~ Porthos ~

The boy was a terrible card player. Possibly the worst he had ever seen and that was a great deal coming from a man who frequently twisted the game in his fortune through deviant means. Porthos had played – and won – his fair share of card games over the years and could say with great confidence that d'Artagnan was one of the worst.

Porthos had learnt of the lad's lacking card skills the very first night in the tavern. Now, it should be said that d'Artagnan's skills were not completely absent; the lad knew the rules, the aim and what he needed to do, technically he was a rather decent card player. However, his brashness and youthful excitable nature were as easily read as if he had simply held out his cards and shown the entire table. Though Porthos had been tempted that first night, he knew better than to scam the grieving young Gascon, there was no honour in taking what little the lad had. He may have also played down his own skills rather substantially in order to give d'Artagnan something to boost his confidence.

What had seemed like a kind gesture at the time, was now coming back to bite him as d'Artagnan's inflated ego gave him the courage to challenge a few men in the tavern to a game.

"I am holding you personally responsible for any ill happenings that ensue." Athos sent a sluggish glare across the table as he took the liberty of refilling his glass.

"What did I do?" Porthos shot defensively at the man who was slowly – or rather, not so slowly – drinking himself into a stupor.

"You introduced him to the bloody game…" Athos slurred slightly with a dulled aggressive tone, informing the others that it would not be long before he would have to call it a night. "And you are also the one who gave him the notion that he was a master at the game when truly he is barely a novice…"

"He's a big boy, he can handle himself." Porthos countered with an offended sniff, though his words convinced none at the table.

"He plays cards like he holds his sword," Aramis muttered with a concerned expression, brows knitting, his gaze never leaving the table across the room where d'Artagnan sat surrounded by excited tavern patrons.

"That's not entirely a bad thing," Porthos argued, pondering upon the sharp skill and intellect it took to master both swordplay and cards, not to mention the pure instincts required.

"Only when he believes the others share that same sense of honour." Athos muttered into his glass before emptying its contents. His eyes closed as he slipped into the euphoria of the drink. With his head tilted back slightly, he visibly informed the others that he was done with the conversation at hand and which to seek the far more pleasant company of his liquid mistress.

"I can tell from over here that he has a good hand," Aramis chuckled, watching as d'Artagnan failed to conceal the look of glee behind his eyes, "though I can also see that his opponent has several cards in his back pockets."

There was a sudden roar of thunderous applause as the table across the room erupted with cheers of excitement and victory.

"My mistake, looks like he's winning," Aramis grinned wickedly, looking surprisingly pleased for the young Gascon's triumph. Taking up his glass, Aramis went to clink it upon Porthos' own glass in celebration, however the other man did not wish to join him, pulling his drink away bitterly.

"They're gonna to bleed him dry…" Porthos sighed, to which Aramis raised a curious brow, concern clear in his expression.

"The one with the crooked nose just put a drink in the lad's hand," Porthos pointed out a tall, pale gentleman looming over d'Artagnan, one hand upon the boy's shoulder, encouraging the Gascon to play another round. "They're buttering him up to take a heavy blow…"

"How can you tell?"

"It's an old trick, from the Court," Porthos growled, defensive of his shaded past, "ply him with drink, rob him blind and make him think it was his own doing."

"You cannot fight all his battles for him, Porthos," Aramis sighed, combing his unruly hair out of his face with one hand.

"Doesn't mean I leave him to the lions neither," Porthos grumbled to himself, taking a sip from his glass, as his eyes flittered over to the far table once more. Apparently, d'Artagnan had been convinced to play one last round, though whether there would be multiple 'last rounds', remained to be seen.

"He is doing well under our instruction," Aramis countered. "Tréville was only just commenting the other day on his progress…"

"He's still a boy from Gascony, trying to make his way in Paris," Porthos informed the other man quietly, noting the slumbered position Athos had chosen to curl himself into, "there are some things in this world that can't be learnt from a tutor's instruction."

