Either give me more wine or leave me alone.

Rumi

CHAPTER IV-Cows, Comtes, and Cards

In the barn at the garrison, d'Artagnan and Porthos were struggling with a rather obstinate brindled Normande cow. The usual milking time was an hour away, and the animal seemed to have an internal clock that refused to cooperate with being handled at any other time.

"I thought you said this is a trouble-free breed," growled Porthos.

"That's what the stable boy told me!" retorted d'Artagnan.

"The stable boy?! You have no experience with them yourself? You're a farm boy!"

"We planted wheat and maize, not cows! I did not live on a dairy farm!"

"How in the world did I get myself into this mess?" muttered Porthos. "You are not impressin' me with your leadership skills in the first hour of your reign."

"You are probably upsetting the cow by indulging in such negativity! Why don't you try to help, instead of criticizing?!"

Porthos glared back at him. "I bet I could do a better job! Clear off and let me give it a go!"

"Be my guest!"

D'Artagnan moved back and sat down on an overturned bucket, crossing his arms. "Go ahead! Show me your stuff, city boy."

Ignoring him, Porthos scratched the cow behind the ears. "He just doesn't appreciate you, does he, girl?" he crooned. "No wonder Constance gets annoyed at him." He smirked at d'Artagnan, who merely shook his head smugly. "Taunting me isn't getting the cow milked."

"Now, I'm just goin' to slide my hand down here and milk you, okay? D'Artagnan and I can't drink wine or beer, so we need somethin' else to keep our strength up. You understand, don't you?" The cow placidly continued to chew her cud, showing no sign of either understanding or caring.

Porthos knelt down in the hay next to the cow, patting her gently. Peering underneath, he groaned. "There are four of 'em? I thought there was only three teats on a cow!"

D'Artagnan sniggered. "Very good, Porthos. That's a fine start."

Grasping one of the teats cautiously, Porthos tugged on it, then jumped back, startled by a stream of milk shooting out like a cannon. In the process, he hit his head solidly against the wall of the stall, causing a large lump to form on the side of his head. Turning a malevolent eye on a grinning d'Artagnan, he snarled, "Don't you even start!"

Standing up and rubbing his head, the big man muttered. "Why waste our time on this, anyway? We can just come back in an hour and get milk then-after the stable boys do the hard part."

"Need I remind you that the card tournament at the Wren starts in thirty minutes?" d'Artagnan inquired pointedly.

"I almost forgot!" Porthos smacked his palm against his forehead, then shrugged and grinned. "Oh well…good thing there is still plenty of fresh snow. Come on, let's melt some and fill a waterskin. I don't want to get thirsty and be tempted to reach for some wine while we're there. You are goin' with me, aren't you?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," replied d'Artagnan with a smile, draping his arm around his brother as they strolled out of the barn.

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Athos at the Wren, comfortably installed at a table close to the warmth of the fire. Instead of his customary place tucked away in a dark alcove at the back of the tavern, he had chosen a spot where he could have a view of both the door and the area where the card tournament would take place. He had already ordered a delicious dinner, which he intended to savour while watching Porthos under pressure. If he was lucky, the big man would crack under the stress, downing an alcoholic beverage before he even realized what he was doing. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, Athos thought, smirking in anticipation of the scene. And the best part is that I get to have some fun toying with Rochefort at the same time.

A small crowd was beginning to gather, and as Rochefort pushed his way into the tavern, he frowned at the boisterous group of card players. Sighting Athos, he strode over to the table, wrinkling his nose at the rank smell of the floorboards, which had undoubtedly been well seasoned by thousands of gallons of spilled ale. "A rather common setting, isn't it?"

Athos looked up at him apologetically. "My apologies, Comte. I know you deserve so much more, but it is the best I can do on my meagre salary. Would you like some wine?"

"I doubt it will be to my taste, but I suppose it shall have to do." Sitting down haughtily, he pulled off his gloves, tossing them on the table.

Filling a goblet, Athos handed it to Rochefort. He then drew out a skin from his weapons belt and filled his own goblet with hot choolate he had made before he left the garrison.

"What is that?" sniffed Rochefort, eyeing the dark liquid with distaste.

"Hot chocolate," replied Athos affably, taking a sip.

"How in the world did you get your hands on that?" Rochefort narrowed his eyes at the musketeer. "The only people I know who have a goodly supply of it in Paris are the King—and the Queen." His voice trailed off as he began to connect the dots in his brain.

"Exactly." Athos' voice was smooth as glass. He waited a beat, then asked solicitously, "Has the Queen not shared any with you?"

