Porthos stares right back defiantly, lower lip jutting out. "I've been shot and stabbed and knocked out. I've never broken anything." He tries to adjust, so that he can prop his leg up, which he's been told by Aramis and the doctor he ought to do. In the process, he heaves out short breaths of effort, giving a pained cry before he manages. "You're not a very good nurse, you know," he says bluntly, the medicine giving him courage. "Aramis is much nicer."

Sometimes. When he hasn't got the idea in his mind that Porthos has injured himself on purpose.