Fic, A Dangerous Practice, Part 1 of 2
Feb. 16th, 2015 04:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fredbassettTitle : A Dangerous Practice, Part 1 of 2
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Musketeers
Rating : 15
Characters : Athos, Aramis, Porthos, d’Artagnan, (Part 2 Athos/Treville)
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 2,815
Summary : Athos is drunk, the Red Guard are obnoxious, d’Artagnan is concerned (and in Part 2, Treville is exasperated)
A/N : This is set in my Athos/Treville series, A Dangerous Liaison. Written for my very lovely friend,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
evilmaniclaugh, with thanks for all your wonderful fic.
“Bet he’s just pissed all over his fucking boots!”
The group of Red Guards lounging around in the tavern laughed loudly as Athos walked unsteadily towards the vacant chair near the fire that he’d occupied before going outside to answer a call of nature.
The cardinal’s men been making provocative remarks all evening, but so far, much to d’Artagnan’s surprise, even Porthos hadn’t shown any sins of rising to their bait.
A moment later, one of the men kicked an unattended stool directly into Athos’ path. Athos stumbled, putting a hand out to steady himself, but he missed the wooden pillar and fell against its sharp edge, his unprotected shoulder taking the brunt of the impact.
D’Artagnan winced. That had to have hurt like hell.
Porthos let out a rumble of disapproval and made to rise from his own chair, but Aramis leaned forward and rested his hand on the big man’s arm. “Leave it, he’ll not thank you for playing nursemaid.”
“He never does,” Porthos said, not taking his eyes off his friend. “Doesn’t mean he don’t need it at times.”
“I’m just not sure this is one of those times, my friend,” d’Artagnan heard Aramis murmur.
Athos pushed himself upright, his unruly sweat-soaked hair falling into his eyes. He dashed it back from his face and did his best to focus on Richelieu’s men.
“He’s had three bottles of wine,” d’Artagnan felt the need to point out.
“At least four,” Aramis corrected. “There was wine on his breath before he arrived tonight.”
D’Artagnan fought the urge to roll his eyes. Much as he admired Athos, the man’s propensity to seek refuge in alcohol was a dangerous vice, especially with the Red Guard ever on the look-out for trouble.
“The captain won’t thank us getting involved in another brawl.”
Porthos raised one scarred eyebrow. “Since when did you develop a conscience about beating the shit out of the little red-cloaked bastards? Anyway, Athos can take the lot of them in a fight.”
“Porthos, he can barely stand unaided.” D’Artagnan watched as Athos pushed himself away from the pillar and wobbled alarmingly, before glaring in the vague direction of his tormentors.
One of the guards raised his voice over the noise in the tavern. “If this is the best of their fucking regiment, heaven help the worst!”
A burst of raucous laughter followed the man’s words. One of his friends hawked loudly and spat a gobbet of thick phlegm at Athos’ face. The musketeer swayed sideways and fell against the pillar again. The phlegm missed him. Athos’ foot slid sideways on the straw-covered floor and tripped a fat man in a brown, homespun cloak who slopped his tankard of ale over the guard. The unfortunate man’s apologies were brushed aside in the interests of better sport as the guards advanced threateningly on Athos.
“Take it outside or I’ll ban the fucking lot of you!” the innkeeper yelled, making his voice heard easily over the clamour of voices in the crowded room.
As Black Jacques was an old soldier with a long memory, an impressive grasp of profanity in six different languages and a right hook like a mule’s kick, it took a very brave – or a very stupid – man to argue with him in The Wren. The innkeeper never made a threat he wouldn’t carry through and all his regular customers knew it. Those that didn’t would quickly find themselves nursing sore heads and looking for somewhere else to drown their sorrows.
“He can’t get as far as outside!” the guard laughed, reaching out to poke Athos in the chest.
Athos swayed again and the hand missed him. He mumbled something under his breath that d’Artagnan couldn’t catch, but whatever it was had clearly been uncomplimentary. The Red Guard pulled back his arm for a punch and promptly found it twisted up his back.
“I said, take it outside!” Black Jacques ordered. “Do you want me to piss in your ear to clear out the wax? No? Didn’t think so… Now fuck off, the lot of you!”
