Fighting at night was always more problematic than fighting in daylight; it was all too easy to lose track of oneself or, worse, one's enemies. Ambushes at night were even worse because it was nearly impossible to know how many people were attacking. So they were lucky, really, to come out of the latest nighttime skirmish with only a gash opened up on Porthos' leg, but it was still an injury that needed to be seen to.

Aramis was the one who suggested they stop at a small inn. Porthos seemed more embarrassed than anything and protested loudly, but Athos agreed with Aramis so the tall Musketeer didn't really have much of a say in the matter. Athos looped an arm around Porthos' shoulder and helped him limp into the poorly-lit room as Aramis walked ahead of them, striding over to the innkeeper with his usual confidence.

"I am sorry to inconvenience you at such an ungodly hour, but our comrade is wounded and we require somewhere to tend him," he said. The innkeeper squinted blearily at Aramis, gaze shifting to take in Athos and Porthos stumbling into the room. He sighed.

"You can use a table in the back room there," he said. Aramis smiled.

"Thank you," he said.

"You'll be paying extra for the bloodstains," the man added. Aramis' smile didn't waver but took on a steely undertone.

"Of course," he said. "And you'll be providing hot water and candles for us to use. How considerate of you."

The innkeeper scowled and nodded.

"This way, then," he said, and led them briskly toward a dimly lit backroom. "Try not to dirty it up too badly."

"I shall do my best," Aramis said, offering an exaggerated bow. The innkeeper sighed heavily and wandered off again, muttering under his breath. Aramis turned to Porthos and grinned broadly, clapping his hands together. "Now then," he said. "We can begin."

Porthos grimaced. "It's just a scratch Aramis, no need to insist-"

"This is not just a scratch, Porthos, now sit down and let me stitch it."

Porthos sat heavily, still clutching protectively at his bleeding leg.

"Porthos. In order for Aramis to stitch it, he must be able to see it," Athos said evenly, one eyebrow raised.

Porthos scowled, face pale but determined. "I don't care for the idea of him sewing me up," he said.

Aramis looked offended.

"Are you implying that you think me incapable of stitching your wound?" he asked, frowning at the accusation.

"Never said that," Porthos pouted. "Just don't like the stitching is all." He looked appraisingly at Aramis and shrugged. "And to be honest, perhaps I am somewhat…doubtful of your abilities," he finished.

"Ah, Porthos, I am wounded," Aramis sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to his heart. "But you have yet to see my skills, so I will forgive you. And now that that is settled, let's see to your leg, shall we?"

Porthos sighed and allowed Athos and Aramis to pull him onto the table the innkeeper had indicated. He swallowed nervously as the innkeeper came back in with a pot of hot water.

"Thank you," Aramis said, accepting the water with an easy smile.

"And might I see your selection of wine?" Athos asked as he followed the man out of the room.

"No unsavory thoughts now," Aramis whispered with a lecherous grin as he tore Porthos' pant leg open to expose the long wound on his thigh.

Porthos grit his teeth and groaned, bringing a hand up to wipe at his forehead.

"Drink," Athos said, reentering the room and pressing a glass of wine to Porthos' hand.

"Gladly," Porthos answered, throwing back the drink. He hissed as Aramis pressed gingerly around the wound.

"Aramis! It hurts enough without you poking about like-"

"It could have been worse," Aramis cut him off. "But it's bad enough. I'll have to clean it. Athos?"

Porthos squirmed as Athos' hands rested on his shoulders, pinning him to the table. Aramis uncorked a bottle and, casting an apologetic look towards Porthos, dumped its contents on his wound. Porthos let out a roar and came off the table, despite Athos' grip.

"Porthos!"

"Athos, you've got to-"

And right about that time, a fist slammed into the side of Porthos' head and everything went black.

xxxx

"Well. Coming 'round, are you?"

Porthos grunted and cracked his eyes open. He had been moved from the table and was now lying in a rather hard bed. Aramis was sitting in a chair next to it with his feet propped up next to Porthos' legs, his arms behind his head.

"Happened?" Porthos managed to ask.

"You, my friend, are an unruly patient."

Porthos brought a hand up to his head and groaned.

"So you hit me?"

"You're much more agreeable when unconscious," Athos said, coming into the room with a full bottle of wine and three glasses.

"Here," he said, handing a glass to each of them and liberally pouring the alcohol. "I think we've earned a drink."

Aramis accepted his glass with a smile. "When you can see straight again, you must look at my handiwork. Neatest stitches you'll ever have." Aramis looked at Porthos' leg, which was now bandaged, and nodded to himself, looking satisfied.

Porthos drank his wine and nodded in thanks to Athos, then looked to Aramis.

"Thank you. I should never have doubted you," he said.

"No. You shouldn't have. But all is well now, so long as you don't reopen your wound and ruin my hard work."

"I won't," Porthos said, sighing as the pull of the wine and the blood loss and the headache led him toward sleep.

"Good. Rest up. We've a long journey in the morning, if you're well enough," Athos said.

"Mmm," Porthos murmured, already falling asleep.

The last thing he heard was Aramis' laugh ringing out.

"Seems your wine has done the trick, Athos!"

xxxx

When he woke up later and was finally able to see straight again, Porthos checked to make sure that Aramis was sleeping, then peeked beneath the bandage.

"Damn," he muttered. "Like a right seamstress, he is."

"Heard that," Aramis said without opening an eye. "I do believe I told you as much."

"Damn," Porthos muttered again with a sigh. He'd never hear the end of this one.

Aramis just grinned.