Not again

[praiseandglory]

When Porthos stepped into their tent and found himself in a strange, yet familiar hallway, he knew exactly where he was. On either side of the hallway were doors - to rooms, suites, and many more strange places beside. The noises of the camp were gone, but the smell remained, on him, of gunpowder and blood, soot and grime. His usually elegant clothes had seen better days, his now longer hair was tied back and mostly hidden under a kerchief that might have once been white. His pistol was empty and he needed to clean his sword - Treville's sword.

The battlefield was now miles and years away, for all that it was also, somehow, right on the other side of a door. And, in his current mood, that made his blood boil as surely as Spanish insults.

"Not again!" he yelled, and punched the nearest wall with a gloved hand. He winced at the pain, but there was a dent in the wall now, and that felt slightly better.

Comments

[averygoodshot]

Aramis would know that shout anywhere. No time apart, no seeming danger, nothing. That voice is perhaps the voice of Aramis's conscience.

Of course, Porthos is not the only one who's found himself back here when he hadn't necessarily wanted to. It seems this Nexus has something of a grip on at least Aramis as well.

"Breaking your hand will hardly serve you," he notes. It is so very good to see Porthos, after all. How long has it been? Too long, it seems, judging by the warmth in his heart.

[praiseandglory]

Too long, by far, in a much darker way, for the way Aramis's voice strikes a slash of hurt across Porthos' chest. Instead of whirling around on him, Porthos takes a few seconds, making that hurt his own, before he turns around to face Aramis. "It isn't broken," he simply answers, his tone too even, the mark that he is holding things back.

[averygoodshot]

Porthos always has carried his heart, large and expressive, on his sleeve, hasn't he? Aramis shouldn't be surprised that he's hurt. Those years ago, he had to say no to going to war. He had - has- a penance to carry out. Too many women have died or nearly died because of him.

The cowl of his robe is a pristine white as he comes closer, his beard and moustache immaculately groomed. He gazes at Porthos warmly, smiling. "It is good to see you, my friend."

[praiseandglory]

"I'm sure it is," Porthos scowls. No need to ask when Aramis is from, from the look of him. He's from after abandoning them, that's when. "Are Athos and d'Artagnan here?" Athos, at least, has always seemed able to come and go between the hotel and their lives as he pleases.

[averygoodshot]

A different form of penance, then. All right. It isn't as if Aramis doesn't deserve it. (Though, he thinks, that his friends would be more understanding.)

"I don't know," he says, letting his hands drop. It's then that he looks Porthos over, head to toe. "Are you all right? are you injured?"

[praiseandglory]

"I'm fine," Porthos replies gruffly, because the cut on his arm is nothing but a scratch. The worst is that part of him is glad to see Aramis. It just makes his absence all the more wrong. He pauses, then adds, "I'll go see if my room's still free." While he's in this place again, he might as well make the most of it, and he would be lying if he said he hadn't missed showers.

[averygoodshot]

Just like that? Hurt flashes through Aramis's eyes and his shoulders lower just a little. "May I accompany you?" he asks, still searching Porthos's face.

Did he do such a terrible job of explaining his motives for staying at the monastery? Perhaps he had.

[praiseandglory]

"If you like," Porthos answers, already turning to go. This isn't the right floor for his room, so he's headed for the nearest stairs.

[averygoodshot]

"You came from the front," Aramis doesn't so much as state the obvious, walking a half-step behind. He has noted the war coming closer to the walls of the monastery. He would be lying if he said it hadn't been on his mind. Caring for the children, however, took a good deal of his time.

[praiseandglory]

"Yeah," Porthos confirms, shouldering the door to the stairs open. (He never got used to the lift.)

[averygoodshot]

While Aramis had no doubt he could again win Porthos's friendship, it isn't going to be easy, is it?

He follows down the stairs quietly. His robe may not be the most practical garb here. He will wait until Porthos finds his room to see if he is invited in to talk.

[praiseandglory]

When Porthos finds the door to his old room, it's unlocked, and the key is in the lock on the inside. The few possessions he had gathered during his stay are still inside, he finds out as he ventures further into the room. Including a few changes of clothes, still here in the closet. Those are going to be very welcome, after his shower. "I'm going to take a shower," he tells Aramis as he grabs some fresh clothes, and he walks into the bathroom to do just that.