Athos turned without a word and started to weave his way to the door. The Red Guard glanced over his shoulder to his friends, emptied the rest of his ale down his mouth, and tossed the pot to one of the serving women who caught it and threw back a filthy look.
D’Artagnan started to rise, but once again found himself held back by Aramis. “Give them time,” his friend told him.
“He’s as pissed as a brewery rat and there are five of them,” d’Artagnan pointed out.
“So he’ll take at least three and we can fight over who gets to play with the other two,” Porthos said. “Not much sport in that, I’ll grant you, but it’s the best odds we’re likely to get tonight, unless anyone else fancies joining the fun.”
“We should be so lucky,” Aramis said, getting lightly to his feet and settling his hat of his head. “But beggars can’t be choosers, my friends.”
After gulping the last of his wine, d’Artagnan followed his friends as Athos walked unsteadily through the door, pausing a moment as the cold night air hit him, no doubt feeling much like the effect of a bucket of water over the head. He saw Athos stagger sideways into the street, his friend and mentor’s incapacity greeted by rude comments and yet more laughter. D’Artagnan clenched his teeth and wrapped his hand around his sword hilt. Richelieu’s minions would pay for this…
Even though the interior of The Wren had been as dark and smoky as ever, it still took d’Artagnan’s eyes a moment to adjust to the even greater darkness of the street, illuminated only by pale moonlight. His feet squelched in the muck of the road and a feral cat dashed in front of him in pursuit of a rat.
“Are you following me, gentleman?” Athos’ well-bred drawl held nothing more than polite enquiry, as he turned to face his pursuers.
“Just tryin’ to make sure you get home safely,” one of the men said, the look on his ferrety face betraying his scorn.
“Can’t have one of Treville’s little bum-boys getting lost in the dark, can we?” one of his friends added, trying – and failing – to imitate Athos’ cultured tones.
“How kind. Then I’ll bid you all good night…” Athos sketched a bow, causing considerable amusement as he wobbled alarming.
They were seconds away from a violent confrontation, and d’Artagnan tensed, ready to draw his sword as soon as any of the guards did. At his side, Porthos placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“Not until we say so,” the big musketeer said, keeping his voice low. “Trust us.”
D’Artagnan did trust them, with his life, but this was Athos they were talking about, the man whose reliance on alcohol was known throughout the garrison. Granted, it never affected him whilst on a mission, but in his off-duty hours d’Artagnan had seen ample evidence of Athos’ problems, and had already helped carry his friend home on more than one occasion. It looked like this was shaping up to be another such night. From the look of him, Athos was barely capable of putting one foot in front of the other and the Red Guards knew it.
The one who had started the whole thing took a step away from his fellows and drew his sword. “That jacket looks too tight for you… it’s a warm night, here, let me help…” he said in a reasonable tone, but the slender length of steel in the hand gave the lie to his words as it flashed in the moonlight, aiming for Athos’ chest.
Porthos’ hand clamped down hard on d’Artagnan’s shoulder just as the seemingly impossible took place in front of his eyes. With the speed of a striking snake, Athos whipped his own sword free of its scabbard and parried the stroke, immediately countering with a thrust of his own in low line that pierced the fleshy part of the guard’s thigh, drawing a cry of mingled surprise and pain from him. The man promptly dropped his sword and clasped his hand over the wound, leaving two of his companions to unsheathe their own weapons and jump forward to meet Athos.
Although Athos’ eyes still held an unfocussed look, there was no mistaking the precision that had returned to his movements. His hands no longer shook and, almost too fast for the eye to follow, he’d drawn the dagger from its sheath on his right side. He dropped into a fighting stance, legs slightly spread for balance, weight evenly distributed, his right foot forward, the left behind by about a shoulder’s width. Athos stood ready for the next man to take the place of his injured comrade.
“The bastard got lucky,” the second Red Guard growled, as he stepped forward. “That wasn’t nice,” he said to Athos. “You started it, pretty boy, don’t forget that. Let’s see what your face looks like another scar to match the one you’ve already got on that smart mouth of yours. Give you a bigger gob for cock-socking…”
At d’Artagnan’s side, Aramis sighed softly. “A tip, mon ami, if you’re going to fight, fight, don’t talk. Remember that, my young friend.”
