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the-hinky-panda · 1 month

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The Fall Series: Part II

Taglist: @bullet-prooflove, @kmc1989, @trublu2u, @nsr-15

It’s in the middle of the night when Porthos kisses you in the forge.

The day had been long. You had shown the four men around the forge, pointed out where you had found your grandfather, the blood that had seeped between the stones of the floor still there. You walked the perimeter of the property, showed them the rabbit trails, garden area, and small stream. You walked them into the village proper, introduced them to some of the men who were clients and the women who were war widows, hopeful to catch a distinguished retired Musketeer’s eye.

Their reaction to your presence was different than all previous ones. They were still standoffish, uncomfortable in their conversation, but it was softened with pity now. There was an acknowledgement that you had lost your only friend. You were given baskets with bread, fresh vegetables, and eggs. They were heartfelt tokens of grief, well intentioned to bring you a small amount of peace, and you accepted them with a humble heart. Perhaps you could stay here after all. Perhaps they could learn to accept you.

You put the vegetables to good use when you return to the house, making a stew with them with some salted beef. It’s the best way you can think of to feed four soldiers. It’s different cooking for more than just two people but they seemed appreciative of your efforts. They were good houseguests as well. They helped both with setting up for the evening meal and cleaning it up afterwards. They were courteous, and surprisingly good company. For the first time since the murder, you didn’t feel so alone. The house felt more alive now too, not empty. It was like being part of a family.

Athos and Aramis took your grandfather’s room for the evening, while D’Artagnan slept in the living room on the settee that has seen better days. Porthos offered to stand guard just in case the killer returned to finish the job by killing you. Despite all the protection you could wish for, you’re still restless, still unable to sleep. You climb out of your bed, tie your skirts around your waist and grab a wool shawl before heading outside towards the forge.

Porthos is stationed outside the barn, sitting on a bale of straw, staring into the darkness. You’re two steps out of the house when his eyes zero in on you. His degree of vigilance is impressive and you understand why he’s part of the team that Treville sent to investigate your grandfather’s death. You give him a small wave as you make your way to the forge and aren’t surprised when he stands up and meets you there at the entrance.

“Everything alright?”

You nod. “Just restless, couldn’t sleep.”

“I get that.”

You pick up a couple pieces of firewood and place them in the forge itself. You pull some kindling out of a basket and place it under the logs, before using a fire striker to start the fire. You’ve been in charge of starting the fire in the forge since you were a child, still playing with dolls. There’s some comfort in continuing the practice, even if the smithy isn’t going to show.

“My grandfather used to say that if your mind is restless, it’s best to get up and do something with your hands. Wear out your mind, wear out your hands, sleep will come.”

“Wise words.” Porthos leans against the beam at the front of the forge. It still gives him a view of the front of the property but allows him to carry on a conversation with you. “We will find out who’s behind this.”

“I know.” You pick up a steel rod, one you had crafted as a poker for your grandfather. “Captain Treville and my grandfather have been close friends for many years. If anyone can help sort out this terrible mess, it’s him. He obviously has high regard for you all.”

“So you know the Captain well?”

“You could say that.” You give him a small smile. “The Captain is my godfather.”

“Really?” Porthos gives a quiet chuckle. “Just when you think you can’t be surprised by someone anymore.”

You stoke the fire, adding another piece of wood. There’s still a few more orders of horseshoes and some gardening tools that need mending. You feel most at peace here, like your grandfather is still here and will suddenly appear, asking why you’re chatting instead of working. It loosens your tongue and drops your guard when speaking to Porthos.

“I used to pretend he was my father. Whenever the Captain would come out to visit with my grandfather, I would always pretend he was my actual father returning from the battlefield, ready to take me home finally.” You feel tears prick the back of your eyes. “Then he would leave, and I would create this new adventure in my mind. Some new mission the King is sending him on and home will have to wait until next time. Pretty silly, huh?”

You chance a glance over at Porthos to find him completely focused on you and your story. His eyes once again hold that understanding, that acceptance, of what you’ve experienced, he has too.

“I don’t think that’s silly at all.” It’s his turn to give an uneasy smile, the one that always precedes the exposure of a personal piece of information. “I used to make up all kinds of stories about who my father really was, why he wasn’t with my mother and me. He was an explorer, captured by the Spanish. I even thought that maybe he had been robbed on his way home, hit over the head, and forgot where we lived. And one day, he would eventually find us again.”

“Did you ever find out who he was? What happened?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. Not yet. My mother died when I was about five. Grew up in the Court of Miracles, taken in by anyone who needed an extra hand. Anyone who knew anything about my father wasn’t going to say anything.”

