Note: Title and quotes are from "I've Got This Friend" by The Civil Wars.

This is one of those accidental fics that came out of nowhere. I recently came across these lyrics and knew I wanted to do something with them... and then yesterday I was at home sick and this happened. Apparently being ill makes me extra angsty. If you want fluff, turn away now! You have been warned :)

I've Got This Friend

Chapter One

I've got this friend
I don't think you know him
He's not much for words
He's hid in his hardened way

Porthos watched the man sitting in the corner of the tavern. Athos? Was that his name? He was certainly well into his drink, as he had been the night before... and the night before that. Porthos had paid more attention to his card games that first night. The newcomer wasn't his responsibility. But now he found his eyes continually drawn to that corner…

Athos was new to the regiment. Porthos was a fairly new recruit himself, but in the past week a slew of even newer recruits had been rushed through. Twenty two men had just perished at Savoy. The bodies had not even been brought home yet, but those bodies had been expected back, alive, and on duty days ago. They were severely lacking in manpower.

Finally Porthos threw in his cards, he had a lousy hand anyway, and made his way over to the brooding man's table.

"Mind if I join you?"

A baleful glare was his only answer. But after an uncomfortable moment Athos pushed himself up and waved an open hand to the chair opposite.

"I'm sure I've seen you at the garrison, new aren't you?"

The man's attention was entirely on his glass.

"My name is Porthos."

Athos didn't offer his own name, he just slumped a little further on the table top.

"It's Athos isn't it? Not much for words are you?" Porthos eyed the near empty bottle. "Not when you've had a drink anyway…"

He had overheard the others speaking of Athos... wondering about him, curious about where he came from… The way he talked and held himself spoke of a high born upbringing. One thing was for sure - Athos wasn't there to make friends. He certainly wasn't making any sequestered away in the tavern corner.

Porthos gave the man a sad smile. He understood being different. Whether it was the colour of his skin or his own background, the other musketeers hadn't warmed to him either. But Porthos would give it time. He hoped after cracking a few more skulls in hand to hand he would at least earn some level of respect. Thinking that birds of a feather might flock together, Porthos had come over to speak with Athos. But he wouldn't be flying anywhere tonight… The rather tipsy man tried to push himself up, he only managed to sway dangerously.

"Woah there…" Porthos reached out a hand to steady him. "Why don't you let me help you? Hm? I'll see you home safely."

Finally he spoke. "Don't need… yr… hlp…"

The words were slurred and broken, but Porthos got the gist. "Well, you're going to need help from somebody. Unless you want to spend the night on the street when they turf you out?"

He watched Athos for a moment and then moved to help the man to his feet. There were no more objections as Porthos gently manhandled him outside.

"Right, where do you live?"

The cold night air seemed to revive Athos a little. He raised his head and groggily pointed left, Porthos slowly started moving them in that direction. In this way Athos eventually managed to guide them to his door. Porthos made a note of where it was, in case he needed to take Athos home again next time… Little did he know how many 'next times' there would be.

It was the day after when they were tasked with delivering some important documents outside of Paris. Athos, Porthos, and two others took to the road. Porthos rode up ahead, with the two musketeers behind him, and Athos bringing up the rear. He could hear the men whispering and laughing under their breath. They were making fun of him, he knew... Porthos was new to riding - There was no money in the Court for food, let alone horses. He felt quite awkward on the back of his mount, and the others found his ham fisted attempts at riding quite funny. They especially laughed when the wretched beast would tear the reins from his hands in order to track off to one side and nibble at the bushes…

But then something caught his eye up ahead, and he managed to wrangle his horse to the side of the road. With a shout the others followed his example. Approaching was a line of carts flanked by musketeers… Though the backs were covered by sheets, their cargo was unmistakable. The dead returned from Savoy. Porthos respectfully took his hat off and held it to his chest as they passed by. His companions were silent, as were the riders and drivers. Only the snorting horses made a sound as the carts trundled on, piled high with bodies. The last one went by uncovered, a man sat in the back… a survivor. There had been no word of survivors. Porthos' heart went out to the man. His knees were drawn up to his chest and he stared at nothing. A red stained bandage wrapped his head… Beneath the hollow look Porthos seemed to remember knowing the man. Aramis? He was hardly recognisable. Porthos had never seen him without a smile upon his face. At the tavern he was always charming some woman or other. He didn't know the man well, but he had been kind enough to Porthos in their few interactions. Porthos recalled one time in particular when Aramis had offered him some advice on shooting. Afterwards Aramis spent time with Porthos showing him exactly how to clean his gun. He had been quite thorough and particular, explaining that a misfire could cost a brother's life. If somebody survived, he was glad it was Aramis. But going by the look on his face, Aramis would not be so glad…

"Come on, we should get moving." Athos started riding ahead.