Athos took a step forward, his blade flashing in the moonlight, and deftly cut the tie of the guard’s cloak so that it dropped down into the muck of the street.
“I would not wish for the garment to foul your sword arm,” he commented, in the reasonable tones of the exceedingly drunk.
Before the guard had the opportunity to respond, Athos struck quickly, cutting hard at the man’s exposed arm, giving him no time to adopt a defensive posture. The blade sliced through the material of his jacket and no doubt cut the flesh beneath, but how deeply, d’Artagnan could not say. The man cursed loudly and struck back, hard.
Athos parried easily and then cut upwards, parting the fastenings that held the jacket closed. “Your friend was right. It is a warm night for such activity. Let the air cool your chest, if not your head…”
As he spoke, his sword point moved swiftly, cutting a long slash down the man’s grubby linen shirt, exposing a hairy chest and leaving a thin trail of blood behind. The Red Guard swung his sword at Athos in return, fury making his movements imprecise and easily avoided, even by a man seriously worse the wear for drink.
“That’s how you fight and talk,” Porthos said approvingly.
The other Red Guards seemed almost mesmerised by Athos’ words and movements, then two of them unsheathed their swords and rushed him. Athos simultaneously parried a thrust with his dagger and fended off a cut with his sword blade, giving ground and promptly drawing one of his opponents into an over-extended lunge. His next thrust took one opponent in his unprotected side, even as he promptly disengaged from one attacker to counter a wild strike from the other.
“Do these idiots spend no time at all in practice?” Aramis enquired, drawing his dagger and digging some dirt from beneath a fingernail, whilst leaning against the half-timbered wall of The Wren.
D’Artagnan, tense as a wire, neither answered him nor took his eyes off the duel – no, he reminded himself, the brawl. There were more than two combatants involved, that made it a brawl. Musketeers never duelled, that would be illegal. But they sure as hell brawled a lot, and this was turning into one of spectacular proportions.
He could hardly believe that Athos was even managing to remain upright after the amount of wine he’d consumed, let alone contriving to stage as convincing a display of swordsmanship as d’Artagnan had ever witnessed. If Athos’ parries were fractionally sloppier than those he demonstrated in the training yard, it would have taken someone as attuned as he was to the other man’s fighting style to pick that up, and he doubted if the Red Guards had that level of experience or skill.
“He’s not going to leave any for us,” Porthos grumbled.
“He always was a greedy bastard,” Aramis agreed as Athos drove his sword deep into the shoulder of the third of his opponents, then promptly withdrew, disengaging long enough for him to locate the final man, who stood uncertainly to one side of his fellow guards.
Athos assumed a position of broad ward, his arm held off to the right of his body and slightly above parallel to the ground at shoulder height. A classic fighting stance.
The position might not seem to offer much protection but, as d’Artagnan was all too well aware, it helped to draw an opponent in closer in preparation for an offensive strike. The ward guarded well against cuts while still offering protection from thrust by both sword blade and dagger.
In the moonlight, Athos’ smile of pure pleasure was easily seen. He looked relaxed, like a man who had spent time with a lover, rather than being pitted against a series of opponents, their antipathy fuelled by drink. His slightly twisted smile told the Red Guards all they needed to know. If they wanted to stay alive, now was a good time to back off.
“We meant no harm…” the uninjured one said quickly, almost tripping over his words in his haste. “It was a joke, Musketeer, only a joke…”
Athos’ smile widened. “Of course, gentlemen, I am only too aware of that. If your words and actions had not been in jest, I can assure you that your throats would now be leaking blood, rather than your arms and legs, And, after four bottles of wine, I lack my normal precision, so maybe I would have struck more deeply than I intended…”
“’e always did ‘ave a way with words,” Porthos said, his arm now slung around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “Fancy, right fancy.”
“Looks to me like they’ve had enough.” Aramis backed up his words with a boot to the arse of the man nearest him, who was pressing his cloak hard against the leaking wound in his leg.
The man stumbled and glared but the fight had gone out of all of Richelieu’s men, and they stumbled away, cursing under their breaths.
“I believe my parentage has just been impugned,” Athos remarked, with the over-stated precision of the exceedingly drunk.
“Your ears did not deceive you, my friend,” Aramis said. “Now are you going to let me look at that nick to your arm?”
