Work Text:
He doesn’t remember much from his short time with his mother, but he does know she gave him his name. It is the only thing he still has from her. Her face has faded with the years. Her voice, he would be hard-pressed to recognize. All he has is his name and the knowledge that she expected him to use it well.
(My brave Porthos.)
Somehow, he’s not surprised when d’Artagnan finds him outside his lodgings the day after. Honestly, he had expected a confrontation the night before—the night he and Constance had announced their engagement. The night he had finally told his family that he was committing to the best thing that had ever happened to him.
“’Morning,” he says in greeting.
The younger man studies him carefully for a beat, calculating. “Treat her well,” he says, always one to get straight to the point.
Porthos bites back his defensive frown. “I do. You know I do.”
“Yes,” d’Artagnan agrees easily. “But don’t stop. Don’t take her for granted. Don’t let her become unimportant. Don’t get used to her.”
Porthos’ urge to frown dies, and he smiles instead, pleased when his friend matches his smile. Somewhere along the way d’Artagnan went from Constance’s love to her protector, and he has done well in the role. “On my honour,” he promises, before slinging an arm over d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “And now that you’ve done your duty, can we eat?”
“Yes, please.”
—
Growing up in the Court is no easy task. Even with occupants like Flea who protect everyone they can because they can, it’s a struggle to survive. But, Porthos does. And he does it well. He learns all he can. He becomes the best at what he does. He uses his skills to stay alive and thrive as much as anyone can in the Court.
It’s his name, though, that he wields as his mightiest weapon. It keeps his friends safe from harm. It earns him respect. It gives him the courage to move on.
(Porthos the Pirate)
Porthos recognizes the look on his friend’s face even across the garrison. Aramis is on a mission for answers, and Porthos best give them or face his wrath. “’Afternoon,” he greets easily, as soon as Aramis is within hearing distance.
“Is it true?” his friend asks, without preamble. Porthos isn’t surprised to find he’s suddenly reminded of his earlier conversation with d’Artagnan. When it comes with single-mindedness, his friends are nearly identical.
Which simply means it is that much easier to annoy them. “Yes. Unfortunately, that hat has always looked a might ridiculous.”
With a sharp flourish, Aramis pulls his hat from his head and tosses it onto the table. “That is not what I am referring to, and you know it.”
“Actually, since I can’t read that complex mind of yours, I don’t know what you’re going on about.”
“You and Constance,” Aramis explains, gesturing a hand between Porthos and the entrance to the garrison—as if to include the woman not present.
“Oh that?” Porthos leans closer to his friend who has finally seated himself across the table from him. “Clearly you weren’t paying attention the other day, but Constance and I just announced our engagement. So, yes, it’s true.”
“And, you truly are planning to take her surname once you two are wed?”
Despite himself, Porthos lets the sudden pull of anger show on his face. He knows Aramis adores Constance, but that does little to pacify him when his best friend’s tone borders on condescending. “You don’t think she’s worthy of that? You don’t think I should make such a commitment to the woman I love?”
Aramis blinks in surprise, clearly not anticipating Porthos’ sharp response. It isn’t often he is on the wrong end of his friend’s anger. “You misunderstand me again, my friend,” he assures quickly. “It is Jacques Bonacieux that I don’t view as worthy. Never your Constance. That man—”
“Is dead,” Porthos interrupts, but manages to calm his voice a degree. He does not want to fight. Not with Aramis. Not now. (Not ever.) “I am not taking that man’s name. I am taking Constance’s.”
Aramis gives a small nod, still not convinced. “The public—”
Again Porthos interrupts, knowing what his friend will say before it’s voiced. “The only opinions I care about are those of my family. My brothers.” He meets Aramis’ almost-guilty eyes carefully. “Constance worked hard to make a name for herself. It doesn’t matter that it is also her dead husband’s name, just as it wouldn’t matter if it were her family’s name. It’s hers, just as I am hers. I will not ask her to give it up.”
“You’re a regular romantic, my dear Porthos,” Aramis says with a faint smile. When Porthos matches it, he relaxes against the table. “Forgive me?”
“Of course,” Porthos agrees easily.
“And, if I haven’t said it enough, please know you two have always had my blessing.”
“I never doubted that.”
—
His name carries little strength outside the Court. Outside the borders of his childhood home, he is viewed with scorn instead of respect. He is not a gentleman, and the Parisian citizens have little time for him. The hard-won then easily-lost respect is what drives him during those first weeks. He will not be looked down on for something as fickle as a reputation.
So, he dons a new name and persona. He becomes a gentleman, because he has learned that the truth is rarely as valued as a well-formed lie.
(Porthos du Vallon.)