"No." Rochefort's face resembled that of a pouty toddler. "I always suspected she liked you better, and now I have proof."

"Oh, Rochefort, don't be like that," Athos said sympathetically. "She may just be waiting for the right time to give it to you-likely on day that is meaningful both to you and her. Perhaps the anniversary of your imprisonment in Spain?"

His guest scowled. "Don't try to soften the blow, Athos. I can take it like a man. I just have to prove to her that I am worthy of her respect and friendship—in the same way you are. After all, she has had five years to grow close to you while I was rotting in a Spanish prison, all because of my unswerving loyalty to the Crown." He straightened his shoulders, trying to regain his composure. "But enough about that—what did you wish to talk about? You mentioned something about your former wife?"

The serving girl brought two steaming bowls of beef stew and a loaf of crusty bread.

"Thank you, Gabrielle." Athos smiled graciously at the girl, who curtsied and scurried off.

Toying with his spoon for a moment, he finally seemed to come to a decision, and fixed his pensive blue eyes on his companion. "How do I get over her, Rochefort? How do I deal with seeing her by the King's side, living openly as his mistress?" He choked back a sob. "It hurts so badly, my old friend. Every night in my dreams, I see her-I feel her. I know that my heart cannot go on like this, because I-I just want to crawl into a hole and die."

"Listen, Athos," Rochefort looked at him uneasily. "You need to pull yourself together, man. Find a distraction—take up gardening, or—or—learn to juggle! I don't know! But this sort of display is just embarrassing. Why don't you just find a new woman? Milady is not the only fish in the sea, you know."

Athos sighed heavily. "I suppose you are right. But it doesn't make it any easier, especially when you are as moody and sensitive as I am." He looked down at his stew. "Do you think you could perhaps show me how it's done? It has been so long since I have tried to romance a woman that I have sort of—forgotten my skills. I would appreciate anything you could do to help me out. Perhaps you could—intercede with Milady also? If it's not too much trouble? If that fails, at least I will know I have tried everything."

"What do you mean?" the suspicious look was back on Rochefort's face.

"Let her know I still care for her—that I am willing to let bygones be bygones. I mean, I have three new brothers now, so Thomas' death is really a small incident in the whole scheme of things. And if that doesn't work, well—I will have been able to learn how to use the knowledge in courtship that I have gained from you to carry on, and maybe even find happiness again."

"Very well," said Rochefort reluctantly. "Just promise me you won't start crying again. I can't deal with tears—well, perhaps in women when I am trying to seduce them and they are repulsed by me. After all, that happens all the time- typically right before they beat the living daylights out of me. I always was horrible at hand to hand combat. To be honest, I hated the fact that you always were so good at it when he were kids. And you always had a really cool sword. My dad never trusted me with a nice one after he caught me carving graffiti into the palace walls. I always had to train with a stick-or-a pole. It was so humiliating." He leaned over the table, glancing around as he lowered his voice. "You don't think Anne heard stories about that, do you? Do you think that could be why she never takes me on fun trips like she does with you and Aramis?"

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When Porthos and d'Artagnan walked into the Wren, Porthos' practiced eye immediately began to size up the competition. Foucault—he'll be easy enough. Still is oblivious to the fact that I cheat every time I play him. Courtemanche—he is so obvious. Whenever he has a good hand, he scratches his left ear. Deschamps—now he may be a formidable opponent. He almost won six months ago.

His thoughts were interrupted by d'Artagnan elbowing him in the ribs. "Look." He nodded at the table where Rochefort and Athos were sitting.

"I told you! You didn't believe me," Porthos said accusingly.

"It wasn't that I didn't believe you. I just thought it—unlikely."

"Same thing," muttered Porthos.

"How are things, my friends?" Aramis' bright voice came up from behind him as he clapped his brothers on the shoulders. "I see that Athos is in prime position to revert to his old habits—dinner with Rochefort would make anyone want to knock back a stiff drink." He peered closer. "Is Athos-crying?"

"What?!" d'Artagnan's head swivelled to stare at his mentor. "Oh my—you're right! What could Rochefort possibly have told him to make him cry?"

"Whatever it is, it is out of our hands," said Aramis with a sigh. "At least—" he grinned shrewdly, "Until Athos takes his first swallow of alcohol. Then we will move in to comfort him. For now, he's on his own."

D'Artagnan threw an uneasy look at Athos. "Do you really think he'll be okay?"

Aramis rolled his eyes. "He's a big boy, d'Artagnan. Let's go and cheer Porthos on. We'll keep an eye on Athos from a discreet distance."

Thank you again for all the reviews and favorites! I know this is pretty ridiculous, but it's just so fun to write...