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It’s not as if he’s been asked to keep watch. Not really. They are Musketeers, even if there are fewer of them than there should be; they are the King’s own regiment, the finest soldiers in France, and they do not require a guard to watch their gate. Any criminal idiot enough to come strolling into their garrison deserves whatever happens to him.
Nevertheless, it doesn’t seem right to keep the gate unguarded, so Porthos lingers awhile in the evening light. He considers honing his sword skills against a straw dummy as he awaits the return of the night watch, but after hours of practicing with his new fellows, there is more appeal in sweeping the floor.
With the broom in his hand and half the yard swept, Porthos raises his head at the sound of approaching footsteps. A welcoming shout is ready on his lips, but it dies as a lone man limps into the barracks in the place of his expected comrades.
Porthos squints through the moonlight, but doesn’t recognise him. He cuts a lean figure, with a mess of hair curling atop his head, and a noticeable tremor to his limbs as he moves into the garrison, huddled in a coat that seems too big for him.
Despite his limp, the man does not hesitate as he crosses the threshold and walks slowly through the yard. Porthos is the only musketeer around. Surely he can’t just allow strangers to come and go as they please?
His duty clear to him, he clears his throat pointedly. “Can I help you?” he calls, suspicion lying heavily on his words as the man awkwardly traverses the yard.
“No, thank you, I can manage easily enough!” the man says easily, and carries on walking.
Porthos blinks, bemused, and decides to intercept this comedian. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, allowing his amusement to colour his voice even as he picks up his pace. The man is headed for the stairs leading to Treville’s office, so Porthos hurries ahead of him and pointedly blocks the way.
The man limps closer anyway, apparently undeterred. As he approaches Porthos studies his features, in case the fellow means trouble. He’s handsome, with a charming smile on his lips, but his eyes are fever-bright and keep darting restlessly into the shadows. There is a nasty wound on his forehead, Porthos notes, one that seems to be just beginning to heal; an angry red slash that mars his wan skin, disappearing into the tangled curls atop his head.
Porthos wonders what other wounds are hidden beneath the thick leather coat he’s holding closed around himself; the shaking of his fingers, and the stiff way he holds himself upright, suggest he’s in more than a little pain. “I meant,” he says, collecting his thoughts as the man reaches him, “what are you doing here?”
“Ah. Then I suppose you are not the gallant gentleman I had taken you for,” the man says dryly. “My apologies for misjudging you.”
“Apology accepted,” Porthos drawls, trying not to smile. He’s not sure what the hell is going on here, but something about the way the man speaks amuses him. There is a warmth and humour to his words, as if everything is a joke; it reminds him of the way Flea and Charon would speak to him. He has thought of them nigh-on constantly since he left the Court those few weeks ago, and for the first time since he stole away from the home they shared, his heart is warmed. It makes a welcome change from the heavy press of guilt in his chest. “That’s very decent of you,” he adds dryly, keeping a close watch on this idiot.
“That’s quite all right. Now, if I could just get by,” he says, and tries to slip between Porthos and the railing. Porthos raises his hands to block the way instinctively, and the man’s charming smile dims.
“I asked you a question,” Porthos says evenly, trying to take back the upper hand. “What are you doing here?”
“Being stopped from going about my business, it seems,” the man says affably, but there is a firm set to his jaw beneath his politeness. Porthos sidesteps with him as the man attempts to duck around him, and shoves the broom at the other side to block the gap he’s left when he makes a dart for it. He is only left gasping as he thuds against the handle, an arm wrapping around his middle as he closes his eyes and grits his teeth.
“Your business?” Porthos asks, his voice softening as he wonders what other wounds this man is hiding. Broken ribs, perhaps. “You’re expected, then?”
“Yes,” the man says promptly. Porthos stares at him until he glances away with a cough.
“Are you?” he asks again.
“Well,” the man concedes, with an expressive shrug, “in a manner of speaking. That is to say, I’m not un-expected. Does that satisfy you?” he smirks.
“Not as such, but did you really think it would?” Porthos snorts. The man rolls his eyes.
“Are you always this difficult?” he sighs.
“Are you?” Porthos asks, and the man laughs, a short, sharp bark that seems to startle him, as if he has not laughed in some time.
“I believe most of my acquaintances would demand I say yes, lest I perjure myself,” he says with a wry smile, once he collects himself. “Nevertheless, I’ve answered your question, even if the answer didn’t please you. Now could you let me by, please?”
“Why should I? You’ve not given me a reason to,” Porthos says pointedly. The man rolls his eyes, then straightens his shoulders and flashes him a charming smile.
“Allow me to explain my situation. I need to see Captain Treville,” he says smoothly. “That will be much easier for me if I can get to his office.” Porthos shakes his head.
“He’s busy,” he says honestly. “Not to be disturbed, he said.”
“He says that often, but he rarely gets his wish,” the man snorts, and Porthos cannot help the laugh that escapes from him. The man smiles at him in return, his dark eyes lighting up.
