Dated early November

[du_vallon]

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?

Comments

[somepoorsoul]

“I will not be bribed,” Athos insists, though already he can feel Porthos relaxing into sleep against him. Once he has drifted off, there will be no way to move him. Long-suffering as ever, he sighs, his arm slipping naturally around Porthos’ shoulder.

It really is quite comfortable here.

[du_vallon]

Porthos would reply to say that he's very good at convincing people, but he's already asleep, his lips parted and snoring softly as he nuzzles his way deeper into the warmth that Athos' body offers, leg-in-a-cast supported by a table and pillows and not much else. Still, he's found a comfortable spot to be in and he dare not move, now.

[somepoorsoul]

As a rule, Athos is not lulled by such warmth and contact. He keeps himself apart, pointedly alone. But now, buried deep, even more than alcohol, he craves the assurance in such simple touch. Without meaning to, he allows himself to drift, his head to dip towards Porthos, his eyes to slip shut.

And soon, he is asleep.