(no subject)

Athos has never visited the poorhouse that occupies so much of Porthos’ time, but he knows where to find it, in a low, unremarkable building that sits in a shabby-but-clean corner of town. There is a fenced yard where some older boys play, and just inside the glass doors a younger one presses a handkerchief to a nose streaming blood while a woman scolds him. He approaches a desk where another woman sits - she looks suspicious for a moment, for Athos, even in modern clothes, still carries himself with too much unfamiliar authority that does not fit the environment - but as soon as he speaks Porthos’ name, she softens.

“Are you a cop?” the boy with the broken nose asks, voice muffled.

Before he can answer, or even parse what brought about the question, the receptionist has done so for him, “He’s a friend of Porthos’.” This serves as a similar shibboleth for the boy, who grins. “Just through there, sir,” the receptionist continues, gesturing to a door. “Through the hallway, third door on the right. He’s restocking the storeroom.”

Athos goes where he is told, knocking briefly on the appointed door, but opening it without waiting for an answer. He is unsurprised to find Porthos busy at work, unloading boxes.

“You’re very popular here, you know."