Double Trouble

Chapter One: The Headache

The annoying sound of a nearby rooster drills its way into Athos's subconscious, "go 'way," he grumbles.

He throws an arm over his eyes as the morning sunlight streaming through the window causes him to wince. His throbbing head feels thick and heavy after losing himself to too many bottles of wine the night before.

"God," Athos moans as he slowly swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He buries his face in his hands, propping himself upright with his elbows planted on his knees. He soon slips back into slumber still sitting in the upright position.

Athos is jolted awake when Aramis and Porthos burst into the room, expecting to find their leader dressed and ready to leave. Instead, they find him looking like death warmed over.

"What's wrong, Athos?" Porthos said, exchanging a worried glance with Aramis.

"Go 'way, leave me 'lone," Athos mumbled. He didn't move-except for the circular motion of his fingers as he tried to massage away the pain in his temples.

"Have a few too many last night?" Aramis joked, trying to lighten the mood in the room.

The poor attempt at humor elicited an angry 'if-looks-could-kill' stare from Athos—an unspoken warning to both musketeers to think twice before uttering any further comments about his condition.

Walking to the bed, Aramis placed a hand on Athos's forehead to check his temperature, only to have his hand rudely slapped away. "I'm not sick!" Athos growled.

"Then stop acting like it," Armis retorted, losing his patience. "Get dressed; we're going to be late." Aramis stood firm with crossed arms, staring down at the pathetic sight in front of him.

"You two go on without me," Athos said. "No sense you being late on account of me." The Musketeer had made no attempt to get up but still sat resting with his face buried in his hands.

"We're not goin' anywhere, brother." Porthos stepped forward to stand by Aramis, "not wit'out you. So, you might as well git up…we ain't goin' nowhere 'til, you do."

Athos sighed, "damn the both of you. . . stubborn, thick-headed. . ."

"We're stubborn and thick-headed? Aramis repeated, astonished. "Porthos and I put together, combined with our young Gascon, d'Artagnan, pale in comparison to the stubbornness of you, dear brother." With eyebrows raised, head cocked to the side, Aramis almost dared Athos to deny the claim.

Athos sighed, but said nothing more. He was not in the mood for an argument right now and felt it best to let the matter drop. In certain cases, it is more honorable to concede in an argument rather than appear a fool. Athos knew Aramis was right-but he sure wasn't going to admit it.

Athos dropped to his knees in front of the bucket of water and placed his hands on the edge. He took in a long and deep breath, exhaling before dunking his head into the ice cold liquid. The shock of the cold water made Athos gasp and, forgetting that he was under water—upside down—caused him to choke. He raised his head up gasping, gurgling, and sputtering with water spraying out from both his nose and mouth.

Aramis was at his side instantly, putting one arm around his chest and another on his back for support, holding him upright. "It's okay," he consoled, "I've got you." He pounded on Athos's back, helping the man clear the water from his lungs as he gasped for air. "Just breathe slowly," he instructed.

"Breathe in and out, slowly," Aramis coached Athos until he could get his breathing under control. Finally when the choking slowed and turned into an occasional cough, Aramis noticed his friend turning green. "Are you going to be sick?" he asked. "Porthos, find something. . . quick!"