D’Artagnan’s eyes widened. He’d been watching the fight closely and he’d been unaware that any of the guards had landed a hit.
“It’s a pin prick only,” Athos said, slurring his words for the first time since stepping out from the tavern. “And I have other matters to attend to, if you’ll excuse me…” With that, he turned away, took two unsteady steps towards the alley at the side of The Wren, then doubled over and spewed his guts into the already rank mess on the ground. The alley served as the tavern’s latrine, as well as being the emptying spot for any dwelling with windows opening on that side.
The sour smell of vomit mingled unpleasantly with the stale odours of piss and shit. D’Artagnan, who’d consumed less than half the amount of wine Athos had just thrown carelessly down his throat in the course of the evening, felt his own stomach coil in sympathy.
When Athos had finished retching and spitting, he straightened up, wiped his hand across his mouth and turned back to his friends. “Thank you for your support, gentlemen.”
Porthos grinned widely and clapped Athos hard on the back causing him to stagger and cough up. “Never doubted you for a moment. Had to make sure the whelp kept out of it, though.”
“We’d hate to lead him into bad ways,” Aramis commented, smiling widely at d’Artagnan.
“So d’Artagnan the trainee Musketeer is still funny?” d’Artagnan queried, already knowing the answer to his question.
“Absolutely!” Aramis said.
“Certainly is!” Porthos confirmed.
“As long as you still doubt your elders and betters,” Athos added.
D’Artagnan threw Athos a sharp look. “Had you really drunk four bottles of wine?”
A hurt puppy look settled on Athos’ pale face, wholly at odds with the predatory expression he’d displayed when in combat with Richelieu’s men. “I’m sorry to tell you this but I lied…” Athos’ smile held a mixture of apology and mischief, “…in truth it was five, not four.”
With that, Athos turned on his heel and set off in the direction of the garrison, rather than his own lodgings.
Porthos clapped d’Artagnan on the shoulder again. “Your turn to make sure he gets back safely.”
D’Artagnan rolled his eyes theatrically. “While I’m gone you two can worm your way back in Black Jacques’ favour and get another bottle in.”
Part 2
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Musketeers
Rating : 15
Characters : Athos, Aramis, Porthos, d’Artagnan, (Part 2 Athos/Treville)
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 2,815
Summary : Athos is drunk, the Red Guard are obnoxious, d’Artagnan is concerned (and in Part 2, Treville is exasperated)
A/N : This is set in my Athos/Treville series, A Dangerous Liaison. Written for my very lovely friend,
evilmaniclaugh, with thanks for all your wonderful fic.“Bet he’s just pissed all over his fucking boots!”
The group of Red Guards lounging around in the tavern laughed loudly as Athos walked unsteadily towards the vacant chair near the fire that he’d occupied before going outside to answer a call of nature.
The cardinal’s men been making provocative remarks all evening, but so far, much to d’Artagnan’s surprise, even Porthos hadn’t shown any sins of rising to their bait.
A moment later, one of the men kicked an unattended stool directly into Athos’ path. Athos stumbled, putting a hand out to steady himself, but he missed the wooden pillar and fell against its sharp edge, his unprotected shoulder taking the brunt of the impact.
D’Artagnan winced. That had to have hurt like hell.
Porthos let out a rumble of disapproval and made to rise from his own chair, but Aramis leaned forward and rested his hand on the big man’s arm. “Leave it, he’ll not thank you for playing nursemaid.”
“He never does,” Porthos said, not taking his eyes off his friend. “Doesn’t mean he don’t need it at times.”
“I’m just not sure this is one of those times, my friend,” d’Artagnan heard Aramis murmur.
Athos pushed himself upright, his unruly sweat-soaked hair falling into his eyes. He dashed it back from his face and did his best to focus on Richelieu’s men.
“He’s had three bottles of wine,” d’Artagnan felt the need to point out.
“At least four,” Aramis corrected. “There was wine on his breath before he arrived tonight.”
D’Artagnan fought the urge to roll his eyes. Much as he admired Athos, the man’s propensity to seek refuge in alcohol was a dangerous vice, especially with the Red Guard ever on the look-out for trouble.
“The captain won’t thank us getting involved in another brawl.”