Porthos' eyes were still on the retreating carts.

It was some time later when the four men considered stopping to make camp. They were just about to ride off the path towards some trees when a shot rang out.

"Bandits!" A cry went up.

Five men burst from the tree line and raced towards them. Athos drew his pistol and shot one dead, while Porthos' shot went awry. He tried to wheel the horse about to ride in with his sword, but it was on its toes and not responding to Porthos' clumsy efforts. The others engaged their blades all around him, riding past, slashing, and then coming to blows inches away from each other.

With a frustrated huff Porthos got off his horse and made for the nearest bandit. He was too late to save the musketeer that fell beneath his blade… The bandit in question made for Athos who was already trading thrust and parry with his own opponent. Porthos ran for all he was worth. Just as the bandit raised his sword to Athos' vulnerable back he grabbed the man's leg and tipped him off his horse. The bandit yelled as he hit the ground unexpectedly, and then between one breath and the next Porthos ran him through.

When Athos' opponent fell the remaining bandit took flight. Athos looked about him and spotted Porthos, wiping blood off his blade on the ground.

Porthos gave him a slight grin, expecting a word of thanks for saving the man's life.

When Athos rode up and told him to mount in rather a clipped tone, Porthos couldn't help but mutter a very sarcastic 'thank you for saving me, Porthos' under his breath.

It didn't go unnoticed.

Athos fixed an eye on him. "I don't need saving."

When their sorry group was back on the road, Porthos took the rear. Athos was up ahead, riding next to the third musketeer, who led the fourth horse with their fallen brother's body lashed to it. Every now and then Athos would shoot a look over his shoulder at Porthos... and just in time to see him struggling with his horse as well. Porthos scowled… Athos looked like he was born in a bloody saddle. Not everyone was so lucky.

In time Athos dropped back beside Porthos. He shot a questioning look at the man, but Athos just pointed down at his foot in the stirrup.

"You want to place it more on the ball of your foot, and keep your heels down."

Porthos tried to do as he advised. He did feel a little more secure…

"And don't pull on her mouth so much. When you want to stop, tighten your seat and stomach, then add a little rein if necessary. You don't need to flap your legs either, just a little squeeze will do... If you're delicate with her, she'll be delicate with you. They learn to respond to the lightest commands."

Porthos huffed a laugh. "Feels like she doesn't want to respond to any commands."

"That's because you're shouting at her... learn to whisper."

"You talking about horses or women?"

At that Athos cracked a half smile.

~oOo~

It was chaos.

A group of Spanish had moved into French territory, and so the musketeers had been sent to push them back. It would have been a straightforward mission, except the Spaniards had been warned of their coming… The camp seemed asleep and unaware, luring them in... but the Spanish had men waiting in the trees. Their unseen muskets took out near half the musketeers before their swords could be drawn. The attack rapidly unravelled after that…

"d'Artagnan! Get Aramis and make for the horses! We fall back!" Athos yelled. "Everyone! Fall back!"

Porthos stood fighting by his side, both their faces and doublets were spattered with blood.

"To the horses, Porthos… Get to the horses!" Athos managed as he thrust his opponent through the chest.

When Porthos felled his opponent he turned to make for the horses… but there was a loud bang and he found himself falling head first into the sodden grass. For a moment he thought he'd been shot, but there was no pain... Something heavy landed on top of him. Frantically he rolled over and came face to face with Athos. His friend's eyes were blown wide and blood tinged his lips a sick scarlet colour. Porthos shot his head up in time to see a musketeer tackle the Spanish shooter to the ground.

"Athos… what did you do… what did you do?" Words tumbled from his mouth as he worked at Athos' doublet.

Athos just clutched tightly at his hands, as if urging them to still, knowing nothing could be done. "Had to… save you."

Blood flecked the air with his words.

Porthos moved his stained hands to Athos' face. "I don't need saving." His words were strangled, distraught.

Athos managed a pained smile and swallowed heavily. "You saved… me."

So many times and in so many ways.

"Stay with me, Athos… Keep your eyes open, keep looking at me."

Athos' breath stuttered and stalled before ceasing…

Porthos let out a harsh breath as he brushed those vacant eyes closed, trying and failing to find words… Instead he rocked back and loosed a howl from his chest.

In the end, they had saved each other.