afineseamstress | (no subject)

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porthos

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Aramis is no longer in the mood to celebrate Halloween. After the trials of the strange, gray nightmare world he and those he loves dearest had found themselves in, after watching the people he loves hurt again and again, it's not for the purpose of celebration that Aramis outfits himself into costume.

The motorcycle is newly purchased, the license newer still, and Aramis swings a leg over it, leathers creaking as he settles. He rides quickly across town to where Porthos will be waiting for him, and as the wind whips through his hair, he lets Aramis fall away.

He doesn't have to be that man for a few hours. He doesn't have to wonder if the city that has given him so much will try to hurt him again, hurt Athos or Porthos, or their future family. He doesn't have to pretend that he's been sleeping when he has not, or that everything is alright when it certainly isn't. Just for an evening, he doesn't have to be himself, worrying incessantly about the things he can't control.

Pulling up in front of the shelter, he lets the motorcycle engine roar once before he sets the engine to idle. He breathes deep, exhaling with an almost bored sound as he waits for his charge.

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Porthos reaches up to catch Aramis by the chin, gently lifting it in order to press a slow kiss to his lips. "I'll do whatever you tell me to do," he promises, thinking that he's a much better patient now, and that he'll do whatever his husband tells him. "I'm at your command, ma coeur."

Aramis smiles despite the turmoil within him, anxiety still tripping down every nerve for all that he is looking down at Porthos, safe and cared for in Aramis' arms. "Well, that is certainly a first," he says, tucking another quick kiss against Porthos' cheek.

"Wait here, I will draw the bath."

Porthos turns his head onto the side to rest his cheek against the pillow, watching Aramis go sleepily, though he doesn't think he could actually sleep. Even with the painkillers, his body aches fiercely because while serious injuries can be slept off, multiple bruises are just a pesty thing. He lets his lashes rest against his cheek as he watches Aramis move, bare legs a stark vision against the floor.

"Maybe I'm just maturing," he points out, but he thinks it has more to do with sheer exhaustion.

"Or you have been tired into submission," Aramis calls from the bathroom, testing the water with his hand before he pours some of the hotel's soap into it to make it bubble. He arranges a towel at the head for Porthos' to rest on, finally turning the water off when it has neared the top.

"Ready, cariño?" he asks, returning to push his hands beneath Porthos' shoulders to bear him up.

Porthos groans as he sits up, allowing Aramis to help him to his feet. "I hate that I'm an invalid again just because I got caught up in the wrong fight," he complains, trying not to lean too much of his weight on Aramis, lest he topple over. "Plus, if it weren't for Oliver getting in my way, I know I could've knocked him out," he mutters.

"You are an invalid because Darrow is as cruel as it is kind," Aramis replies, guiding Porthos to the tub once he's on his feet. He's laid a cloth on the floor as well so he won't slip, and Aramis stands steadily at his side for Porthos to grip as he swings a leg into the water.

"Let me know if it is too warm."

Porthos hisses for the first touch of water, but he slowly sinks down into it, fingers scrambling to try and coax Aramis down with him. Once he's sunk down, he stares up at Aramis in a pleading fashion, given that the tub is larger than the one at home and he feels a bit lonely in it. "You're supposed to join me. It was practically in our wedding vows."

Aramis smiles for the boyish hope on Porthos' face. "Very well," he says, but he goes back into the bedroom, fetching something from his bags. They have already been naked, but entwined in the bath they will be truly vulnerable. Aramis slips the gun beneath the stack of towels near the tub before Porthos can see, tapping at his shoulder for him to sit up. "Me behind you, for once."

Porthos' eyes are shut until he feels movement, the tap at his shoulder making him slowly inch up until he can give Aramis enough room to slide in behind him. Porthos stares down at his mottled body, tracing the bruises where he can actually see the marks of fists, which is a strange thing, indeed.

He doesn't know if he's going to be ready to go back to sparring Oliver anytime soon. He might have to stick with just Tommy. "You'd tell me if you faced something down there, right?" he asks quietly.

"I would," Aramis answers, helping Porthos to lie back against him. From this vantage, he can see both the bathroom door and the hallway to the outer door beyond, and he relaxes somewhat. "It seems I was only there to bear witness to others' sufferings, this round."

