You Owe Me
a Three Musketeers story
by Niki
"Asshiff!" Aramis sneezed suddenly. He was Porthos' second for a duel. Porthos' honor had been `deeply' wounded by a new musketeer who had the idiocy to call Porthos a gentleman. Even now, as the lad looked terrified of the future Porthos would bestow upon him, he continued to insult him.
"So, you think me a gentleman? You know nothing about me. How dare you say such things!" Porthos stated.
"But, you are a musketeer," the man stammered. "I was certain a gentleman such as yourself would never be caught wenching. And that young maiden was decidedly below your rank."
Aramis winced. That young man just through himself from the pot into the fire.
"I will decide who is below my rank you belligerent little turnip," Porthos said as he lunged at him and stabbed the man in the right arm.
"Hetchaa!" Aramis sneezed again. He had been hiding a cold for about week, but now his nose and throat ticked tremendously, and he knew his act was up.
As the young man grabbed his arm, Porthos withdrew. "That will teach you to speak about things which you don't understand." And, with that he walked off the field.
As Aramis took his sword, Porthos asked if he was alright.
Aramis coked an eyebrow at him. "Of course I am. Why would you ask such a thing?"
"You were sneezing."
"It's nothing."
Without anything to convince him of otherwise, Porthos bought the lie. "All right."
"That rain is really coming down," the bar maid said to Aramis, as she handed him his drink.
"I can think of other things that go down," Porthos interjected.
The bar maid flashed him a pretty grin and in a matter of moments she was under the table and he was groaning.
Aramis watched Athos, who always drank alone. He needed someone to talk to. He needed a priest. He needed Aramis, Aramis decided.
Aramis walked over and sat down, uninvited.
"Can I help you?" Athos asked gruffly.
"Actually, I was wondering if I could help you."
"No."
Leaning across the table, Aramis whispered, "Look, I know you've had some – assheaff!" Then he started coughing steadily. He cleared his throat and started again. "I know you've had some rough times, but you know anything you say to me with just be between you, me, and God."
"See, that's the problem. I don't want God involved."
Aramis sniffed lightly. "Ashoom!" and sneezed heavily.
"You're sick, aren't you?"
"It's nothing."
"It's never nothing."
Aramis shook his head. "It's nothing." He took a swig of the whiskey Athos handed to him and reveled in the feeling as it chased the chill out of his bones.
"Now, what is it?" Athos asked again.
"It's just a cold."
Athos nodded. "How long?"
"About a w-wee-acttssh! Week."
"And you didn't tell anybody?"
Aramis shrugged. "Who would I tell? And why?"
"Come on," Athos said, getting up. "We're getting you to bed before you catch your death."
"But, you're drinking!" Aramis exclaimed. Athos didn't leave his alcohol for just anything.
"You owe me," Athos replied, and pulled Aramis out the door.
To: tarotgal