There was a time when Athos joining him for a drink would have been a cause for celebration. Now, years later, it’s commonplace—and Porthos can tell the night’s topic will not be jovial. “I know you like to take your time, Athos, but even this is a record,” he says, recognizing the look in his friend’s eyes. “d’Artagnan has already done his duty as protector by ordering my eternal admiration for my fiancée, and Aramis voiced his doubts about my engagement to Constance a week ago.”
Athos’ expression shifts minutely into surprise. “He has doubts about you two?”
“Not us. Our engagement. Specifically, me takin’ her name.”
Athos nods carefully, and Porthos mentally rehearses the words he had given Aramis, ready for a repeat performance. Except, this time it will come from Athos. This time, quick anger and defensiveness will not earn him a win.
“I’ve made my decision,” he says, instead.
“Have you thought about the consequences?”
“Of taking her name? Yes. And none of them compare to the fact that she has earned the reputation she has with that name. I cannot ask her to give that up for me.”
“But you will give up your own reputation? The reputation you worked just as hard for—harder, in my opinion.” Athos is speaking with a surprising calm. He is not confronting Porthos because of his disdain for the late Jacques Bonacieux. He is confronting him because of his absolute respect for Porthos. “Porthos du Vallon is a man of high standing.”
“Porthos du Vallon is also a King’s Musketeer—a fact that will not change no matter what surname he carries.”
Athos does not need a moment to think over Porthos’ words. He nods immediately, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “So, you have thought about the consequences,” he concludes.
“And found them unimportant,” Porthos agrees.
“Then, you have my support,” Athos says, before raising his glass in a toast. “To the future Monsieur Bonacieux, may you bring as much respect to the name as you have your others.”
Porthos offers his own glass in appreciation.
—
Being a Musketeer is everything Porthos had wanted out of life. It is a brotherhood. It is a family stronger than any he has ever had. It is honour and loyalty. It is home.
He is his own man, offering his own set of unique skills to the regiment. Yet, with the pauldron on his shoulder, he is a part of something greater—bigger than anything he could ever be on his own.
(Porthos, a King’s Musketeer.)
Porthos is moving before he hears the priest give permission. Constance meets him halfway and presses her lips against his. It’s meant to be quick. It is a declaration of a union given within a cathedral, not an action of passion in an empty bedroom.
Constance pulls back just a beat too late and offers him a knowing smirk. Porthos simply presses his fingertips against her hip, promising a proper response later.
“It is now my honour,” the priest begins, seemingly ignoring the behaviour going on directly in front of him, “to present to you Monsieur and Madame du Vallon.”
The man’s frown is audible when the small congregation of witnesses offer no congratulatory applause. Constance smiles at their friends, obviously surprised yet pleased by their odd act of loyalty. “It’s Bonacieux, Father. He is taking my name,” she explains (or more accurately reminds). “Just as we specified on multiple occasions.”
Father Allard visibly swallows his usual argument and sighs. “Very well. It is now my duty to present to you Monsieur and Madame Bonacieux.”
The responding applause is enough to drive the priest from the room, offering its occupants a brief respite. Porthos quickly drops a kiss to the side of his wife’s mouth, keeping it there as he speaks against her skin. “I will wear your name with honour for the rest of my life.”
“Good,” Constance says, “because coincidently that is how long I intend to keep you.”
—
When he was alive, Jacques Bonacieux wore his name like a broken piece of armour. There was no honour or strength behind it, and it would never gain him the respect he believed he deserved. After his death, Constance gained respect through her own actions. As a result, her name rose in status. She was a woman who rarely needed an introduction, because of the reputation her name conjured.
While Porthos formed a new persona for each new milestone, Constance polished and developed the only one she was ever given. Porthos would never ask her to give it up. He would only ask permission to enhance the already respectable name.
(Porthos Bonacieux)
“Do you think we made the right choice?” Constance asks, curling the small bundle in her arms towards her chest, as if to protect him from the decision they have just agreed upon.
Or almost agreed upon.
Porthos deftly rescues his son from the clutches of his mother’s worry, chuckling at Constance’s indignant frown. “I think that we have at least a few months before anything has to be final. He won’t recognize his name from any of the other nonsense you and Aramis will coo at him for a while, I’m sure.”
“Besides,” he continues, smiling at the yawning infant and then the uncertain mother. “It’s a fine name. It served the last man who bore it well enough.”
“It was that man’s surname,” Constance reminds him, though she was initially the one to suggest it. “Parents don’t name their children after another’s surname. It’s not done.”
“Tell me, my love, when have you and I ever been known to follow others’ example?”
Constance offers him her own small smile at that. “There have been times,” she argues with mock-indignation. “At least a handful.”
“Regardless,” Porthos says, allowing his tone to turn serious for a moment, “if there’s one thing I have learned, it’s that a man is not limited by his name. It’s his reputation that will make or break him. His name is simply a consequence of his actions.”
“Wise words, Baron Bonacieux.”
“I try.”
(Porthos, Baron Bonacieux de Pierrefonds)