Porthos raised one scarred eyebrow. “Since when did you develop a conscience about beating the shit out of the little red-cloaked bastards? Anyway, Athos can take the lot of them in a fight.”
“Porthos, he can barely stand unaided.” D’Artagnan watched as Athos pushed himself away from the pillar and wobbled alarmingly, before glaring in the vague direction of his tormentors.
One of the guards raised his voice over the noise in the tavern. “If this is the best of their fucking regiment, heaven help the worst!”
A burst of raucous laughter followed the man’s words. One of his friends hawked loudly and spat a gobbet of thick phlegm at Athos’ face. The musketeer swayed sideways and fell against the pillar again. The phlegm missed him. Athos’ foot slid sideways on the straw-covered floor and tripped a fat man in a brown, homespun cloak who slopped his tankard of ale over the guard. The unfortunate man’s apologies were brushed aside in the interests of better sport as the guards advanced threateningly on Athos.
“Take it outside or I’ll ban the fucking lot of you!” the innkeeper yelled, making his voice heard easily over the clamour of voices in the crowded room.
As Black Jacques was an old soldier with a long memory, an impressive grasp of profanity in six different languages and a right hook like a mule’s kick, it took a very brave – or a very stupid – man to argue with him in The Wren. The innkeeper never made a threat he wouldn’t carry through and all his regular customers knew it. Those that didn’t would quickly find themselves nursing sore heads and looking for somewhere else to drown their sorrows.
“He can’t get as far as outside!” the guard laughed, reaching out to poke Athos in the chest.
Athos swayed again and the hand missed him. He mumbled something under his breath that d’Artagnan couldn’t catch, but whatever it was had clearly been uncomplimentary. The Red Guard pulled back his arm for a punch and promptly found it twisted up his back.
“I said, take it outside!” Black Jacques ordered. “Do you want me to piss in your ear to clear out the wax? No? Didn’t think so… Now fuck off, the lot of you!”
Athos turned without a word and started to weave his way to the door. The Red Guard glanced over his shoulder to his friends, emptied the rest of his ale down his mouth, and tossed the pot to one of the serving women who caught it and threw back a filthy look.
D’Artagnan started to rise, but once again found himself held back by Aramis. “Give them time,” his friend told him.
“He’s as pissed as a brewery rat and there are five of them,” d’Artagnan pointed out.
“So he’ll take at least three and we can fight over who gets to play with the other two,” Porthos said. “Not much sport in that, I’ll grant you, but it’s the best odds we’re likely to get tonight, unless anyone else fancies joining the fun.”
“We should be so lucky,” Aramis said, getting lightly to his feet and settling his hat of his head. “But beggars can’t be choosers, my friends.”
After gulping the last of his wine, d’Artagnan followed his friends as Athos walked unsteadily through the door, pausing a moment as the cold night air hit him, no doubt feeling much like the effect of a bucket of water over the head. He saw Athos stagger sideways into the street, his friend and mentor’s incapacity greeted by rude comments and yet more laughter. D’Artagnan clenched his teeth and wrapped his hand around his sword hilt. Richelieu’s minions would pay for this…
Even though the interior of The Wren had been as dark and smoky as ever, it still took d’Artagnan’s eyes a moment to adjust to the even greater darkness of the street, illuminated only by pale moonlight. His feet squelched in the muck of the road and a feral cat dashed in front of him in pursuit of a rat.
“Are you following me, gentleman?” Athos’ well-bred drawl held nothing more than polite enquiry, as he turned to face his pursuers.
“Just tryin’ to make sure you get home safely,” one of the men said, the look on his ferrety face betraying his scorn.
“Can’t have one of Treville’s little bum-boys getting lost in the dark, can we?” one of his friends added, trying – and failing – to imitate Athos’ cultured tones.
“How kind. Then I’ll bid you all good night…” Athos sketched a bow, causing considerable amusement as he wobbled alarming.
They were seconds away from a violent confrontation, and d’Artagnan tensed, ready to draw his sword as soon as any of the guards did. At his side, Porthos placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“Not until we say so,” the big musketeer said, keeping his voice low. “Trust us.”