“There’s still time, Porthos. You may get that answer yet. And who knows? You may even get to meet him.”

“Perhaps.” He clears his throat, a signal of wanting to change the subject. “What about you? Did you ever find out who your father was?”

“No, not yet. I have bits and pieces of information, but nothing substantial.” You lay out the tools you’ll need to fix some of the gardening tools. It’s a quieter job than hammering out horseshoes. “My mother kept a journal and saved some letters. All I have is an initial and I’m not sure if it’s a first name or last name, but my mother addressed the letters to ‘A.’”

“That’s more information than I have.”

“But then I wonder,” you lean back against the table where your tools are. “Is it worth finding out? I have a good life. My grandfather loved me, poured his life into me…” You can’t keep talking, tears overwhelming your throat and eyes. You may have had a good life but that’s all gone now, dead and buried with your grandfather. You’re alone now, alone to fend for yourself in a world built for men.

“Hey.”

You feel a light touch on your shoulder and you see Porthos has moved from his position at the front of the forge. It doesn’t take much, just the slightest invitation of open arms and you bury your face against the collar of his shirt. He makes soothing noises as he holds you loosely, rubbing circles against your back. It’s the first genuine comfort someone has offered you since the murder.

“When my mother died,” he says softly, “I felt so alone, like I was the only person left alive in Paris. I was so scared, wondering how I was going to make it without her.”

“That’s understandable,” you say into the cotton of his shirt that’s soaking up your tears. “You were five, still a small child. I’m…much more than five.”

You hear him laugh, and feel it too. It’s a deep, booming sound that comes from his chest. “Much more than five, indeed.” He quiets again. “But the feelings are still the same when you lose a parent. You’ve lost that protection, that safety.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. It feels like working around the forge without gloves or an apron. Or going into battle without a shield.”

“But listen to me,” he pulls away slightly, his hands coming up to hold your face between them so you’re looking directly into his eyes. “You’re not without protection. It’s just going to look different now. Different battle, different armor.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He wipes away your tears with his thumbs and you give him a shaky smile, but you can tell he doesn’t want to let go just yet. And if you’re being honest with yourself, you don’t want him to either. You realize with a start that this is the first time a man has touched you in such an intimate way and you’re not sure if you want him to stop. Your fingers curl tighter into the soft material of his shirt and he takes that as a permission to lean forward and press his lips to yours.

It’s a slight brush at first, a test. But then you stretch up to your full height and give him no reason to doubt that you want this. Then it is like being devoured. His hands are in your hair and on your waist, strong but not overbearing. You keep hold of his shirt and match his movements. It’s exhilarating, intoxicating. You don’t want to let go, to stop.

“Elise!”

The two of you break apart, startled by Athos’ shout. At first you think it’s because he caught you and Porthos but you realize there’s another reason as he’s scanning the area for you. You smooth down your hair and straighten your shawl. Porthos is doing the same, tugging the wrinkles out of his shirt, but he gives you a small smile.

“I hate it when he interrupts.”

You laugh slightly. “So this happens often?”

A more serious look crosses his face. “Not that often, no.”

You take his hand, kissing the ridges of his knuckles. “That’s good to hear.”

Athos starts towards the barn. “Porthos!”

“Must be something serious,” Porthos says before stepping out of the forge. You follow a step behind. “Athos.”

The other Musketeer stops and turns on his heel when his eyes lock with yours. As he comes closer to you, he holds up a small sprig of flowers. “What is this?”

You look closer at it, wondering why he is so alarmed by some dried forget-me-nots.

#porthos x reader #porthos x you #porthos x ofc #porthos fic #porthos bbc musketeers #bbc musketeers #the musketeers

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the-hinky-panda · 1 month

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The Fall Series: Part I

Title: The Fall Series: Part I

Pairing: Porthos x Reader (reader has a name), Porthos x OFC

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Your grandfather, the Musketeers head armorer, raised you as a child when your father abandoned your mother and she died of a broken heart. Now you're grown, a pariah in your small village outside of Paris when someone murders your grandfather. There's only one person you can go to that will help, Captain Treville.

Taglist: @bullet-prooflove, @kmc1989, @trublu2u, @nsr-15

The moment you walk into the garrison and request to see Captain Treville, Porthos falls in love. It is that instant. He knows your name, Elise DuBois, and nothing else. But he can arrive at a significant amount of conjecture. Your horse is standard fare, solid, well groomed, but a small draft horse that can serve multiple purposes around a farm. Your clothes are similar, practical with no adornments. The only jewelry he can spot are a set of gold combs with pearls that are holding together a riot of curls and a small gold crucifix around your slender neck. You’re taller than most women, thin but strong. Your posture and movements remind him of a sword blade, bendable but unbreakable. Overall, you’re a picture of elegant practicality.