Though d'Artagnan had spent the last few months in amongst all that Paris had to offer, his naivety upon what lurked in the shadows was still alarming. Having grown up in the roughest areas of the city, Porthos knew first hand that d'Artagnan's honour-bound; heart-upon-his-sleeve attitude could be easily manipulated and preyed upon by those who wished him harm.

Paris was no place for farm boy ideals.

And yet, even though Porthos knew this, he still cherished the innocence. He relished in having a younger brother to mentor and protect. It was refreshing to have someone among them who had not been so bitterly broken by the weight of the world. The wide-eyed awe upon entering the finer rooms of the palace, the cheerful smile at the suggestion of a mission beyond the city gates, the way the young Gascon looked up at the three of them as not only mentors and friends, but as the great heroes of Greek Epics, as the mightiest gladiators within the Colosseum, as figures of myth and legend beyond mortal constraints. That was in itself flattering as well as incredibly daunting. For believing them to be unbreakable, immortal heroes of legend would surely end in disaster. Porthos knew the day would come that one of them would not walk back through the garrison's gates. He dreaded the thought himself, but had no idea how d'Artagnan would cope.

True enough, the death of his father had stricken a heavy blow to the young lad, but still he was not nearly as sour at the world as the others had to grown to become. The stench of the city had not yet claimed this soul.

"Depends on the tutor," Aramis shrugged, interrupting Porthos' thoughts, giving the other man a knowing look.

Porthos hummed in response but chose to give no verbal answer.

"I think he's had enough," Aramis announced tiredly, carefully prying the empty bottle from Athos' tight grip. The man had slumped across the table; head resting heavily upon the wood in a way that could not possibly be comfortable and would surely result in a painful crick come morning.

Though the root of Athos' nightmares had been dealt with, the scar of his emotional wound still pained him on occasion and his alcoholic crutch was still very much a part of his ritual.

The larger musketeer watched with veiled curiosity as Aramis skilfully manoeuvred an easily malleable Athos from his stool into a standing position, one arm slung round the other man. By now both he and Aramis were well acquainted with the delicate procedure of removing the intoxicated musketeer from taverns in the early hours, though it had never struck Porthos, until that moment, how easily they had turned these actions into a practiced art.

"I might stay for a bit," Porthos scrapped his stool back to settle himself into a more comfortable position, making it clear he was in for the long haul.

"Not that you're worried," Aramis nodded, allowing the other man to see the smirk hidden beneath his shadowed features.

"Why would I be worried?" Porthos sent Aramis a mocking frown, "I simply wish to enjoy a moment of peace away from the rest of you.

"Of course." Aramis agreed lightly with an exaggerated nod, playing along with the linguistic game they loved to share.

"And if the lad gets into any trouble, I shall simply stand back and let him handle it."

"No other way for it," Aramis shrugged simply, though this was made difficult by the drunken musketeer in his arms, "he is his own man, needs to learn from his mistakes, fight his own battles."

"Too right." Porthos nodded, saluting Aramis with his glass before finishing the last drops left within.

After a moment's pause, Aramis dropped the pretence of the conversation and sent an earnest look towards his friend. To this Porthos returned a deep meaningful nod, exchanging the promise to protect the young lad as Aramis silently agreed to do so with Athos.

"Well then, shall we say eight for breakfast?"

"I'll bring the bread," Porthos agreed, his smile brightening at the thought of Madame Ponté's freshly baked baguettes. That woman baked the finest bread in all of Paris. She also seemed to harbour quite the infatuation with musketeers – she claimed it was the uniform. Though she was far beyond even Tréville in years, Porthos enjoyed the platonic flirtatious repertoire as if often resulted in a pain au raisinor brioche free of charge.

"Right, good night, then," Aramis announced, jostling Athos' sleepy figure in order to gain a better grip, "do not let that young rascal steal away the rest of your evening."