D’Artagnan did trust them, with his life, but this was Athos they were talking about, the man whose reliance on alcohol was known throughout the garrison. Granted, it never affected him whilst on a mission, but in his off-duty hours d’Artagnan had seen ample evidence of Athos’ problems, and had already helped carry his friend home on more than one occasion. It looked like this was shaping up to be another such night. From the look of him, Athos was barely capable of putting one foot in front of the other and the Red Guards knew it.
The one who had started the whole thing took a step away from his fellows and drew his sword. “That jacket looks too tight for you… it’s a warm night, here, let me help…” he said in a reasonable tone, but the slender length of steel in the hand gave the lie to his words as it flashed in the moonlight, aiming for Athos’ chest.
Porthos’ hand clamped down hard on d’Artagnan’s shoulder just as the seemingly impossible took place in front of his eyes. With the speed of a striking snake, Athos whipped his own sword free of its scabbard and parried the stroke, immediately countering with a thrust of his own in low line that pierced the fleshy part of the guard’s thigh, drawing a cry of mingled surprise and pain from him. The man promptly dropped his sword and clasped his hand over the wound, leaving two of his companions to unsheathe their own weapons and jump forward to meet Athos.
Although Athos’ eyes still held an unfocussed look, there was no mistaking the precision that had returned to his movements. His hands no longer shook and, almost too fast for the eye to follow, he’d drawn the dagger from its sheath on his right side. He dropped into a fighting stance, legs slightly spread for balance, weight evenly distributed, his right foot forward, the left behind by about a shoulder’s width. Athos stood ready for the next man to take the place of his injured comrade.
“The bastard got lucky,” the second Red Guard growled, as he stepped forward. “That wasn’t nice,” he said to Athos. “You started it, pretty boy, don’t forget that. Let’s see what your face looks like another scar to match the one you’ve already got on that smart mouth of yours. Give you a bigger gob for cock-socking…”
At d’Artagnan’s side, Aramis sighed softly. “A tip, mon ami, if you’re going to fight, fight, don’t talk. Remember that, my young friend.”
Athos took a step forward, his blade flashing in the moonlight, and deftly cut the tie of the guard’s cloak so that it dropped down into the muck of the street.
“I would not wish for the garment to foul your sword arm,” he commented, in the reasonable tones of the exceedingly drunk.
Before the guard had the opportunity to respond, Athos struck quickly, cutting hard at the man’s exposed arm, giving him no time to adopt a defensive posture. The blade sliced through the material of his jacket and no doubt cut the flesh beneath, but how deeply, d’Artagnan could not say. The man cursed loudly and struck back, hard.
Athos parried easily and then cut upwards, parting the fastenings that held the jacket closed. “Your friend was right. It is a warm night for such activity. Let the air cool your chest, if not your head…”
As he spoke, his sword point moved swiftly, cutting a long slash down the man’s grubby linen shirt, exposing a hairy chest and leaving a thin trail of blood behind. The Red Guard swung his sword at Athos in return, fury making his movements imprecise and easily avoided, even by a man seriously worse the wear for drink.
“That’s how you fight and talk,” Porthos said approvingly.
The other Red Guards seemed almost mesmerised by Athos’ words and movements, then two of them unsheathed their swords and rushed him. Athos simultaneously parried a thrust with his dagger and fended off a cut with his sword blade, giving ground and promptly drawing one of his opponents into an over-extended lunge. His next thrust took one opponent in his unprotected side, even as he promptly disengaged from one attacker to counter a wild strike from the other.
“Do these idiots spend no time at all in practice?” Aramis enquired, drawing his dagger and digging some dirt from beneath a fingernail, whilst leaning against the half-timbered wall of The Wren.
D’Artagnan, tense as a wire, neither answered him nor took his eyes off the duel – no, he reminded himself, the brawl. There were more than two combatants involved, that made it a brawl. Musketeers never duelled, that would be illegal. But they sure as hell brawled a lot, and this was turning into one of spectacular proportions.
He could hardly believe that Athos was even managing to remain upright after the amount of wine he’d consumed, let alone contriving to stage as convincing a display of swordsmanship as d’Artagnan had ever witnessed. If Athos’ parries were fractionally sloppier than those he demonstrated in the training yard, it would have taken someone as attuned as he was to the other man’s fighting style to pick that up, and he doubted if the Red Guards had that level of experience or skill.
