afineseamstress | (no subject)

Entry tags:

porthos

(no subject)

The box is there when he wakes, settled at the edge of the bed and almost hidden by Aramis' kicked up sheets. He stares down at it for a long moment, listening to Porthos move about in the kitchen, and when he is awake enough, Aramis drags the box to him to open.

Looking down at its surprising contents, Aramis smiles.

"Washing up!" he calls, exiting the bed with box in hand straight to the bathroom, where he wastes no time, fingers busy with more than the work of slipping the silk up and over his legs. If he is surprised, Aramis is equal parts impressed, stunned, and more warm than he's ever been in his life.

When at last he is set to rights, Aramis gives the corset a last tug and opens the bathroom door, walking the short distance to linger in the bedroom doorway. He gazes at Porthos' back as he rummages in the pantry and smiles, leaning his hip against the frame. "I believe I'll need some help with the string."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I will remember them, yes," says Aramis, "Just as I remember everything else you do. I like that others will know how you feel, but you will be speaking to me, and you could never disappoint me, Porthos."

Taking Porthos' hand, Aramis kisses each of his fingertips. "It is not possible. But if you are worried, I'm certain Allison will help you."

Porthos is still wary and anxious, but he nods his head, willing to ask Allison for help. "Could we do 'em in French?" he requests. "I'm not sure I can get across what I really mean in English, not without stumbling and a lot of stammering," he confesses, closing his eyes halfway at the kisses to his fingertips.

"What do you want to hear?" he wonders.

"What I already know." Aramis smiles, as quietly joyous and hopeful as he'd been when he first realized that this could be forever. "That you will never stop loving me, that you will never give me up, that we will be at each other's sides forever. And if it is to be in French, do go on about my arse at length."

Porthos' laugh is a steady and low thing, sending vibrations through both their bodies. "So Allison and Athos, Constance and d'Artagnan can all understand?" he replies. "You'll have me scandalizing our friends if you get your way," he murmurs, grinning broadly as he thinks about what he'll say and how often he'll have to practice it and how badly he wants them to be perfect.

"Maybe I can talk about the future I see for us," he muses. "For you, and me at your side."

"I'm sure you'll say nothing they haven't thought themselves before," says Aramis, grinning shamelessly back. He shifts closer as if it might make that day come faster. "I wish I could have all of our days together at once," he confesses. "I'm so curious what the future holds for us. It is hard to wait when I know it might be family."

"We're already a bit of a family now," he says, which is the honest truth. Porthos bows his forehead in against Aramis', hands sliding down towards his bare arse to squeeze. "You and me, Athos upstairs. Allison and d'Artagnan under the same roof. You know she's gonna be devastated when we leave, yeah?" he points out. "She's already been asking me about it, hinting at all of it."

"Maybe I'll shock everyone and go on and on about your lovely other assets," he smirks, nudging his hand between them to give him one firm stroke before he moves it back to Aramis' hip.

Aramis groans and touches his forehead to Porthos' shoulder, not certain he can bear growing hard again, and Porthos is certainly tempting enough to manage it. "We will have a room for her," he says, "And Athos, and anyone else should they wish to spend time with us. Rooms for the children, of course, and the countryside to roam in."

"And how big is our country house, hmm?" Porthos wonders, laughing with disbelief. Yet again, Aramis is surprising him by thinking that their lodgings and plans and events are all bound to be much bigger than anything Porthos had imagined. "I'd always pictured us in a creaking small house with about four or five rooms, with a barn out back for the animals," he says. "The way you talk, I think you're picturing La Fère."

"It is not like that here," Aramis insists. "One does not need to be of the nobility to own a large home. Though," he says, for he has pondered this, "We will not be able to afford anything both large and fine. We will have to buy large and improve upon it ourselves. By the time children come, we will be prepared."

Porthos eases back slightly, craning his head backward as he looks at Aramis and wonders, not for the first time, what Aramis sees in his mind (and of their future). "No, we won't have the money," he agrees, not unless somehow they find a way to become rich. "How long until there's children?" he asks, this being what he wants to know. "By blood, first?"

"Nine months," says Aramis, "Plus whatever time we need to prepare. What are you thinking?" he asks, curious, for he finds he doesn't care where they begin, only that they do it. "Shall we start with our own? Take in children as their need becomes apparent to us, or actively seek them?"

Porthos blinks rapidly, feeling a bit overwhelmed and light-headed for Aramis' timeline. It's a lot sooner than he had ever expected, though he still thinks warmly of the notion the minute he pictures it. "Nine months?" he echoes. "Nine months after the wedding? That soon?" And yet, unsurprised, because Aramis has long wanted a family.

He shifts slightly, still uncomfortable with so soon, what with Porthos still not trusting himself to be capable of fatherhood, with no example and little practice.

"That is only the requisite waiting time, cariño," says Aramis with a gentle smile. "How long we will have to prepare when we do decide we are ready." He fits a fingertip into the worried line between Porthos' brows. "Something tells me that nine months after the wedding will not be enough."

