Title: Sobriety
Author: JenF
Chapters: 1 of 3
Disclaimer: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their property, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

Athos: Don't worry. He's made this shot a hundred times.

D'Artagnan: He's drunk.

Athos: He's never made it sober.

It's been a long week. Porthos thought he knew tiredness but this week, his first week as a true musketeer, has brought home to him how little he really knows about fatigue and stamina. Yes, the infantry had been hard, had turned him from the vagabond lifestyle of the Court into the man he is today, into a fighter with honour and loyalty bound together within his very bones, but it had not prepared him for the demands of the musketeers.

He sits on the bench in the yard of the garrison and surveys the men around him. He's made few friends, if any. He thinks it might be to do with his upbringing but it's more likely to be a consequence of the colour of his skin. He hasn't missed the way the other musketeers look at him when they think he's otherwise occupied. He knows they don't really trust him and part of him doesn't really blame them. It's a sign of the times and, if he's really honest with himself, he wouldn't really trust himself either if he were them.

But there's a camaraderie here that feels like home. As he watches the young men sparring with each other, he can't help the satisfied nod and creeping smile.

"You're a long way from home, my friend," a voice rumbles from behind him.

His training is too good to allow the surprise to show through. He simply nods and turns his head to inspect the speaker.

"I've been further," he tells his companion – a seasoned musketeer by the looks of him.

The man nods sagely and waves his hat at the empty space beside him.

"May I?"

Porthos shrugs. It makes no difference to him where the man settles himself. He turns his attention back to the activity in the courtyard. Silence falls between him and his new companion and Porthos thinks no more of it.

Gradually the various training sessions come to an end and the musketeers fade away with a nod to Porthos and a few words to his companion which are acknowledged with grace and humour. The daylight begins to wane and the late summer warmth dwindles.

Porthos has almost forgotten the presence at his side when the man stands abruptly and holds out a hand to him. The large man eyes it with curiosity before looking up. The man before him has a smile on his face which seems to replace the disappearing daylight.

"You spar, I believe?" the man asks, although it sounds as though he already knows the answer.

Porthos leans back and tilts his head to one side, examining his potential opponent. He knows he could easily best this man but something tells him it's not really a fight he's after.

"It's a little late in the day," he replies.

His companion nods in agreement.

"You're right." He looks around and seems surprised that the once bustling courtyard is now virtually deserted. He turns back to Porthos with a renewed smile. "A drink then? I know the perfect place."

Porthos considers the proposal. He has been here a while, he supposes, and while the summer heat is no stranger to him, he could happily spend a few hours in a darkened tavern with whatever entertainment that might bring.

TTMTTMTTM

The tavern is dingy and hot but the beer is free flowing and the company pleasant. Porthos finds himself relaxing. The two men have found a table in the corner of the room where they can see everything without being seen unless they want to. Porthos silently admires his companion's positioning although part of him wonders whether he wishes to be hidden.

As the evening wears on and the drink flows freely, the conversation turns to their respective skills. Porthos has wasted no time in letting it be known that, although he favours hand-to-hand fighting, he is accomplished in many of the skills regarded as vital to a fulfilling career in the musketeers.

The drink is having an effect on his judgment though and to an outsider it may have sounded like boasting. At least, that's how his companion seems to have taken it.

"So you truly believe you are the best swordsman in the regiment?" his acquaintance laughs. "You think you could be best my own skills with a musket, a pistol?"

"Without doubt," Porthos asserts, although his words are slightly slurred now. He doesn't register it himself but there's a crafty look in his drinking buddy's eyes.

"Prove it," the man demands, that wicked smile back on his face.

Porthos laughs, a full hearted belly laugh.

"With pleasure," he replies. "Where shall I shoot you?"

"Oh no, my friend. We won't shoot each other. It would be totally illegal to duel and, to be honest, such a waste of good lives."

"Then what do you propose?" Porthos demands, putting his tankard on the table just that little bit too forcefully, splashing beer over the edge.

"Let's see what we can find outside."

The man leads Porthos to the alley at the back of the tavern and Porthos wonders if this has all been some elaborate set up to rid the musketeers of his presence. But his companion doesn't seem dangerous at the moment, scrabbling about amongst the debris left outside the tavern.

"Aha," he exclaims, turning back to Porthos with a large, round fruit in his hand. "This will do for target practice."

Porthos is full of the confidence held only by the inebriated. He grins and, in one smooth movement, draws his pistol.

It seems his companion's judgement is just as impaired as Porthos'. Instead of placing the fruit on the ground, he holds in one hand, arm outstretched.

"If you shoot my arm off," he comments, "I will be very upset."

"Don't worry," Porthos reassures him. "You could put it on your head and be just as safe."

"Maybe next time," comes the rejoinder as Porthos pulls back the trigger.

The resulting kickback knocks Porthos off balance, a clear indication of the level of alcohol in his system and the smoke blurs his already iffy vision. For a split second he wonders if he's misjudged this terribly and he wishes for the first time that he knew the name of his companion, if only so he can make amends to the man's family.

But then delighted laughter catches up with him.

"My God, you did it! I didn't think you could possibly do it but you have!"

Porthos blinks and the man's laughter seems contagious. The smoke clears enough for Porthos to see melon splattered over the cobbles and the man doubled over with mirth.

The evening doesn't last long after that. Or at least, Porthos doesn't think it does. He doesn't really remember much.

TTMTTMTTM

Porthos wakes in his room and blinks repeatedly. Last night's activity comes back to him slowly and he feels a glow of satisfaction. He doesn't know who he drank with last night – they never got as far as names – but he has a feeling they'll meet again, soon. And next time, he thinks, he'll go for the head shot.