Oliver Frears

“Boo,” Aramis said with a laugh, tossing a crumpled up napkin at Athos. “You call that a speech?” But he stilll tossed back his drink anyway and then tilted the empty glass for a refill. He looked to the man sitting beside him, gesturing at Athos with his glass. “Porthos, mate, show the man what a real speech looks like.”

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When Athos spread his hands wide in surrender, a grinning Porthos stood. He cleared his throat and raised his own glass of Scotch--not his favorite, but Athos always found the good stuff. Then adjusted his durag. Then took a sip.

Then finally raised the glass up and said: "To two years out of the boring hell-hole that is tje Paris Desk. And to two years of fuck-ugly tattoos to mark the date. All for one."

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Athos shared a glance with Aramis, then finished, along with him, "And every man for himself," as he raised his glass to toast to that. He polished it off, then reached for the bottle to top up his drink - and anyone else's that might require it. "I'm sorry, was that much more of a speech?" he asked, glancing at Aramis for confirmation, a small smile dancing on the edge of his lips.

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Aramis, who had clapped Porthos on the shoulder once he sat back down, looked at Athos, silent laughter putting a twinkle in his eyes, “Much more of a speech than your complete lack of speech? I think so.”

Leaning back in his seat, Aramis took a sip of Scotch. “Maybe you should ask Porthos for lessons.”

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Newly seated, Porthos chuckled at Aramis and waved his drink in Athos's direction. "You tried mate, you tried. I'd say it's the effort that counts, but I don't like having to lie to you."

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"Perhaps you should be in charge of all speeches from now on," Athos replied to his friend, unable, or rather unwilling, to fully hide the smile twitching up his lips. He had reached that usually elusive stage of drunkenness where, in the present company, he was able to teeter along the edge of good humour for far longer than he was usually capable.

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“Giving up so easily?” Aramis tsked-tsked. “I’m disappointed in you, Athos. I thought you were drunk enough by now to enjoy a challenge.”

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Porthos sat back, grinning and watching them. "I think you could give a speech to rival mine, but I've got one thing you haven't..."

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"I pray I'll never be drunk enough for your challenges, and not for lack of trying," Athos told Aramis, with a raised index of the hand holding his glass, before he turned to Porthos, the expression on his face enough by far to suggest that he was all ears about what that thing might be.

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Aramis smirked like he knew where this was going and sat back in his seat, watching the two with amusement.

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With the most perfect deadpan at his disposal, Porthos raised his glass for a sip again, then said: "I can beat-box. And you can't."

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Athos spread his hands, most definitely in surrender, this time. "Guilty as charged."

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Aramis had a new goal in life: Get Athos drunk enough to try beat-boxing. "It's not as much fun when he gives in so easily," he mused to Porthos. "Do you think we've broken him." He sipped idly at his drink.

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"Nah, man," Portos replied. "If we'd broken him, he'd have offered to try. We've got work to do, yet."

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Athos, hardly needing any help from anyone to get drunk, reached for the bottle for yet another refill. It would have been unfair to say that he had lost count of how many he had had; he had never tried to keep count, having long since learned how much of a lost battle that always turned out to be.

And, since they were talking about him in the third person, he was content to let them carry on, bringing his newly filled glass to his lips for another wonderfully smoky, peaty drink, and the solace that came with it.

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Aramis turned in his seat to face Porthos, reclining casually. “Where should we start?” he asked, like they were discussing plans for an upcoming mission, or maybe even the weather. He took an almost idle sip of his drink.

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"Dunno," Porthos said thoughtfully, turning to face Aramis more directly and swirling his drink. "I'm thinking we look for weaknesses, first. What are his weaknesses?

"Great hair, maybe that?"

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There was a hint of a faint smile playing on Athos's lips, but that was the only sign he was following the conversation at all. He had reclined in his armchair and seemed entirely focused on his drink.

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Aramis looked at Athos, considering him a moment before returning his attention to Porthos, “I’ll give it good, not great. My hair is better.”

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"But never weak," Porthos pointed out with a 'nailed it!' kind of expression well in place.

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The expression Athos turned on Porthos was one best described as long-suffering, although it was tainted with a hint of fondness, the sort reserved for the two men seated mere feet from him. But instead of replying anything, he took yet another drink from his glass.

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Aramis grinned and pointed at Porthos in a silent 'touché'. "Alright, so we have good hair then. Terrible at speeches. What else?" He took few a thoughtful sips of his drink. "He has good taste in teammates, which, generally, wouldn't be bad, but, in this case, it means he's saddled himself with us."

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"We're at once his greatest blessing and curse," Porthos agreed, raising his glass again. "I can drink to that."

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Athos raised the bottle he had just picked up in a silent toast - truer words had never been spoken - before pouring himself some more whisky.

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Aramis raised his glass as well and then downed its contents. Holding his glass out to Athos, he said, "So, now that we've laid all your greatest faults bare, why don't we really get this celebration started? I brought a deck of cards."

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"Brilliant," Porthos said, also holding out his drained glass. "I've got a few new tricks up my sleeve. Ah--metaphorically speaking..."

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"I'm sure," Athos dryly replied, as he poured both of them a very, very healthy measure of whisky.

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