"I'll drag 'im out by his ear after the next game," Porthos promised with a gentle smile, watching Aramis take the Athos' weight on his shoulders and half-carry, half-drag, him out of the tavern.

Leaning back in his chair, Porthos poured himself another glass, finishing the bottle. There wasn't any harm in letting it continue for a little while longer. The night may be waning but there were still a fair few before the sun rose and the lad seemed to be having a wonderful time, even though he was unaware of the plot being played above his head.

"You're looking mighty lonely this evening monsieur," a sultry voice wafted into his ears. Tearing his gaze away from the young Gascon's never-ending card game, Porthos looked up to see an auburn-haired seductress before him. She was fair and soft and everything his night needed.

"I saw your friends leave just before and wondered if you might prefer my company instead?" She asked, though clearly she required no answer as she sat down at the table before Porthos could reply.

"How could I say no?" Porthos smiled with a slight glint in his eyes as he all but dove into the glorious blue pools of her sapphire gaze, watching as they danced beneath the flickering candlelight.

"How indeed," she replied huskily, her tongue darting across her lips.

"May I ask as to the name of the beautiful woman who has offered her company?"

"Gisèle," she informed him with a low whisper, her eyes sparkled brightly, luring him in with every bat of her long dark eyelashes as she played her role as Siren and he Odysseus' crew.

"Gisèle," Porthos let his tongue roll over the name, "Porthos, mademoiselle," he introduced himself with a chivalrous nod.

"How wonderful," she smiled, trailing her thin fingers along the softer skin upon his forearm, tracing invisible circles upon his wrist.

Somehow, within the space of what seemed like only a moment or two, she had gone from seated opposite him to being situated upon his lap, twisting his curl on her fingertips. It was oddly forward of the woman, but the early hours did distort the mind and blur one's moral sensibilities.

"Shall I get us a bottle of wine?" She purred next to his ear, petite fingers wrapping around the drawstrings of his purse.

Ah, there was his cue. He slipped his fingers into his coin purse, feeling around for a small metal piece. Once found he took her hand, placing a few sous, knowing he would never see the change.

He could tell from the few moments he'd spent in her presence, Gisèle was only interesting in the contents of his coin purse. If she had been paying closer attention to their table that evening, she would have discovered that Athos had done the purchasing of fine wine and meats, where as both Aramis and himself had contributed next to nothing.

However that seemed rather like a conversation to have with the fair Gisèle once the sun arose. For now, he would enjoy the pleasure of her attractive company and leave other matters for a more sober version of himself to deal with.

A bottle of wine for his table and a gorgeous woman desperate for his bed, what more could a man ask for?

But first he should see to the lad, send him on his way home. Both Athos and Aramis would have his hide if something were to happen to their young musketeer while he scurried off into the bosom of a tavern girl. He hoped d'Artagnan was steady enough to walk the three streets back to the garrison without any issue. For he highly doubted, fair Gisèle was a lady that could be left waiting…

However, all plans for that evening were quickly shattered as a single glance in the Gascon's direction had Porthos' heart plummeting within his chest.

The table was empty.

"D'Artagnan?" Porthos called out as he stood, eyes frantically searching the darkened corners of the ill-lit tavern. Surely the lad would have come back to the table if he were finished with the game?

Thinking back the tavern had seemed quieter during his flirtations with Gisèle, though lost in her beauty and her charm he had not noticed.

"Monsieur," Gisèle appeared by his side, bottle in hand, "I bought the finest I could –"

Porthos pushed past her, utterly ignoring her presence as he strode towards the tavern's owner.

"The men at that table," Porthos demanded imposingly of the man before him, ignoring "where did they go? When?"

"They just left, out into the street, I didn't see where."

"Did they have a young lad with them?" He growled out his question, teeth gritted as he kicked himself for his lapse in concentration.

"Yes, I – "

Porthos did not stay to hear the end of the barman's sentence; there was nothing he could say that the musketeer didn't know. D'Artagnan had fallen for the oldest trick in the Court and Porthos had let him.

