temperamentalsteel | (no subject)

Entry tags:

porthos

(no subject)

Despite his friends' admonitions of his hotheadedness, d'Artagnan could learn to be canny. On good days, he could even learn to be patient. When there was something as rewarding as friendly retribution on the line, he could even strategize. With Porthos' booming laughter in his memory, d'Artagnan had parked himself in the hallways and watched as people slipped in and out of the trick doors. It had taken a few days, but he was now certain he'd pinpointed the correct door and had taken care to mark its number.

Then he had knocked on Porthos' door with a smile. "I think I've found a way back to Paris! Come out!"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The door was jerked open a few seconds later, revealing a Musketeer in breeches and shirt, but not much else. "You have? Come in, let me grab my things."

It was easy, believable, enough for him to grin and clap Porthos on the shoulder. D'Artagnan canted his head in the direction, "Follow me!"

This would be fun.

"Give me a second!" Porthos protested with a laugh, hopping on one foot as he pulled his first boot on, in a very clear hurry to return to his home. "Where's Athos?"

"He'll join us soon enough," d'Artagnan said with an easy smile. "This way."

Since Athos had mentioned being able to come and go as he pleased, Porthos thought no more of it as he shoved his second boot on, and grabbed his jacket, pauldron, sword and scabbard. "I'm coming!" He was almost out the door when he realised he'd forgotten two very important things, and stopped to grab his cloak and hat. The latter he just plopped on top of his head to free his hand a little more, then proceeded to secure his sword around his waist. "Right, lead the way!"

D'Artagnan beamed, the very picture of farmboy innocence as he hurried toward Room 63. "Just through here," he promised his friend, pointing to the unbolted door. "Go on! You go first!"

Porthos was just twirling his cloak up and behind him to fasten it in place, and as soon as that was done, he opened the door without thinking. "Do you think we should tell..." Aramis about this place, he had been about to finish, because lying to his friend seemed several different shades of wrong, but an odd sensation came over him, his sword fell to the floor of what still looked like a room in this hotel, and his hat fell over his eyes. He pushed it back up with a frown, which only deepened at the sight of his hand.

His small, female hand.

He caught his breeches just in time, before they followed his scabbard to the floor, and whirled around. "D'Artagnan!" he roared, which, in his new voice, sounded a lot less like a roar than it normally would have.

Still in the hallway, d'Artagnan was caught between running for dear life and falling to the floor, his gut aching from laughter. He tried to hurry out of the way, only to back up against the wall because his knees had gone jellied from hilarity.

"S-Shows you right," d'Artagnan wheezed.

Porthos made to lunge for his friend and wound up on the floor as a result of his scabbard tripping him up and his very, very different gravity center. He barely managed to catch himself on his hands, and he looked up at d'Artagnan with a murderous look. "I will end you," he promised him darkly.

As soon as he got the hang of how to do anything in this body, anyway.

"If you can catch me!"

Between the two of them, d'Artagnan wasn't holding much of an advantage. He could still hardly breathe for his laughter, all of it coming out in sharp gasps as he tried and failed to stand himself up straight.

Porthos had finally managed to kick his scabbard off, and now he tightened his belt enough that his breeches wouldn't drop as soon as he stood up. It didn't do anything for how loose all of his clothes were on him, and it certainly didn't do anything for the cleavage he was flashing as he stood up. His boots were uncomfortably too large for him now, too, and he left his hat on the floor where it had fallen. "You're going to pay," he added, and lunged for his friend again, trying not to lose his balance and fall on his face this time.

Retribution was swift, though not perhaps in the way Porthos had expected. His lunge caught d'Artagnan and pulled him forward even as he tried to lean back. The results were swift and maddening.

"...all right I probably deserved that."

"You definitely deserved that," Porthos confirmed in a huff, straightening up and still holding on to his breeches with one hand. He let a beat go, watching d'Artagnan, then stated, lips twitching up, "I knew you'd be pretty. Do you know where we can find clothes that fit?"

Not dresses, Porthos wasn't wearing a dress no matter what kind of body he was wearing. But smaller clothes would be welcome. In fact... He looked down at his body thoughtfully. "Yours would probably do the job."

Edited 2015-02-26 14:07 (UTC)

D'Artagnan snorted and pushed hair away from his face. How did women live with such masses of it all? Constance always kept hers so carefully up that it looked artless. Clearly he had no idea.

"And leave me without clothing to suit you? I thank you no. Find me something to wear first before you steal mine."

"It's your fault I'm so - tiny!" Porthos protested, never mind that he was taller than his friend still, and busied himself trying to cinch his belt tight enough to hold his breeches. Everything felt off balance, even the right way to work these smaller, thinner hands. "This is going to take some getting used to. How long did it last for you last time?"

"I'd no idea what sort of lady you'd make," d'Artagnan protested, even as he tightened the lacings of his breeches as far as he could manage. Now that he was fully aware of his own mind, d'Artagnan cursed this body; the waist was so thin his breeches could not stay quite right but his hips were pressing uncomfortably against the seams.

"Let's not find Athos."

"With our luck, he'll be right around the corner," Porthos pointed out, although he didn't sound very worried. If this lasted any length of time, of course Athos would see them. Honestly, he was just very glad, suddenly, that Aramis wasn't around.

"Well he will be now that you've tempted fate," d'Artagnan accused sourly. "I've got wine in my room and that is the only thing for it."

Porthos rarely turned down wine, for all that his passion for the drink didn't rival with Athos's. Few people's did. "It's the least you can do, anyway," he agreed, picking up his scabbard off the floor and frowning at the weight of his sword. Fighting with it was going to be tricky, never mind how foreign such a simple act as taking a step felt.

D'Artagnan nodded and took careful steps back to his own room.

"And for what it's worth, you make a handsome lady."

More possessed of his faculties in this body, d'Artagnan sprinted down the hall to avoid retribution.

Porthos was finding it difficult enough to walk, for whatever reason he could not fathom, never mind actually run after his friend. "You take that back!" he called out in the hallway, after trying to run for a couple of steps and only just managing not to fall by catching himself against the wall.

"A lady," he muttered to himself, following after d'Artagnan at a much more sedate pace. He would find him in his room, after all, and exact his revenge there.

Laughing, even as he knew revenge would be swift to follow, d'Artagnan hurried to his room and let the door swing closed behind him.

Now it was only a matter before the spell wore off or Porthos' temper.

Likely, neither bode well for him.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only