Dated early November
To say that Porthos is unhappy and in pain is an understatement. For a man who's had axes buried in his body, musket balls pulled out of him, and all other manner of injury (not to mention the knife to his eye and the tattoo), the fractured bones in his foot are proving to be one of the most painful things he's ever had to cope with. The hospice had set a cast on him and Aramis had procured him enough drugs, but there's a business to run and d'Artagnan's life shouldn't be made to revolve around him. Still, there's a reason the boys have to knock him out so often and it's because Porthos has a very bad habit of being an awful, awful patient.
Whining as he tries to adjust his foot, Porthos looks forlornly to the kitchen.
Aramis had left ten minutes ago, whispering something with Athos, but Porthos is already tired of sitting around while the cat mounts him like a playground. He casts his gaze around and shifts his weight onto his thighs, readying himself to stand on his feet and hobble to the kitchen for a drink. The pills that he'd taken surely will be fine, despite Aramis' constant proclamations that his liver will thank him if he doesn't.
Porthos nearly makes it to the kitchen, too, except that the cat darts out in front of him and to avoid jumping on the thing, Porthos smacks his broken foot against the table. The pained yowl he lets out is nearly inhuman, followed by a swift and steady line of curses as he falls back onto the chaise, groaning as he presses his temple to the fabric. He'd slept on this thing for months. How is it that it's so uncomfortable now?
Whining as he tries to adjust his foot, Porthos looks forlornly to the kitchen.
Aramis had left ten minutes ago, whispering something with Athos, but Porthos is already tired of sitting around while the cat mounts him like a playground. He casts his gaze around and shifts his weight onto his thighs, readying himself to stand on his feet and hobble to the kitchen for a drink. The pills that he'd taken surely will be fine, despite Aramis' constant proclamations that his liver will thank him if he doesn't.
Porthos nearly makes it to the kitchen, too, except that the cat darts out in front of him and to avoid jumping on the thing, Porthos smacks his broken foot against the table. The pained yowl he lets out is nearly inhuman, followed by a swift and steady line of curses as he falls back onto the chaise, groaning as he presses his temple to the fabric. He'd slept on this thing for months. How is it that it's so uncomfortable now?
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He disappears into the kitchen. “Aramis told me not to give you any wine, no matter how you pleaded."
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He shifts, wincing as he gets his foot propped up with a pillow, panting at the effort it takes. "Is that what the two of you were whispering on about? Restricting my alcohol? Honestly, why I like the man, I've no idea," he mutters.
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Finding Porthos still all akimbo, Athos sets down the wine and offers the man his hand for support, so that he might pull himself to rights. “He has been reading foolish things on the mixing of drink and opiates, or so I gather."
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Which is when he scowls and sets the wine out of his reach, thumping back against the chaise with a pout. "And if I drink it, he'll find out and be cross," he mutters. "Maybe more pills, is all I need. Or you could help me to the kitchen?" he suggests hopefully. "I'm going out of my mind, Athos. Please."
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He sends Porthos a skeptical look. “You just fell trying to get to the kitchen. Stay where you are.”
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“This is why we knock you out."
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But it might do them both some good. “Have you eaten?”
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"You could feed me and then keep me company by talking?"
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He may have been joking. Maybe.
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"It's not my fault it hurts," he complains. "I've never broken my foot before, I didn't know it could hurt this badly."
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Sometimes. When he hasn't got the idea in his mind that Porthos has injured himself on purpose.
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As though to make that very point, he shifts Porthos injured leg - efficiently and carefully, but perhaps not kindly - and adjusts the pillows underneath. “Never?” That’s rather surprising. Porthos has led the sort of life that make escaping a broken limb or two nearly miraculous. But then, some would say that the fact that the man is alive at all is a miracle of its own.
Athos reaches for his wine again. “I fell out of a tree once. As a child."
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From Athos, that's practically a confession. "Did you break anything?"
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“My arm. I was a much worse patient than you. Of course,” he offers Porthos a flicker of a smirk, “I was also seven years old."
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He looks down at the finger pressing into his chest, and then up into Porthos’ eyes; they’re closer, somehow, than he expects, and his stomach does a flip. “Would you not?"
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