Consolation (Three Musketeers, Athos/d’Artagnan)

Porthos looked up from the bosom of a rather feisty wench, his eyes rolling slightly in indication that he was already on his way to being fully drunk. “Get what, my dear lad? I thought we covered wenching quite thoroughly, and last I recall it was not a sport that involved idly watching.”

“No,” the blonde quickly shook his head, waving off the equally feisty redhead that had accompanied Porthos’ current companion to their table. “I don’t get what’s wrong with Athos. The King’s safe, the Cardinal defeated, and France at peace. Why isn’t he celebrating with the rest of us?”

“Athos takes his drinking seriously,” Aramis informed him offhandedly, an absent wave of his cup confirming the matter as commonplace “Seriously and alone.”

“He needs a wench,” Porthos added, firmly distracted by a wench of his own.

Aramis shot the pirate a quick glare, following the look with a sultry wink towards the redhead that was sidling closer to him. “Now Porthos,” the Musketeer’s voice took on the even tone of lecture, “you know quite well that Athos wouldn’t accept that. He thinks they’re all evil, or he’s just pining after the late countess.”

Porthos seemed to sober slightly for a moment at the reminder of the Lady de Winter, but he shrugged the emotion of. “Fine, he needs a plot. Some bandits to foil or princess to save.”

“I think we can do without any trouble.” D’Artagnan looked away slightly as the redhead planted herself firmly in Aramis’ lap, imploring looks demanding a kiss from the priest. He winked quickly at d’Artagnan. “He’ll be back to his normal sunny countenance in the morning.”