du_vallon | (no subject)

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Paris is still not one of Porthos' favourite places. There are too many ill memories here that he had been happy to leave behind to the country. He thinks that Athos' business could use someone else, especially since it seems all Porthos is doing is toting around items throughout the trip to make sure Athos never wants for anything. It's all fine and well, but right now, there's an idiot of a bloke who's cornered Athos outside the house they'd just been in.

Porthos is at a distance, but he can still hear a bit of things, and it's just enough to make him drift closer.

"...it's a funny thing, really, seeing you show your face here after the utter disgrace you left Paris in," the noble man is saying, his voice dripping with condescension that Porthos doesn't like in the least. It's the sort of tone that gets his hackles up and makes him want to rebel immediately. "And here I thought that wife-killer was an apt nom de guerre to keep you out of society. I was mistaken, it seems."

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They are leaving a townhome of a distant relative who owes Athos a favor (politics has taught him the fine and delicate art of trading favors) when the man approaches him so quickly that he does not even have the time to pretend he did not see the man. His hat is barely on his head what the man is there before him, cruel and taunting.

Athos takes a small breath, but otherwise barely allowed an eyelash to flicker. He has heard it all before, though the man willing to insult him to his face is rare.

“Comte de Lambert. Excuse me, I am on the king’s business.” His voice is soft and dangerous, though he says nothing more as he attempts to step by.

Lambert doesn't allow such a thing to stop him and Porthos tenses up even more, thinking that if this keeps on as it has been, he might have to do the unthinkable and make his presence known and just endure whatever hateful things are about to be said to him. Lambert grasps at Athos' shoulder. "Come, now," he says, friendly enough but his tone is filled with acid. "You used to have time for your friends before you created a social outcast's home for yourself."

"I hear you nearly drown each night at La Fère."

Athos can feel Porthos bristling behind him; it is all the more reason to extricate himself from the situation quickly. He has noticed the protective streak the other man has acquired towards him, but a fight here would end badly for all parties involved.

“I think you must be mistaking me for someone else, then,” he notes with a cool arch of his brow. “For I am certain that we were never friends. Come.” The last he directs at Porthos, jerking his arm away from Lambert’s grip.

"You don't really have friends, do you?" Lambert remarks. "Or if you do, you'll have killed them with caring. Isn't that what happened to precious little Thomas and your wife?" His words are cut off, though, given that Porthos has snapped and is unable to take a single second more of this. Pushing past Athos, his elbow has pinned Lambert up to the nearest alleywall, a dangerous look in his eyes.

"Not a word more," Porthos warns.

"Or what?" Lambert wheezes out, gaping at him. "Athos, call off your mongrel."

“Porthos.” Athos means to speak the name as a command, but it comes out with half a laugh instead, just a little unsteady around the edges with his surprise. There’s something admittedly satisfying in the sound of Lambert’s head cracking against the alley’s stone wall, and though he knows he should not encourage the already dangerous situation, some not quite extinguished fire within him flames, and he draws his sword instead. “Apologize,” he tells Lambert, “or answer me like a gentleman."

Porthos' firm glare is fixed on Lambert, refusing to let go of his neck, especially when the man looks inclined to keep on going and offer no apology. In fact, his snort of derision makes Porthos haul him off and away from the wall, shoving him into the alley and giving Athos a firm glare as he gives him a push, too, at the shoulder.

"Stay out of this," he warns, following Lambert and bending over to drive his shoulder into the man's gut, sending him falling to the ground. Lambert's steady protests of accusation and arrest are the only thing that make Porthos stop, but not before three good hits have been landed to Lambert's jaw.

"Go," Porthos insists firmly. "And if you tell anyone about this, I'll tell them how you were disrespecting the Comte de la Fere."

Athos should have guessed that it wouldn’t end that easily. He sees fury flash in Lambert’s eyes - the bone-deep kind that echoes back through generations of expectation and privilege. The alley is dark, and perhaps that is why they had not spotted the men lingering in the shadows until they start to move.

Lambert scrambles to his feet and draws his sword just as two brutish lackeys close in on Porthos. Athos shouts his name again - a warning this time - and charges at Lambert with all the fury he had kept hidden during the earlier taunting.

It doesn't take much for to react. Lambert's men are small, wiry, and fight with more grace than he's ever seen in his life. Porthos is filled with brute force and firm swinging rage. It doesn't take him very long to set them into the ground, knocking them out with little more than a few moments of effort. Once done, he's breathing heavily, bent almost in half as he stares at Lambert and Athos, not daring to get in between them.

"Still have some fight in you," Lambert remarks, as if thrilled. "And here I thought you'd rolled over to play dead."

Something changes in Athos when he draws his sword; he becomes somehow both calmer and more dangerous, with a glint in his eye that matches his steel. By the time Porthos has dispatched the lackeys, he has struck out at Lambert, but mostly for show, easily parried. His smile is all ice. “Leave now, if you wish,” he tells Lambert with perfect politeness, “and you will depart unharmed, with my word never to speak of this."

The cowardice of Lambert's true motivations flickers and with Athos' offer, he sees the opening. Porthos can see it on his face, having pegged cowards often in his life before. Settling away his sword, he lifts up his chin as if to challenge Athos some more. "You're not worth my time," is his disparaging remark, that condoning gaze sliding to Porthos with disgust. "Let the papers have at you. From a thief wife to a thief manservant," he notes.

"That's what she was, wasn't she? We all talked of it," he says, but he's backing away. "Comte," is his departing remark before he's off with a quickness of his step that belies fear.