"You and I both," Porthos murmurs as he sinks back with the water, closing his eyes as he relaxes into Aramis' touch, knowing that he's well protected here and like this. "I hope Oliver is okay," he murmurs, his concern still rather strong given how Porthos had just left him to find Athos and Aramis.

Aramis does not bear the actual man ill will, but neither does his name bring him any cheer, and he lifts the sponge, soaking it in hot water to trail over Porthos' shoulders. "It seems a good many shared his and Athos' fate. I have heard of no one unaccounted for thus far."

"Good," is Porthos' soft murmur, barely more than that as he curls back into Aramis' warmth, tipping his head so it rests on Aramis' shoulder as he adjusts his body, more like a limpet than anything else as he gets comfortable in this position. "I hated that place," he mumbles. "It reminded me of the Court. Dark and dank and with no hope. The light all gone out and everyone dark and cynical, there."

"I can think of few more miserable places," Aramis agrees, slipping his arm around Porthos to support him in the water. "As if we had been delivered to the gates of Hell themselves."

"We survived, though," Porthos says, feeling like that's an important thing to remember. "We made it out alive and we survived, the three of us, together." He leans in for a peck to Aramis' cheek, his fond smile brimming over. "How long until I'm healed fully, monsieur medic?"

This time Aramis thinks. He'd come to think of Darrow as peaceful, a place where they could be safe, slow down long enough to make a family, but he's been naive. They could be snatched away at any time, locked away in basements, trapped in a nightmare world with nightmare versions of those they love. Darrow isn't peaceful at all - one must just look deeper to see the danger.

"A week for the bruises," he says, bringing the sponge to Porthos' other shoulder. "Perhaps two, depending on how deep those bruises on your ribs go."

"Nothing's broken, though," Porthos says, a touch stubborn about the fact that he's managed to keep himself this side of healthy, just barely. "I mean, it's still bad," he concedes, "but it could be a lot worse." He gives Aramis a worried look, running his thumb over the worry lines. "I don't like when these come out."

"Bone bruises are almost as painful as cracked," Aramis tells him, catching Porthos' hand to hold it. "They will slow you down for some time yet, regardless." He kisses Porthos' fingertips. "Expect this furrow between my brows to remain for the duration."

"I don't like it," Porthos replies gravely, giving Aramis his full attention as he stares at him fondly, kissing his cheek as he gives a look to the towels as rumpled as they are, clearly hiding something that Aramis doesn't want him to see. "Aramis," he growls.

"Do not twist," Aramis bites back, attempting to move Porthos back into position in the water. "You will strain and exacerbate your ribs, and besides." Aramis draws a breath. "You promised to be at my command for once."

Porthos sighs and relents, allowing himself to sink back into the tub. "Fine," he allows, but there's a firm glare given to Aramis. "But I want you to know that this is supposed to be our time in the hotel. You shouldn't need to arm yourself for that."

"No, I should not," Aramis agrees, shifting in the water until Porthos lies back against him. "Nor should I have to wonder where we will be when we wake up tomorrow, or what will be waiting for us there, but I do. Of course I do."

The sponge has sunk into the water, and Aramis glares at it. "You are injured, and I won't risk anything else happening without at least being armed."

"We're going to be right here in our lovely hotel room that I paid for because we wanted to get away from the apartment. We're going to be ourselves and we're going to be protected." He closes his eyes halfway, giving Aramis a fond look. "I don't mind you going over the top with care, though," he admits. "Makes me feel special and wanted."

Of course they will be protected, Aramis thinks, glancing sideways at the little mound his gun makes in the towels. This one fires eight entire rounds before it needs to be reloaded - surely that will be enough.

"I will always take care of you," he says, bringing the sponge over Porthos' skin again. He kisses the water droplets left in its wake. If it takes Porthos again, Aramis means to be so close that it must take him too.

"I know," Porthos replies quietly, because even in Paris, Aramis had made sure to always keep him safe and sound. There's no one who cares for Porthos like Aramis and sometimes, he even thinks Aramis does a better job than Porthos himself. "Only, you know I like to take care of you in turn and I can tell you're stressed, chou."