“He’s not going to leave any for us,” Porthos grumbled.
“He always was a greedy bastard,” Aramis agreed as Athos drove his sword deep into the shoulder of the third of his opponents, then promptly withdrew, disengaging long enough for him to locate the final man, who stood uncertainly to one side of his fellow guards.
Athos assumed a position of broad ward, his arm held off to the right of his body and slightly above parallel to the ground at shoulder height. A classic fighting stance.
The position might not seem to offer much protection but, as d’Artagnan was all too well aware, it helped to draw an opponent in closer in preparation for an offensive strike. The ward guarded well against cuts while still offering protection from thrust by both sword blade and dagger.
In the moonlight, Athos’ smile of pure pleasure was easily seen. He looked relaxed, like a man who had spent time with a lover, rather than being pitted against a series of opponents, their antipathy fuelled by drink. His slightly twisted smile told the Red Guards all they needed to know. If they wanted to stay alive, now was a good time to back off.
“We meant no harm…” the uninjured one said quickly, almost tripping over his words in his haste. “It was a joke, Musketeer, only a joke…”
Athos’ smile widened. “Of course, gentlemen, I am only too aware of that. If your words and actions had not been in jest, I can assure you that your throats would now be leaking blood, rather than your arms and legs, And, after four bottles of wine, I lack my normal precision, so maybe I would have struck more deeply than I intended…”
“’e always did ‘ave a way with words,” Porthos said, his arm now slung around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “Fancy, right fancy.”
“Looks to me like they’ve had enough.” Aramis backed up his words with a boot to the arse of the man nearest him, who was pressing his cloak hard against the leaking wound in his leg.
The man stumbled and glared but the fight had gone out of all of Richelieu’s men, and they stumbled away, cursing under their breaths.
“I believe my parentage has just been impugned,” Athos remarked, with the over-stated precision of the exceedingly drunk.
“Your ears did not deceive you, my friend,” Aramis said. “Now are you going to let me look at that nick to your arm?”
D’Artagnan’s eyes widened. He’d been watching the fight closely and he’d been unaware that any of the guards had landed a hit.
“It’s a pin prick only,” Athos said, slurring his words for the first time since stepping out from the tavern. “And I have other matters to attend to, if you’ll excuse me…” With that, he turned away, took two unsteady steps towards the alley at the side of The Wren, then doubled over and spewed his guts into the already rank mess on the ground. The alley served as the tavern’s latrine, as well as being the emptying spot for any dwelling with windows opening on that side.
The sour smell of vomit mingled unpleasantly with the stale odours of piss and shit. D’Artagnan, who’d consumed less than half the amount of wine Athos had just thrown carelessly down his throat in the course of the evening, felt his own stomach coil in sympathy.
When Athos had finished retching and spitting, he straightened up, wiped his hand across his mouth and turned back to his friends. “Thank you for your support, gentlemen.”
Porthos grinned widely and clapped Athos hard on the back causing him to stagger and cough up. “Never doubted you for a moment. Had to make sure the whelp kept out of it, though.”
“We’d hate to lead him into bad ways,” Aramis commented, smiling widely at d’Artagnan.
“So d’Artagnan the trainee Musketeer is still funny?” d’Artagnan queried, already knowing the answer to his question.
“Absolutely!” Aramis said.
“Certainly is!” Porthos confirmed.
“As long as you still doubt your elders and betters,” Athos added.
D’Artagnan threw Athos a sharp look. “Had you really drunk four bottles of wine?”
A hurt puppy look settled on Athos’ pale face, wholly at odds with the predatory expression he’d displayed when in combat with Richelieu’s men. “I’m sorry to tell you this but I lied…” Athos’ smile held a mixture of apology and mischief, “…in truth it was five, not four.”
With that, Athos turned on his heel and set off in the direction of the garrison, rather than his own lodgings.
Porthos clapped d’Artagnan on the shoulder again. “Your turn to make sure he gets back safely.”
D’Artagnan rolled his eyes theatrically. “While I’m gone you two can worm your way back in Black Jacques’ favour and get another bottle in.”
Part 2
no subject
Date: 2015-02-18 09:39 pm (UTC)