It's difficult, looking at Aramis in that robe, so he's done as little of it as possible, only briefly making eye contact before turning away.

[averygoodshot]

It's difficult to not be looked at actually, and not entirely because, no matter how long he's spent in a monastery, Aramis is still vain. It's just that so much of the communication between the two of them has been nonverbal and now, Porthos won't even look at him.

"Would you rather I left you alone?" he asks, standing in the doorway.

[armedagainstlove]

Athos has been here for a week now, since the losses of the last battle. Two years into the war with Spain and each victory is as laborious and difficult as each loss, leading him to the hotel to lick his wounds. It's left him feeling like an old man, but one that at least finds respite in sleep and good food.

"Porthos," he chides calmly, regarding the new dent in the wall. "I hardly think the wall deserves what the Spaniards do."

[praiseandglory]

"No, but I feel slightly better now," Porthos replies, welcoming the wave of relief that sweeps through him at the sound, and, as he turns around to face him, sight, of his captain and friend. He looks Athos over as he walks over to him. "When are you from?"

[armedagainstlove]

Athos tiredly sets his things away now that he sees Porthos relent and relax. "A siege I'm more than eager to forget. The loss, near Lourdes," he says, trying not to let the weariness show on his face, though he imagines it's evident in every feature. "You look as though you've hardly been here a breath."

[praiseandglory]

"Just in from the battlefield," Porthos confirms, glad that they come from similar times, if not the exact same one. "If I'm going to be stuck here again, I'm going to have a shower. Meet in the tavern afterwards?" he offered. He needed a shower (he had missed those), and a lot of wine. He hoped Athos had funds for the wine, for that matter.

[armedagainstlove]

Athos consents with a nod of his head. His own hair is still dripping at the ends, but he gestures down the hall. "I'll be the one already starting in on a bottle of wine," he predicts, seeing as he does take advantage of the time he can spend drinking after so long without, on the battlefield.

[praiseandglory]

"Some things never change," Porthos remarks, with a friendly grin, never mind that some things do change. He gives Athos a nod, then turns away to head for the stairs. (He never did get the hang of lifts.)

[armedagainstlove]

Athos heads straight for the bar, trying to keep decorum in mind as he orders the bottle. True, very few here would know him for who he is back home, but he still wears a Captain's uniform and must be very cautious not to tarnish the reputation of the Musketeers. Still, he has had two large glasses by the time he sees Porthos again, pushing the other cup towards the man.

[praiseandglory]

Porthos is glad to have found his old room free, and his to use again, all of his clothing still there. It means he's been able to change out of his bloodied clothes, and he looks more like the elegant musketeer he likes to be than he did when he got to the hotel. He hasn't paid quite as much attention to his clothes as he usually does, but they are fancier than what he was wearing at the front all the same.

He pauses as he walks into the tavern, looking around both to reacquaint himself with the place (it's been years) and to spot Athos. It's easy enough, and he makes a beeline for his friend, sitting himself down across from him to pick up the cup, which he raises at him. "Thank you." Then he takes a large drink.

[armedagainstlove]

Athos' smile softens with a tender happiness to see Porthos in new clothes that aren't riddled with the dirt and blood of the battlefield. All he's wanted of his men is to keep them safe and this hotel gives them the means to do so.

"What's the last you recall, then? How is France?"

[praiseandglory]

"We're still holding our own," Porthos answers, "but we've little more news than that. Or if we do, you keep them to yourself," he added pointedly, but with a hint of a smile meaning that he didn't mind.

[armedagainstlove]

"I didn't think you would be preoccupied with the movings of small figures on maps," Athos remarks dryly, given that he himself is often moved to drinking at the sight of such dry strategies. He would never wish to impart such a heavy burden on d'Artagnan or Porthos, lest they ask for the responsibility.

[praiseandglory]

"I trust you," Porthos replies easily, which is what it boils down to. He trusts that Athos knows what's best for France, and for his men, and he trusts him to fight to align these two concerns when others would forget the latter.