The touch only makes his brow furrow more as he stares at Aramis, hating that he feels like this because it's not really the way he wants to feel. He's excited about kids, but he's more comfortable when it comes to orphans. He knows how to treat them because he'll treat them the way he'd wanted that.

But a child? A child born of Aramis' blood that has known nothing of the streets? Porthos doesn't know how to be a father, not like that. "I don't want to be bad at it," is his fervent insistence. "And I don't know how to be good."

"That is how I felt when Isabelle fell pregnant," Aramis admits. "I believe it is how all new parents must feel. Some things cannot be known until they are experienced, but we will have each other." He traces the scar on Porthos' eye. "We have faced cannonballs, Porthos. I believe we can face a child."

Porthos lets out a soft laugh. After everything today, after his emotions and his desires have taken such a turn and a toll, this seems like almost too much. "Did you go find books? Or ask someone?" Porthos wonders curiously. "To find out how it is you can have a child without being unfaithful?" It's not an accusation, merely wondering if Aramis has done his own research to match Porthos'.

He's still anxious, but Aramis is right. They have time and beyond that, they have Athos now. Athos wouldn't let them completely mess everything up.

"Not yet," says Aramis. "We can embark on that together, though I have heard the term surrogate mentioned more than once on television stories." Particularly on Space Hospital. "They can impregnate a woman without a man ever having to enter her. I don't understand how yet, but it is a fascinating idea."

"I've done a lot of reading," Porthos admits, because he's been wanting to make sure he has plenty to offer Aramis when it comes time for it. He sits up with a groan as he hears the water for the ribs boiling over and knows it's time to switch them to the oven. Placing a kiss to Aramis' brow, he smooths his fingers over it after. "It's a lot of money, too," he says. "The procedures and all that, it's going to take a lot of money. Everything seems to cost so much."

And now that they have some and a home, besides, he finds it difficult to figure out how to earn enough. "It's confusing, but I think what they do is take you and a woman and use lots of equipment to get her pregnant without anyone having had sex." He ambles to the kitchen, prying his boxer-briefs off his hip with a pinch of his fingers to drag them looser on his hips.

"It all sounds rather medieval," says Aramis, and he can hardly imagine how a woman would willingly subject herself to so much when she will not even keep the child. Some mixture of altruism and economic need, no doubt.

Unable to resist the view this time, Aramis pulls on the boxers he'd shed earlier and follows Porthos into the kitchen. "How long will those cook?" he asks, rummaging in the cold box for juice. He still feels a little drained after such an extraordinary tumble, and pours a glass for Porthos as well.

"It all sounds very expensive," he admits, because the amount of money the magazines and books quoted is more money than he's ever seen in one place before. "Maybe we only will do this once," he says, given that he can't imagine doing it more than that, especially not with how money is strained. "They'll be another hour or two," he says, for dinner.

Reaching for his glass of juice, he flashes him a grateful smile, leaning his elbows over the counter as he adjusts his henley. "Why? Got ideas?"

Once for practice, more like, thinks Aramis, but he knows Porthos is nervous about their future family and does not push. They have time here to go slow and to learn and become the men and fathers they wish to be.

"Something quiet," says Aramis. "A film or a bath, or - " He pauses, thoughtful. "Add a television in the bathroom to our list of extravagant wishes."

Porthos gives him a pointed look, as if to say that this is why they're never going to be able to afford a child a second time, not if they mean to do it the expensive way. "Aramis, I'm starting to feel a bit sick thinking of all the money we need for the things we want," he admits, though he likes the idea of all of the things they've spoken about. "The wedding, the house, kids, the renovations..."

"How are we going to get the money for all this?" he asks, genuinely distressed and needing to know. "I'll do anything for it, I will."

"Porthos," sighs Aramis, taking his hand to lead him to the couch, "Come sit down. I know that we can do this. If we have to take more cases, or I more of those photographs, or you the prize fighting, we will take things as they come. We are still young and capable, and now we have Athos' wit to help us besides."

He brushes Porthos' knuckles with his thumb. "Would it help if the wedding were a simpler affair?"

"Athos helped to pay," Porthos murmurs, a bit numb, "for things, but I don't want him to." He's so stubborn when it comes to money because he's meaning to earn it as best as he can. He follows, sinking down, and shaking his head vehemently. "I don't want it to be small because you don't want it to be small. I want what you want," he insists.

"You want a big affair," he says simply. "Me, too." Stretching, he digs out a few of the discs that Allison had left, showing them to Aramis. "Look what she's found me. They're cartoons, but they're fairytales and love stories. I love them," he confesses.

"I do want a big affair," says Aramis, refusing to be waylaid, at least for the moment. "But not at the expense of your happiness or peace of mind. In the end it is enough to be married to you, more happiness than most men dream, and I will be content, Porthos."

He cranes his neck then, taking up the brightly adorned boxes. "Sleeping Beauty," he says. "These are moving paintings?"