“That might be, but today is his lucky day,” Porthos says. “Today, he gets his wish.”
“Even if I assure you that he will never turn me away?” the man asks.
Porthos shakes his head. “You’re either deaf, or simple,” he remarks, and is pleased when the man laughs again. “I don’t know who you are - ”
“ - my name is Aramis,” he interrupts with a grin. “Aramis, the deaf simpleton. I see you’ve heard of me.”
“Right,” Porthos chuckles. He can sense a kindred spirit here. “Porthos du Vallon.”
“Of the King’s Musketeers, I see,” Aramis murmurs, glancing at Porthos’ pauldron. His hand rises to his forehead, prodding lightly at the cut in his flesh. “A recent recruit, no doubt?”
“Captain Treville has seen fit to swell the ranks recently,” Porthos says. Aramis give him a sharp look.
“Captain Treville has had no choice but to do so,” he says tightly. “He has had no other option!”
The swell of Porthos’ anger is instinctive and immediate. His hands tighten on the broomstick, knuckles whitening, and the wood produces a tortured groan.
Before Porthos can raise his fist, Aramis sees his expression, and manages a soft, disarming ghost of a smile. The tension bleeds from suddenly sagging shoulders. “I do not mean to diminish your position,” he says tiredly, with a chagrined shake of his head. Shaking fingers tighten the coat around himself, and he bows his head, eyes closing. “My apologies, monsieur, I mean no insult. My words were not aimed at you. No doubt you will be a credit to your regiment.”
Aramis seems sincere, so Porthos’ pride settles after a moment, acknowledging the apology with a nod. Aramis also seems suddenly exhausted, as if worn out by their conversation, so Porthos murmurs, “You should go home, monsieur. Come back tomorrow, maybe. The Captain is not to be disturbed. You won’t see him tonight.”
“I see,” Aramis says lightly, his eyes darting to the broom in Porthos’ hands before he offers a smirk. “And his guard dog will stop me, armed only with a broom?”
“Do I look like I need a weapon to fight?” Porthos laughs, pointedly puffing his chest out. Aramis laughs again at that, his eyes now roving over Porthos instead.
“Indeed not. What a specimen you are,” he murmurs, in a way that has Porthos’ eyebrow arching. There’s a glint to Aramis’ eye that seems something like appreciation. “You’re very impressive. I’m certain I couldn’t beat you in hand-to-hand, even if I were at my best.”
“Then you agree that you should go home,” Porthos tries. Aramis gives him a crooked smile.
“Ah, but my friend, I am home,” he says. He clears his throat then, and raises his voice loud enough to rouse the devil himself, his words echoing around the yard as he shouts, “CAPTAIN TREVILLE! A moment of your time, if you please?”
“What the hell are you doing?” Porthos hisses, wide-eyed in astonished disbelief, and winces as the door to Treville’s office creaks open above him. He turns to see the Captain standing in the doorway, a resigned expression on his face.
“I’m doing what I must,” Aramis tells him, and gives his upper arm an apologetic squeeze. “You made a very decent effort to stop me, though. I’m impressed.”
“You’re insane!” Porthos retorts.
“What is this racket about?” Captain Treville asks as he approaches. Porthos gives Aramis a glare, and turns to his commanding officer.
“Sorry, sir, this man ‘ere, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“He rarely does,” Treville says with a wry smile, “especially not when it’s in his best interests.”
Porthos finds himself gently ushered aside as the Captain moves downstairs. He holds a hand out to Aramis and settles it at his shoulders, a familiar gesture that leaves Porthos blinking. “It’s nice to see you out of bed, Aramis. Even if it’s going against every order I gave you,” Treville sighs.
“You know him?” Porthos asks incredulously, and he’s not actually sure which of the men he’s addressing. The Captain gives him a bemused look, but Aramis bursts into laughter at his confusion. The sound is warm, and infectious; Porthos finds himself chuckling along after a moment.
“Yes, I know him,” Treville says, looking thoughtfully between the two of them as they laugh like idiots together. “Porthos du Vallon, this is Aramis d’Herblay. He’s been in the regiment since the King created it.”
“You mean to say you’re a musketeer?” Porthos demands. Aramis stops laughing. His eyes dart away, skipping from shadow to shadow.
“I was a musketeer,” he murmurs. Treville levels a firm look at him.
“You are ,” he says pointedly. “Is that what you’ve abandoned your sickbed to come and talk about? This will be a very short discussion.”
The Captain guides Aramis forward as the other man rolls his eyes. His arm moves from Aramis’ shoulder to his waist as they climb the steps, supporting him without a second thought as he ascends, his steps limping and his hand tight on the railing.
“Porthos, was it?” Aramis asks, looking tiredly back over his shoulder as Treville helps him into the office. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“You too,” Porthos calls in return, a smile on his lips.
Aramis returns it with a wave. Just as the door closes behind him, Aramis adds, “I hope your broom brings great honour to the regiment!”
Porthos chuckles as he returns to his sweeping. He reckons he’s made a friend.