Rushing out with barely a moment's pause to grab his hat and coat, he all but ignored Gisèle's protests – muttering a quick pardon and promise that she could keep the wine and the coin.

The cold night air bit at his skin as he stalked out into the moonlight streets of Paris. Mud and straw upon the cobbled streets made it difficult to walk without slipping, though a lifetime of practice allowed him to navigate the path with little effort.

"D'Artagnan!" He called out into the darkness, knowing the lad was probably not in a state where he could answer.

A sharp familiar cry rang out in the darkness, drawing Porthos' attention like a hunting dog catching a deer's scent. With little more to go on, the musketeer ran through the dark streets like a man possessed, striding forth in the direction of the sound.

It was not but a moment later that he found himself at the mouth of a long alleyway tucked between two taverns that had closed for the night. The alley seemed to be the suppliers' route, though there was none of the like hiding in the long stretching shadows. Instead he found d'Artagnan, limp and bloodied, held up by the throat as a fist flew across the lad's jaw, resulting in an eruption of blood to fly with the force of the punch.

Porthos' gaze grew cold and hard as he pulled his pistol free. The man attacking d'Artagnan had not been the one playing him, but rather the one supplying his drinks, leading Porthos to think that this man had been the ringleader and the smaller fellow simply the distraction in front. From where he stood at the alley's mouth, he could just make out the smaller man's quivering form in the heavy shadows, clearly not one with the stomach for the line of work they had found themselves in.

"If you cannot pay with coin, we shall take it from your flesh!" He heard the tall, thin man spit viciously, shaking d'Artagnan's limp body as if he were a child's doll. Porthos could not tell in the darkness whether the lad had been beaten unconscious or whether it was simply due to his intoxicated state. Anyway, he intended to find out and seek a swift and merciless vengeance if the former be the case.

"Leave him be or I shall take my recompense from yours." Porthos snarled lowly as he stepped out of the shadows of the alley, his pistol raised in level with their eyes.

"I will take what I am owed, if I must also take it from you, so bet it." The taller thin fellow sneered through a rotting smile. His yellowing complexion looked sicklier in the moonlight than it had in the tavern. It was only then that Porthos saw the rough knife glinting in the man's hand.

"Leave him be," Porthos growled lowly, leading with his pistol as he moved towards the man.

"Take another step and I'll cut 'is throat," the man with the crooked nose spat, bringing up a knife to hover just below d'Artagnan's jugular.

"Grégoire! Hold your tongue!" The shorter man yelped rushing up to the man, his eyes wide and fearful as he glanced at Porthos then back to his companion.

"I will not!" Grégoire spat, bone-like fingers grasping d'Artagnan's hair in a way that would surely have caused him to gasp, if the lad were conscious or sober. "The boy lost, we are owed our winnings, Marcel."

Porthos held himself tall, bringing his imposing figure to full height as he stared at the men with all the hatred that he possessed. "You move to strike that boy and you will find yourself at the mercy of Musketeers, the Court and the King of France."

Marcel whimpered audibly, paling visibly even in the shadows of the alley. His rough hands moved to grasp onto Grégoire's shirt desperately. "Let him go, Grégoire, you must," Marcel cautiously hovered around the knife at d'Artagnan's throat, pleading eyes wet with fear, "do you know to whom to speak?"

Grégoire's twisted expression of malice faulted noticeable as he looked up at Porthos as if seeing him for the first time. Evidently he did not know who was speaking too.

This will be interesting, Porthos thought as he fought to conceal a smirk. He did not like to present himself as vain man – even though he prided himself on having a number of superficial aesthetic pleasures – hearing of his reputation upon the streets was often beneficial for the ego and if nothing else a rather good story to swap with his brothers.

"This is Porthos du Vallon." The smaller man breathed the musketeers name as if it were both sacred and fearful.

"Porthos du Vallon…?" Grégoire gasped, his grip upon d'Artagnan waned, the knife dropped to the ground and released the young Gascon, who fell to he knees, dazed but clearly holding on to a thread of consciousness.