And you’re the most beautiful thing he’s seen in a very long time.

“And who is this new, lovely face in our garrison?”

Porthos gives a passing glance over his shoulder to see Aramis leaning on one of the pillars. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

It’s a good question, one for which Porthos has an answer but doesn’t want to speak it. Don’t charm this one. Don’t compete with me for her affections because I wouldn’t be able to take it if she chose you. The answer he comes up with is much less elegant. “Just…don’t.”

The Captain appears in the courtyard and he greets the woman with a warm smile and embrace. But the expression on the captain’s face clouds over as whatever news she brought is delivered.

“A beautiful face bearing bad news,” Aramis sighs. “Isn’t that the way of it?”

Treville passes by them, makes the hasty request to find Athos and D'Artagnan and meet in his office. Porthos determines then and there that whatever it is, whatever mission Treville sends them on to assist her, he’s going to succeed. He’s tired of being just France’s champion.

***

You peel your gloves off your hands and twist them in your lap. “I appreciate you meeting with me on such short notice. I wish it were for a happier reason.”

Treville sets a cup of water down in front of you. “Me too. Claude was a good friend, a mentor. He’ll be greatly missed. Who’s taking over his forge?”

You just give him a shrewd look and he nods in understanding.

“Promise not to tell though,” you request. “As soon as the village finds out I’m the one making their horseshoe quota, I may be out of business. But he taught me everything he knew. Iron, steel, even a little metalworking for charms. That’s how I started. He would let me melt down the scraps and play with them.” You grow quiet as those memories of time spent in the forge fill your mind, next to your grandfather as he showed you how to roll soft metal into the desired shape, the heat of the fire, the hiss of hot steel and iron being plunged into a cold bucket of water.

The door opens and four men walk into the room. Two you recognize from the courtyard, two you haven’t seen before. Treville introduces you to the two unfamiliar ones, the serious Athos and young D'Artagnan. The two from the courtyard are Aramis, a debonair flirt, and Porthos, a sturdy soldier. He had been the one staring at you while you waited for Treville.

You were used to people staring at you. You were too tall, too strong for a woman. And if that wasn’t enough to keep you unapproachable, your reputation as an illegitimate child of a nun usually finished off any interest. The villagers certainly didn’t pay you any mind. And despite your grandfather’s efforts, no suitors ever darkened your door either. But Porthos seemed different, his gaze towards you was different than most. Almost as if he already knew everything about you and accepted it, accepted you. It left you unnerved but curious.

“Gentlemen, this is Elise DuBois,” Treville introduces. “Her grandfather was Claude DuBois, the head armorer for the Musketeers when I was a cadet. I had only just been commissioned for a couple years when he went into retirement. He moved out to a small village on the outskirts of Paris, worked as a blacksmith, and raised Elise when her mother passed away. Now, she’s come to us for help. She believes Claude was murdered and wants our help in finding the culprit.”

“With all due respect, what makes you think he was murdered?” Athos asks.

You try to blink back the images that immediately spring to your mind’s eye of finding your grandfather laying in a pool of blood on the stone floor of the forge. “His throat was cut.”

Athos nods. “Anyone you would suspect? Unhappy clients, transients moving through your village, possible suitors?”

“No,” you shake your head. “Our village is small, everyone knows each other and transients don’t tend to stop there. My grandfather was well-loved by the people around us. I, not so much. I’m a pariah to them. If they were going to harm anyone, it would have been me, not him.”

“Which means,” Treville breaks in, “whoever did this may point suspicion towards Elise to keep it from themselves.”

“And I can assure you all, I had nothing to do with my grandfather’s death.”

There’s a polite silence that follows your statement. You realize they have no reason to believe you but if they were the ones that Treville trusted enough to investigate, you figured that suspicion should be immediately laid to rest.

Treville stands up from behind his desk. “I’ve known Elise since she was a child, her grandfather even longer. They are two of the most honest and upright people to walk the earth, let alone France. If she says he was murdered and she had no hand in it, I believe her. Justice needs to be served, proper justice.” Porthos, who has remained steadfastly quiet during this entire meeting, immediately answers with intense sincerity. “Then we’ll deliver it. You have my word.” He pauses for a moment before amending his statement. “Our word.”

#porthos x reader #porthos x you #porthos x ofc #porthos #the musketeers #bbc musketeers #porthos bbc musketeers

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