Porthos glowers at his departing figure, irritated and furious and so very done with this whole mess for now. He unrolls his sleeves and glances sideways at Athos. "Are you all right?" he asks gruffly.

Athos would have taken great joy in thrashing a fool like Lambert, but he won’t attack a man whose back is turned, and will not break his word. He’s breathing hard as he sheathes his sword, for as the moment passes and adrenaline leaves him, shame is swiftly taking its place. Few man are stupid enough to say to his face what Lambert has just said, but Athos knows that most members of society think it. For a moment, he thinks he might be sick right there in the alleyway, but miraculously he forces back the nausea, directing his attention to Porthos.

“Fine,” he answers, turning to the man with concern in his eyes. Porthos had bested the other men quickly, but at what cost? “Are you hurt?"

Porthos keeps his gaze lower, rolling his shoulders back and assessing whether he's fine. "Few bruises is all," he mutters, still eyeing the bodies to see if they'll come around. He thinks they're knocked out completely; Lambert will have to come back and fetch them later. "You probably want a drink, don't you?" he says knowingly, having come into the habit of guessing Athos' chosen vices in times like this.

“Are you certain?” Athos asks, taking a few steps towards Porthos as he spots a blooming bruise on the man’s jaw. He reaches out, nearly brushing his thumb against Porthos’ cheek, but thinking better of it at the last moment.

In response to the question, he looks away, but cannot disagree. “We can take the carriage to my townhouse."

Porthos watches the way Athos nearly touches him and swallows back the fervent murmur that he wants that touch more than anything, especially to ground him after such an encounter. Breathing steadily, though, he nods. "Right," he agrees, because privacy is tantamount in society, right? That's how this goes.

"Lead the way," he offers, with a gesture of his hand to the waiting street.

With a tight now, Athos turns on his heels and returns to the carriage where they have left it on the last street. His hands are not quite shaking, but it takes him two tries to tug open the carriage door. Athos hauls himself in, and the door has barely closed when the driver has started them on their way.

There’s nothing he wants more than to be dragged into Porthos’ arms and made to forget the entire afternoon, but he forces himself back for now. For all he knows, Porthos may not even want to look at him from what he must have gathered from Lambert's taunts in the street.

Porthos follows at a slow pace, dragging his feet as he walks. He's not exactly pleased about any of the things Lambert's said, made to be reminded of what he is, really, even though Athos has elevated him (but he's still a servant, isn't he? He's no equal). He crawls into the other side of the carriage and rubs his hands up and down his thighs, keeping his head bowed low.

"Are all your friends so nice?" is what he wonders.

"He was never my friend." As tied up in his own woes as Athos may be, he doesn't miss the way that Porthos uncharacteristically refuses to meet his gaze. "He is a fool and a coward." He wishes desperately that he could add 'liar' to the list of Lambert's failings, but at their root, much of what the man had said was true.

"Yeah, fool and a coward with a sharp tongue," is what he has to say about the man whose acquaintance he's just made. 'With too much muscle at his disposal' is thought, but held to himself. He peers out the windows, then hides back from the curtains, not wanting to attract any more unwanted attention.

It's sitting on his heart heavily, this not feeling good enough. He really, really doesn't like it.

“Most fools do.” Misunderstanding Porthos’ unhappy silence, he adds after a long moment, “I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

But by God, he wishes he could avoid it.

Porthos drags his attention away from the passing streets, a confused look on his face. "For what?" is his blank reply, given that he's not sure what explanation he needs. "Were you and him...like you and I?" he wonders curiously.

The question is so unexpected that Athos can only stare back at Porthos at first, his expression equally blank. Pothos is a quick-witted man, and surely he had understood the bits and pieces of shameful history that Lambert had laid for all to see. Athos had let a criminal trick him into marrying her, he had killed her, he had been responsible for his brother’s death. He was a known drunkard and a weak fool, barely protected by his title and the support he had shown the king during the recent war.

What did that have to do with his relation to Lambert (which is tenuous and uninteresting, that of social equals who know each other’s names and little more), and why would Porthos leap to that conclusion?

“What?"

Porthos frowns, shaking his head. "You said you owed me an explanation, but I don't see why. He's a fool and a liar and an idiot if he thinks I'm going to believe the nonsense he spouted off," Porthos insists, wondering if Athos thinks he's that slow-witted as to actually believe such ridiculous things. Even though Lambert might have been right about Porthos' thieving ways, it's only because he'd been insulting Athos.

Ah.

Strange as it might sound, Athos still forgets the loyalty he has won from Porthos, loyalty he surely does not deserve. He has shown the man decency and kindness, and has asked for comfort in exchange, and from that, Porthos has extrapolated that he is a man worth defending.

Selfishly, he clings to this fact a few moments longer, savoring that which he is certain he is about to destroy.

“Marcelin de Lambert is a fool, but he is not a liar. At least not in that instance.”

Before he can say more, the carriage comes to a stop, and the driver pulls it open.

Porthos stays in the carriage longer than he necessarily needs to, only exiting after Athos has gone. It turns his stomach because if that man had been telling the truth, then Porthos isn't the first thief in Athos' life. That means he was married to one before? How could that be? He follows slowly, staring at Athos with confusion and worry.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," he offers, thinking to be kind and protect Athos, if he can.

Athos doesn’t reply right away. Without looking back, he enters the house and hands off his cloak to a waiting servant, all the while his heart beating hard in his chest. He waits only long enough to be sure that Porthos is behind him and then says, “I will be in my room. Bring me up a bottle of wine.”

If he can keep his chin high and his voice steady, perhaps he can hold himself together a little while longer.