"King's Musketeer and Prince of the Court." Marcel nodded deeply as if trying to emulate a bow.

"Am I prince now?" Porthos smirked though more to himself than anyone else.

"The Queen decreed it so," Marcel spoke with deep reverence, pushing the other man back away from Porthos.

Flea, Porthos almost laughed out loud at the thought. After all these years, she was still looking out for him. Though the title was nothing to those outside the Court, the name struck a deep chord with those within and those who dealt with its people. The streets were less friendly to those without the insurance of the other beggars and liars who shared their alleys. A curse upon the man or woman who angered the Queen of the Court of Miracles.

A mightier curse upon he who threatens one of Porthos du Vallon's brothers.

"I had no idea," the crooked nose fellow paled visibly as Porthos' hands gripped the man's collar. "I swear to you, I had no idea!"

"Well, I am a merciful man," Porthos levelled his gaze upon the gutter rats before him, "I will play you to amend my brother's debt."

"He is your brother?" Grégoire yelped, his eyes darting to where he'd thrown d'Artagnan upon the muddied ground.

"Very much so." Porthos snarled, allowing them to hear the violently protective threat his words formed.

"We accept your most merciful offer," Marcel nodded, visibly trembling.

"Meet me inside, I wish to see to my brother first." Porthos instructed, relishing the way the two men scuttled at his orders – it was rather nice to be in charge.

Unfortunately he didn't appreciate it for long, kneeling down beside the beaten lad, pulling him up into his arms.

"P'thos?" The young Gascon's voice was barely audible through the bubbling wetness upon his lips, blood and spittle combined in globules. D'Artagnan's hair was dishevelled and slicked to his head with mud, as were his clothes and boots.

"Hey there little brother," Porthos whispered, gentle hands cupping the sides of d'Artagnan's battered and dirtied face, raising it into the light in order to assess the damage done.

A small groan escaped the Gascon's lips as Porthos pressed his fingers along the lad's ribs, making sure they were not broken. They were perhaps a little bruised, but not badly.

"Sh, sh, sh, you're alright, you're okay," Porthos soothed softly, running a gentle had through d'Artagnan's hair, pacifying the lad as if he were twenty years younger, "just a few bumps and bruises and a belly full of wine."

"Mmm," d'Artagnan moaned, though Porthos could not tell whether it was one of pain or agreement.

"First rule of cards, lad," Porthos frowned deeply, thumbing d'Artagnan's eyelids open, checking the size of his pupils as he lectured the boy, "don't bet what you don't have…"

No concussion, that would a good sign. He would not need to drag the lad to Aramis' quarters. The young Gascon did seem a little out of sorts, but with the amount of wine he had consumed before and during the card game, it was a wonder he was still conscious.

"Second rule to cards," Porthos chuckled with a low groan as he swung the lad's arm around his shoulder, lifting him off the mud ridden alley floor with little more than mumbled protest. "Is to always have the best hand at the table."

"I did," d'Artagnan moaned, his head lolling into the crevice between Porthos' neck and collarbone, allowing the larger man to take his weight as they moved off into the night.

"Which brings me to the third rule," Porthos told him softy as if he were telling a sleeping child a bedtime story, "know when you're being played."

"W'reegoin'…?"

The lad was as weak as a kitten in this state; it was downright frightening to think of what could have happened if Porthos had left with the others.

"Back to the tavern," Porthos informed him, "There are some men in there who need to understand the consequences of their schemes…"

"M'kay, onessec," d'Artagnan mumbled with a heavy slur, pushing himself feebly out of Porthos' grip. Though the taller man held on to keep him upright, he allowed the younger man to lead him.

"Ugh," Porthos winced, as the Gascon suddenly doubled over upon the ground, expelling a vile combination of cheap wine, beer and bile violently into the alleyway. Porthos had to jump back so that his shoes were away from the line of fire.

