observation gathered from keen insight that I am fortunate enough to be blessed with," Aramis replied. "And speaking of observations, kindly remind me to have a look at Athos once we are checked out of our luxurious lodgings." The marksman gave a pointed look towards the former Comte, stating that his not-so-well condition hadn't gone unnoticed, despite his best attempts at hiding it. His piercing brown eyes met Athos' blue gaze and the swordsman didn't know what to feel about it.

Just another of those many things that made Athos unsure of what to feel about them.

He did not understand why an almost stranger like Aramis should bother so much about his well-being.

He did not understand why Aramis continued to harass him with his annoyingly cheerful presence, when Athos had made it clear, and rudely so, more than once, that his presence was both unwelcome and unwanted.

More than anything else, he did not understand why Aramis would argue heatedly with Marsac over whether it was worth wasting his time in following after a pathetic, hopeless drunkard every night instead of hanging out with his best friend, as he had caught the two discussing in the stables when they obviously thought that no one was listening. Marsac obviously felt ignored while Aramis tried to convince his friend that Athos was far more than what he appeared to be, that he was the finest swordsman the regiment had seen so far and that he was convinced that beneath the grumpy, irritable manners and stoic demeanor, there was an honorable man, perhaps scarred by some terrible incident.

"Something's there, Marsac," Aramis insisted. "Sadness. Grief. Guilt. I'm not sure, but it's eating away his heart."

Athos did not hear another word of the conversation. He felt the air inside the stables had suddenly become too oppressive and left as quietly as he came.

And of course, he did not understand which devil had possessed him that he had so spontaneously jumped to action upon seeing that Porthos and Aramis were vastly outnumbered in a brawl that broke out between them and the Red Guards. In hindsight, it was extremely foolish, not to mention that it's also causing him a lot of inconvenience, in the form of a rather loquacious Musketeer, right now.

"Checked out?" Porthos caught on those words, interrupting Athos in his thoughts.

"Oh yes!" Aramis exclaimed, his voice far too cheerful. "Our dear, kind-hearted Captain will see to it that his highly disciplined men are honorably released, once the word of our incarceration reaches his ears. Or considering that tonight's adventure has left in its wake, six injured Red Guards and a tavern owner distraught over the vandalism of a good portion of his property, I'm guessing that he is already en route."

Although Aramis' words were meant as a light-hearted joke, to Porthos it suddenly drew home the fact that his recklessness had dragged all three of them into a considerable mess.

Somehow, he wasn't too thrilled about his release and facing the Captain.

"Porthos, Marsac, Aramis!"

Porthos looked up from where he was, on Aramis' insistence, cleaning his pistols at the bench by the stairs leading up to the Captain's office. Aramis and Marsac too stopped their sparring in the courtyard.

"To my office! Now!"

And with that, the Captain disappeared inside his office.

Porthos glanced at Aramis. He had a bad feeling about this.

Aramis simply smiled. "He looks happy."

"Yeah," Marsac replied sarcastically as he sheathed his rapier. "As cheerful as a lark."

As they stood to attention, Treville glared dangerously at each of them in turn before saying, "Which tavern were you three at last night?"

"The usual one, sir," Aramis replied. Porthos was almost annoyed at how unfazed he sounded in the face of an incoming storm.

The Captain turned his glower towards Porthos making the big Musketeer feel very uncomfortable. "And what was that you told about your injuries yesterday? About how you got them?"

Porthos lowered his gaze. No use in repeating his lie. Treville obviously knew the facts now. He wouldn't have asked if he still believed that his bruises were a result of his spooked horse rearing back and throwing him off the saddle.

"So, what the Cardinal accuses is true, then? Not that I am surprised. Wherever there is trouble, the two of you are compulsorily found associated with it." Treville pointed his finger at Marsac and Aramis, anger coloring every word as he spoke.

"And now you." The livid Captain turned his attention to Porthos. "I took you for a sensible man. But it seems that you are already eager to give these two competition regarding who can embarrass the regiment more. Did the three of you even stop to consider the consequences before picking up a fight with the Cardinal's men?"

"But we weren't the ones to start it, Captain," Aramis protested.

"Really?" Treville asked the question with feigned surprise. "Care to explain then how this whole…incident came about?"

He knew it was a question that would be asked eventually. It was the moment Porthos had been dreading ever since he had stepped inside the Captain's office. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and opened his mouth to form a reply.

But someone beat him to it.

"They threatened Porthos and then attacked him. Marsac and I did what we had to and so we intervened," Aramis informed their Captain.

If there was a mild flash of surprise in Treville's eyes, it disappeared quickly.

"Was the attack unprovoked?" Treville addressed Porthos.

Not exactly, Porthos thought.

"I was having a game of cards with one of them. They thought I was cheating. One of them pointed his gun at me and things escalated from there," the big man replied, basically repeating what he had told Aramis and Marsac the previous night.

"And were you?" the Musketeer Captain asked. "Were you really cheating?"

His throat felt like a desert as he lowered his gaze and replied, "I might have…switched a card or two."

Treville let out a long-suffering sigh, casting his eyes heavenward as if questioning God about a certain deep mystery beyond his understanding.

"I am not going to question you anymore about it," their Captain said it like he dreaded what more he might find out if he did. "But I feel it is my duty to inform you that the Cardinal is not amused with- how did he put it? Ah yes, 'the harassments faced by his respectable and law-abiding men at the hands of an undisciplined and rogue body of soldiers.' If he is set on sending one of you to the gallows just to teach you a lesson, I may not be able to do anything about it."

