afineseamstress | Entries tagged with porthos

The journey home from the hospital is a fraught one in which very little happens.

They stop promptly at all lights and signs. No other car gets within a yard of their taxi. No sound is louder than a few murmured words from the pair of them, or another tremulous yawn from Lucie, yet Aramis' heart is pounding by the time they arrive at the Bramford. Has he truly never noticed how unsafe the world is? How has it taken this long to understand?

Exiting the cab, Aramis holds Lucie's bassinette with great care, inspecting every step before he puts his foot down lest he trip and fall with his precious cargo. Through it all, Lucie hardly stirs, and Aramis heaves a great sigh of relief when they are finally at their door. His mouth opens to call for Athos, but he shuts it. It will wake the baby, and he's not yet prepared himself for the first time she's upset.

"After you," Aramis whispers to Porthos.

They've had a pleasant day, lounging and reading and lazing about. Aramis even managed to get Porthos to watch an episode of Space Hospital with him, but suppertime is fast approaching, and Aramis can't help but notice that it's been several days since Athos joined them.

"I am soon to lose you to dinner preparations," he says, shifting his head in Porthos' lap. "Shall I get the table and the wine in order?" Aramis gazes up at Porthos with his most innocent expression. "When shall I fetch Athos?"

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.

He truly hates this.

As glad to be in his own bed as he is, as soft the new sheets and fluffed the pillows, Aramis hates the need that makes him lie here, all but useless. His body is meant to be used, to carry him out of doors, to grab and to hold Porthos and Athos, yet it seems all Aramis' body wants to do is sleep.

The only thing more humiliating than the weakness in his limbs must surely be the daily medicines he must take, or the telephone reports to the hospital about how often he is urinating. It is all a trial, one that Aramis should be happy to sleep through, yet he clings to consciousness as much as he can.

In concession to his neediness, Porthos has left open the bedroom door, and Aramis listens to him bustle about the living room and kitchen, tending to what Aramis cannot. The sound is reassuring, a promise that despite being alone in this room, Aramis is not alone, and the door can be traveled through at any time.

He is not trapped. He is home.

And he's rather damnably bored.

In the end, Aramis does not wait long.

In the time that follows their own terrible discoveries, Aramis hangs onto his nerve as best he can, and Athos prevents his descent into despair with touches and a few well placed words. Despite his best efforts, Aramis still feels restlessly caught between wishing to see Porthos and never facing him with this. He excuses himself to the shower in the hope that it will make him feel right again, but the warm water sluicing down his body is too reminiscent of tears, and Aramis hurries lest he finally break and begin weeping. If he does, he may never stop, and Aramis dries and dresses quickly to return to Athos.

He has only just stepped from the bedroom door when he hears a key in the lock outside, Porthos' heavy steps settling just long enough to work it open.

The blood drains from Aramis' cheeks like a stopper pulled, and he eyes Athos in near panic, but they both know what must come next. He's sick with exhaustion and heavy with grief, but Aramis is a soldier. Not a one of them will be any better for it if he balks from this, and he fights against the way his body wants to curl in to protect his middle, his heart, the way his arms itch to reach for Porthos the moment he passes through the door.

Drawing an unsteady breath, Aramis lets his eyes pass over Porthos for what might be their last moment of peace, and locks the image away inside of him.

It's an old nightmare, and if the reversal of roles is new, Aramis has no knowledge of it. In her dreams her belly swells, her parents rage, but in the end, Aramis feels happiness bloom within her, and in time, she sees it in the features of her husband to be. But the dream turns as it always does, from hope and to despair. She reaches for him with hands only freshly washed of blood, but Étienne still turns from her.

It's an old dream, an awful dream, but bearable for the long years of its endurance. Aramis believes that, right until Étienne turns for one last look, and his face becomes Porthos'.

Aramis wakes with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed with tears still streaming down her face. With a soft curse, she lifts her hands and wipes them away, crawling as carefully as she can out of bed and towards the kitchen.

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."

It is a peaceful scene Aramis returns to in late afternoon, his arms filled with sickbed provisions - soups not even he can destroy, more pain reducing medicines, a pillow for Porthos' foot. He places his items on the table and smiles at Porthos and Athos, curled together on the chaise in much the same position Athos had discovered he and Porthos in some weeks before. Unlike the observer of that day, Aramis' heart is warmed by their proximity, and he comes forward, brushing a kiss to the top of Porthos' head before he pulls the blankets more evenly over them both, touching his fingertips briefly to Athos' hair as he straightens.

They've made a small mess of things, but it's no more than Aramis expects between Porthos' endless bored fidgeting and the cat's enthusiastic efforts to help him lay waste to the apartment. Aramis quietly collects the sandwich plates, wiping crumbs from the table before he reaches for Athos' ubiquitous wine glass.

And finds two.

Aramis' eyes pass up and over both their forms to settle on Porthos' lips, open in his slumber and bearing a distinct stain of wine. It has not been sipped or tasted, it has been guzzled in Porthos' customary form, against Aramis' concern and clear instruction.

Aramis stands abruptly, collecting the bottle as he goes and striding immediately to the sink, where he upends the bottle until it is empty and throws it with his usual excellent aim into the garbage bin. Satisfied by the rattle, he goes to the pantry and collects another, dumping its contents down the sink with its fellow, and reaches for a third.

They hadn't really meant to have a lazy afternoon, but this is where they've ended up. With nowhere pressing to be, and their stomachs filled with leftovers from last night's fine dinner, Aramis and Porthos swiftly finds themselves sharing the long chaise. Sprawled lengthwise, Aramis' head fits comfortably in Porthos' lap, a wedding magazine in his hands and Porthos' thick fingers in his hair.

From time to time, Aramis lifts the book to show Porthos a glossy page, but for the most part they are silent, and as the light shifts outside to late afternoon, Aramis feels his eyelids growing heavy. Above him, Porthos is already snoring lightly, his hand stilled in Aramis' hair, and between that hand and the cat curled into the crook of Porthos' elbow, Aramis hasn't the heart to wake him.

So he reads on, lifting the book when the pages droop, and doesn't notice when it settles against his chest, his own eyes closed in slumber.

He's glad for the walk, even if a detour through the park has been Aramis' plan all along. Despite the nerves fluttering endlessly in his stomach, the meal had been too delicious not to indulge in when it arrived, the steaks seasoned and bloody, the potatoes whipped into some concoction neither of them had ever seen before, and even the vegetables - which Aramis is usually happy to grant a pass - had been delicious.

He's almost too full as they walk, but he's happy, all the moreso when he glances at the man at his side. "Not ready for home yet, are we?" Aramis asks, bringing their joined hands to his lips see he can kiss Porthos' knuckles. Up ahead, the river nears, and docked on it is a fine white ship belonging to Comtesse Cruises. Aramis doesn't favor the water, but Porthos does, and Aramis thinks he can manage a river for an hour or two.

Certainly for such a special event. "I believe I would like a drink."

Their locks are inadequate.

Better, perhaps, than the locks they'd made do with in Paris, but still entirely inadequate. Aramis has locked them all just the same, every window, every door, has gone upstairs to lock Porthos' besides, and now he sits near the bedroom window. From a particular angle, he has a view of the juncture of two streets, and a partial view of three more besides.

It's far from perfect, but it's something.

His guns are cleaned and oiled, his sword polished, his crucifix a steady weight against his chest. These, too, are something, even if the former two are also entirely inadequate.

"They will have to do," Aramis murmurs, not for the first time, and tenses for the sound of someone at the door.