"S'not your night is it, lad?" Porthos sighed as he wiped a few tears from the younger man's eyes with his thumb.

"Imissnonsnance…" d'Artagnan pouted like an infant, bottom lip dropped low, large watery brown eyes beseeching the man holding him up, before dropping his head upon Porthos' chest.

"You're speaking nonsense, if that's what you're tryin' t'say…" Porthos muttered gruffly as he moved the both of them back towards the tavern's doors, a glowing beacon of light in amongst the darkened streets and shadowy corners of the city.

The tavern's patrons had all but cleared out as they entered. There were a few stragglers here and there but it was clear to see the night was waning substantially. Gisèle had clearly left, taking the wine and coin with her as compensation for wasted time. It was probably for the best, though beautiful she seemed to demand attention and constant care, which was not something Porthos had the time nor finances to do so.

"Some water and cloth for his head, if you could, Madame?" Porthos prompted the barmaid, nodding at the unconscious lad in his arms.

Settling d'Artagnan upon a long bench seat, Porthos sat beside him, resting the lad's head against his leg. The water was clean, which he was thankful for as he placing the cooling cloth upon the younger man's face, washing away the blood and grim that the scuffle in the alley had caused.

With d'Artagnan resting in his lap, Porthos turned back to the matter at hand. Namely taking these idiotic, conniving bastards for every sous they had.

"Gentlemen," Porthos smiled menacingly, letting the crack of his knuckles echo around them, "I'll deal, shall I?"

The game did not last nearly as long as it should have, the wiry man across the table visibly quaking in his boots as he lay the cards down. With a heavy heart the crooked-nosed man pushed forth Porthos' winnings - or rather what d'Artagnan had lost, plus a little extra.

As Grégoire went to leave, Porthos grasped the man's collar pulling him in close so that their noses almost touched.

"I see you with a deck in your hands again," Porthos snarled out the threat through clenched teeth, "and I'll cut yours off."

†††

Carrying d'Artagnan back to the garrison had made for a rather awkward task. It was not that the lad was particularly heavy, not he was probably on par, or less, with that of Aramis and Athos – and he had carried the both of them once. No, it was more so that he was simply all limbs, gangly and would not stop moving. Having remained perfectly angelic during the card game, he began to move about the moment Porthos tried to get him home. And all the lad wanted to do was talk. No, not talk, mumble. Mumble incessantly about things that could not be deciphered nor understood. Which led to Porthos ignoring the Gascon completely, simply offering 'I see' and 'mmhmm' when the lad's mutterings paused for a moment.

Once tucked in bed, however, d'Artagnan returned to his angelic slumber, quieting his ramblings completely. Porthos sat by the younger man's bed until the sun began to slither in through the wooden blinds. With a tired sigh, he brushed back the lad's messy mop of hair, moving it out of his eyes, frowning at the blossoming bruise that streaked across his left temple.

It was moments like these that he truly felt he had gained a little kid brother, one he protected more fiercely than a mother bear would her cub.

"I know a good lullaby if you need it," A familiar voice alerted his attention as Porthos' hand stilled briefly for a moment, feeling as though he were a child caught stealing sweets, he retracted his hand.

Though he could tell the intruder by the mere change in air around him, Porthos send a glance toward the room's entrance. There Aramis stood leaning against the doorframe of d'Artagnan's room, his arms crossed with a cheeky grin upon his face. Though he looked tired and clearly hadn't gone to bed yet, his wickedly playful smirk was still lively and devious, the glint in his eye shining brightly.

Porthos held his finger up to his lips and shush the other man, quietly standing up to walk out of the room, pulling Aramis with him. With the door closed behind him, Porthos turned to his friend.

"Yours seemed to be the more interesting night…" Aramis whispered, keeping his voice low in hopes not to wake the sleeping lad.

"Trouble follows that kid unlike any I've come across." Porthos sighed, leaning back against the wall.

