Chapter Text
Some cocky, ignorant little thing with a permanent pout has weaseled his way into the King’s guard. How lucky the boy is that Rochefort’s pistol sights were off. And even luckier when Milady saved his hide. Whenever he’d see that hick again would be too soon; that’s what Rochefort tells himself, at least.
The man adjusts the heavy coat hanging from his back, grumbling to himself about the strap across his chest. It’s creasing his jacket and causing discomfort. He rips the strap in two when his annoyance gets the better of him. Ever since d’Artagnan arrived, he’s been tense in a way he can’t contain. This new Musketeer had already caused him quite a bit of trouble.
Rochefort glares down the street when he catches the grating sound of d’Artagnan’s voice. As petite as he is, he was taking up far too much space in the street for Rochefort’s liking. How dare that thing have protested his men? Have raised his sword when lawfully ordered otherwise? That child King had pardoned him, too, rewarding such insolence. Richelieu was the shade of his cassock by the time he was done screaming at him.
“My father wouldn’t recognize you in such a state!” Young d’Artagnan exclaims, walking backward in front of the other men he’s befriended.
He’s been ranting on and on about what he thinks he knows, desperate for the men to bring the heart they once did into their jobs. France loves their gumption; they always have. Why deprive them?
D’Artagnan’s clothes were practically rags, ill-fitting and unflattering. They hung over a slender, toned frame which could only be seen through the deep V of his shirt. His brazen attitude left Rochefort perplexed as to why they so easily gave him a chance as a Musketeer. Had the King’s standards fallen so far? No wonder they were a dying breed.
Rochefort exhales, tossing the nuisance of a coat over the back of his horse. He was already thinking far too extensively about the Gascon boy.
The four men cross paths with Rochefort as d’Artagnan’s boot meets a patch of slick, algae-covered cobblestone. He tries to correct himself, only managing to land in a puddle, splashing Rochefort and spooking his horse. Porthos bursts into a fit of laughter.
Rochefort grits his teeth, snarling when he spins around toward d’Artagnan. God knows what that puddle is made of. His eye trail down those wet clothes, able to see the slender form hidden beneath.
“You inept hick, watch where you walk! Unless you’d like to choke on my rapier.” His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw the blade at a moment’s notice.
“What’d you call me, old man?” D’Artagnan snaps back, his trousers dripping and clinging to his legs.
Rochefort pulls his sword from its scabbard, the tip whispering a threat to D’Artagnan’s throat as the metal blade rings. The younger man does not waver, unsheathing his own sword. His blade crosses with Rochefort’s in challenge.
“God help him,” Aramis mumbles; he hides his amusement as he brings a hand to his head.
Rochefort feigns resignation as he laughs, confusing d’Artagnan. The younger man glances at the other Musketeers as his own weapon relaxes, dazed when Rochefort’s boot meets his unguarded chest.
“I should drown you in that puddle of piss, boy.” He sheathes his sword, turning his back on d’Artagnan. “But I find you unworthy of my time.”
“I get it—you’re afraid to lose—” d’Artagnan wheezes, pulling himself from the puddle once again. Athos offers a hand.
Rochefort’s eye lights up as he chuckles; it is unbelievably tempting to take the younger man up on his challenge.
“I’ve no need to play games with you, Gascon.” He mounts his horse, adjusting his boots in the stirrups. “It would be mere child’s play.” He tugs his reins, gently coaxing his horse along.
Milady was certainly right about how pretty d’Artagnan is; how unfortunate. Rochefort wasn’t one to deprive himself of something he wanted.
“You have a talent for making your own trouble!” Porthos responds, watching as Athos assists d’Artagnan up.
“We were all reckless boys once. We learned the hard way, too; makes a good Musketeer.” Aramis says.
“I hope he cherishes the remaining sight he has—‘cause I’m gonna blind him in the other eye!” d’Artagnan says, heated. “How could such a miscreant make it to the position of Captain?”
“Rochefort is ruthless and has no one but himself. The Cardinal couldn’t ask for a better pet.” Athos wipes his hand.
“There’s no honor in being a tool for evil.”
“I don’t think Rochefort cares much about honor.”
“I can provide you with clean attire, d’Artagnan.” Aramis says, his face scrunching at the smell. “Provided you bathe first.”
“We have time,” Athos says, turning around to go back home.
~
D’Artagnan avoids any part of the street that looks wet, significantly more vigilant than he had been. They’ve woven through the crowds of the market district, arriving at the shop of the King’s trusted tailor. Their suits had been assembled with haste at the request of the King and, less enthusiastically, Cardinal Richelieu.
Outwardly, Porthos seems the most enthusiastic about a new uniform, but d’Artagnan is over the moon. One by one, the aides dress the Musketeers. The men join each other at a large mirror, admiring the attire so far. Each uniform has its own style relative to the Musketeer wearing it, yet the theme remains cohesive. They don the same emblem on their chests, proud men of the King’s guard.
D’Artagnan feels dignified having something so customized and official. It makes him realize that his other clothes really were rags. He moves his hands out of the way when instructed, a seamstress pinning seams on his trousers. There are so many new experiences to be had here in Paris. In one way, it's hard to believe he's becoming a Musketeer, in another, he knew he had what it took.
“How do you like it, Monsieur?” The tailor comes over, having a look at the small alterations marked by pins.
“Beautiful craftsmanship,” d’Artagnan says as he turns in the mirror.
“Is the fit to your liking?” He adjusts the shoulders of d’Artagnan’s jacket.
The younger man nods, a smile growing on his face. This is what they would call ‘a dream come true.’ Aides help d’Artagnan remove the uniform once more, taking the garments away to finalize the alterations.
The Musketeers gather at a stand while they wait to be summoned again. They’re only a few shops away from the tailor’s boutique. Athos fidgets with a gold coin, spinning it on the worn wooden table. He watches as the coin wobbles and falls flat, as if it were deciding the fate of something unknown.
“I was thinking it might be nice to commission another ensemble from the tailor,” d’Artagnan says as the vendor places a few steins down on the table. Athos flicks them the gold coin before the vendor hurries off again.
“It’s your gold; do as you please.” Aramis sips from the mug in front of him.
“I don’t want to seem careless with my money.” D’Artagnan glances at Porthos.
Porthos looks slightly offended at the implication, so he returns fire. “Your recklessness doesn’t extend to shopping? How surprising!”
D’Artagnan chortles, rolling his eyes and looking down into his tankard. He could definitely spare some coin for something that looks nicer than his well-worn farm clothes. He’d still keep those old rags, though. His mother had sewn them and mended them many times. When he missed home, he could keep the soft fabric close and think of warm days spent gallivanting through the fields.
“Whatever you end up inquiring, I just hope it’s not gaudy.” Porthos the ever-so-fashionable says.
“Don’t worry, I wont match you in the slightest.”
Aramis chuckles at the two squabbling, looking to d’Artagnan. “I have no doubt in your ability to pick something practical.”
The men’s tankards are empty when they’re finally requested back to the boutique, the sun hanging low as the golden hour greets them with it’s warm embrace. The order of their new uniforms had been expertly handled. Now, d’Artagnan tasks them with his personal request, sure it’ll be something handsome and sensible. He didn’t know much about fashion but noted to them that he favors neutral colors. He did not want to walk around in anything close to what the King wore, as much as he respected him.