"He won't dare to touch a King's Musketeer," Aramis declared confidently.

"Go on, stake your life on that," Treville retorted. The young Musketeer looked suitably chastised.

The Captain, looking far more composed now than he did ten minutes ago, began arranging the papers on his table as he addressed them again, "Aramis, you and Porthos will be in the stables for the rest of the day. Marsac, you will be taking the armory." He looked up at his gathered men.

"Any objections?" The glaring sarcasm in the question was not lost on anyone.

"No, sir," the three of them replied in unison.

"Dismissed."

"Great!" Marsac huffed in annoyance as the door closed behind them. "Now I have to spend the whole day in cleaning damn weapons!"

"Well at least you are spared of the mucky job," Aramis said. "See you in the evening, mon ami."

"I'm sorry," Porthos said, feeling genuinely guilty about dragging them into this mess. "The Captain's mad at you two."

"Ah, don't worry," Aramis assured him as he put his arm around the big man's shoulder. "Trust me, even he's pleased that Richelieu's darling soldiers were shown their proper place. Consider this as his twisted sense of congratulating us."

Porthos really did not need a replay of previous week's incidents. At this rate, the stable boys might be well out of their jobs.

Or we might be out of ours, he thought.

"Jacques will be enjoying such a wonderful week off," Aramis sighed. "Although I'm guessing that it won't be all that bad since there are three of us. You know, we can divide the work among ourselves."

"It's my fault that we're in this mess," Porthos declared, his voice guilty and slightly embarrassed. "I'll tell the Captain as much. The two of you don't need to clear up horses' crap for a brawl that I started."

"First of all, technically, you didn't start the fight," Aramis pointed out, matter-of-factly. "It was that self-righteous brat, the types of which the Cardinal's prized regiment has in abundance in their ranks, who threw the first punch. You merely reacted in self-defense, as any other person would, and it can't be helped if that resulted in a couple of cracked heads."

Porthos wondered if Aramis had failed to understand that by "start" he had meant the actual incident that had led to the bar fight. The Red Guard had seen him swapping the cards. Being accused of cheating was nothing new to him. But being caught in the act red-handed?

Damn! I'm losing my touch!

"And secondly," Aramis continued, interrupting his thoughts, "the equine job might be the perfect thing needed to keep Monsieur Doomy Gloomy distracted, if only for a few days, from getting himself drunk to the other side of the grave."

Since Aramis had his head turned towards Porthos, he didn't notice the death glare, capable of incinerating him to ashes if such a thing were indeed possible, sent in his direction by Athos.

"And Monsieur Le Flirteur from gracing the beds of pretty ladies." Porthos simply couldn't help those words from coming out. Their marksman's reputation amongst the opposite gender was common knowledge.

"A small sacrificial gesture that I'm more than willing to display for the greater good."

"You have such a huge heart. Must be why so many of those women manage a place in it."

"I can smell jealousy."

"Sorry, but you're not my type. I prefer my mistresses a bit less ranting."

Aramis burst out laughing, while Athos silently contemplated the grievous sin he had committed for having ended up in a god-forsaken cell with these two fools. It must be a grave one, he realized.

"I can see that you're the flirting type."

"Your teeth won't be intact if you don't shut up right now," Athos informed just as Porthos was about to mouth his own retort. He was sick of their stupid bickering. He was now beginning to suspect that a part of his headache was a result of his ears catching a senseless conversation and his brain trying to process it.

"Athos, just because you find nothing to contribute in an enlightening discussion, doesn't mean that you have a right to prevent others from expressing their opinions and having a debate on a critical issue," Aramis chided in a mock disapproving tone.

Athos had half the mind to shout to that cheeky rascal that he had every right as the Comte de la Fere, if only to have the blessed few seconds of complete silence that the sheer incredulity and unexpectedness of the revelation would generate, even from the marksman. At the end though, he kept his tongue and temptation in check, as his foresight warned him of the choking laughter that would immediately follow and the merciless teasing that he would be a hapless victim of for the rest of his wretched life.

"Well, we weren't exactly having a serious discussion," Porthos offered tentatively.

"Dios mio, of course, we were!" Aramis feigned shock at the larger musketeer's words. "We were debating on the best ways by which we can protect my honor. We are the King's Musketeers! Honor is what we ultimately stand for!"

"And sleeping with other people's wives is part of upholding these high values?"

"As is gambling and cheating at card games."

"You make it sound so easy!" Porthos declared, stubborn and defensive."It's not just 'gambling and cheating' as you call it. You have to fool the other guy into thinking that he has the upper hand, until he's confident enough not to be paying any more attention. It's a trick not everyone can pull off. Took me years of practise to master it, you know that?"

"Aye, and thus, what I do isn't just womanizing. It is the art of charming your way into the hearts and desires of lovely, young ladies. And no matter how much practise you have at your disposal, there can be no match for a natural," Aramis smiled, one of those cheeky smiles that either made you wish to slap him, or smile back at him, depending on your mood.

Athos just huffed.

Which Aramis noticed.

"So, Athos," the marksman turned toward the older man. An ominous sweetness in his voice, added to the mischievous glint of his dark eyes, bode nothing good for the already miserable man. "What do you call your drinking? The technique of testing the limits up to which the human stomach and liver can tolerate a particular amount of an alcohol?"

Not for the first time that night, Athos was truly grateful for the manacles restraining him.

At least Treville would be arriving any time soon, he thought. After that, Athos promised himself he would be maintaining as large a distance as possible from these two morons.