"I guessing it wasn't bad, seeing as I did not receive a knock at my door," Aramis raised a concerned brow.

Porthos smirked a little, you came to check any way, he thought. Though none of them admitted it freely, they were all rather protective of their young musketeer.

"Just needs to sleep it off." Porthos shook his head.

Aramis nodded simply, content with Porthos' care of the Gascon lad.

"Sun is just about risen, I'd better get to Madame Ponté's before all her goods have been bought." Porthos announced, pushing himself off the wall to make his way to the exit.

To this Aramis all but snorted, "you'd only need ask and that woman would bake you a thousand baguettes free of charge…"

"Only a thousand?" Porthos hummed with a frown, "I must be losing my touch." He sent a small grin in Aramis' direction, which was caught and returned.

†††

Morale around the breakfast table was rather low, due to the fact that half of them were sporting throbbing headaches from a night ill spent and the other half had barely had a moment's rest.

D'Artagnan still sported a small gash upon his bottom lip and a large bruise upon his left temple. He now lay draped upon the table, head tucked into the crook of his elbow, clearly regretting the level of alcohol consumed and promising himself never to repeat the offense.

Athos had given the lad a once over before turning to Porthos for an explanation, to which he shrugged and shook his head in a way that told him 'I handled it'.

He accepted Porthos' response and sat down at the table, tearing off a portion of baguette.

"Have a good night did we?" Aramis chuckled as he nudged the youngest musketeer, who was doing a rather good impression of a pile of rags.

The only response he got was an unintelligent moan from beneath a mop of hair.

"Do you want some bread?" Aramis tried again, holding out a piece right beside d'Artagnan's head, hoping the smell would entice him. "It'll do wonders for your stomach…"

Again a muted moaned reply growled out underneath limbs and hair.

"Eat something." Athos muttered curtly, prompting a hand to escape out of the d'Artagnan shaped pile of hair and fabric and grab the bread from Aramis' hands, pulling in into his constructed cave, the lad's head never left the comfort of his elbow.

"Oh, d'Artagnan," Porthos suddenly spoke up as if he had just remembered something, pulling out a small coin purse, placing it upon the breakfast table with an audible jingling clink of coin. "You forgot this last night."

D'Artagnan raised his head out of his coiled arms and saw what Porthos had placed before him.

"Oh God, thank you!" d'Artagnan's relief was instantaneous and noticeably heartfelt. The sight of the small coin purse had completely changed the young Gascon's entire mood, elevating him back to his usual cheery attitude. "I thought I'd been robbed," he added, pausing slightly as his voice quietened, "that purse belonged to my father…"

"Just keep hold of it this time," Porthos chuckled, giving the lad an affectionate slap on the shoulder.

"It's heavier," d'Artagnan frowned at the taller man, feeling the weight of the purse.

"What do you know? You're concussed." Porthos growled back his response, flicking the lad's ear, "Aren't you supposed to be cleaning out the stables this morning?"

"Thanks Porthos," d'Artagnan ducked his head slightly with a hidden smile, before running off in the direction of the garrison stables.

"He doesn't remember?" Aramis frowned as he watched the lad dash off.

"Wouldn't expect him to with the amount of drink he'd had, not to mention the blow to his head." Porthos shrugged lightly.

In truth, it hadn't bothered Porthos to learn that d'Artagnan had not remembered the night. He was happy to be able to shield the young Gascon from such things, to feel needed as a protector and a brother. It was rather a nice feeling.

"I hope you warned him off further attempts?" Athos raised a brow in Porthos' direction as he chewed absently upon a piece of bread.

"Nah," Porthos laughed with a cheeky grin, adding a wink towards the sour-looking musketeer, "I offered to teach him how to cheat."

Aramis snorted into his glass, hiding his smile as Athos rolled his eyes to the Heavens, muttering something about being surrounded by morons.

Thanks for reading :) Let me know what you think! I have five more chapters in the works, next up is Constance, soon to be followed by Aramis

Chatnoir xx