du_vallon | (no subject)

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Book in hand, it feels like it's been ages since they'd first picked up the thing at the office. They've paged through it from time to time and Porthos has made it a point to scribble notes on post-it notes, affixing them to the book until the whole thing looks multi-coloured and ridiculously full, but this is important to him and he knows it's nearly the most important thing to Aramis and after everything they've been through, it seems right to take the next step, at least. That means picking and starting the long process of contracts and meetings and evaluations.

He'd bought them some cookies from the closest bakery, little blue baby ones and has been nibbling idly (he's not a stress-eater, exactly, but his appetite does grow incrementally whenever Porthos is a touch stressed). Brushing away the crumbs, he's deep in thought as he flicks back and forth between two of his top choices, reaching for his pen and another note so he can make a comment about the curve of a nose or the hang of an ear.

It might seem minor and silly, but they're all such beautiful women and they're going to pay one of them a lot of money for her time and a part of herself, and Porthos wants to make sure they do right by this process.

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"Maybe we ought to pick three," Porthos murmurs, sliding his fingers over the page reverently. "And then we'll be able to show Jim the lot of them and ask if he could use his big genius brain of his to run data." He peers up at Aramis, a playful smirk on his face. "Why's he my Jim?"

"Because he is your friend," says Aramis. "And because I knocked him unconscious." Jim appears to have forgiven him, but Aramis remains suspicious. Nevertheless, the man is brilliant, and he'd be a fool not to prevail upon his talents.

"Three," he agrees. "What of her?" he asks, flipping to one of his own post-its. The girl on the page is darker than the first, and she has freckles. "I know we do not have these, but aren't they charming?"

Porthos huffs out a laugh against Aramis' shoulder, reminded of that day he'd come home to find Aramis whistling jauntily and his friend tied up. He peers at the pictures, feeling a touch like they're shopping the market, but enjoying it, all the same. "I like the freckles," he admits. "And the eyes," he admits. "She's got these grey-blue steely eyes that would look stunning with freckles, I think."

"A bit of Athos," says Aramis. Even if the man wants little to do with the process, it seems a nice way of including him. "If they can war my brown eyes out of the way," he adds, thinking again that they need Jim. "Her hair is wavy. Perhaps that means it curls, as well."

And Aramis' own hair is curly, if not to the same degree as Porthos'.

Porthos smiles fondly as he slides his fingers into Aramis' hair, through the waves there. Though Porthos' curls are a natural and easy thing, he likes the waves of Aramis'. "She'd be happier to have your hair," he admits. "Mine's a terror to control half the time. Why do you think I wear the bandanna so often?"

"It is not," Aramis protests. "She will have me to tend it, and you as well, and between us it would be lovely. Besides - " Aramis touches his own hair. "Do you think I do not work for this magnificent mane? If she has my vanity, she'll be fine."

Porthos grins as he starts to rub his fingers through it heavily. "I never knew how much time you spent on this look of yours," he confesses, still a touch shocked by it, given that he'd never shared a bathroom with Aramis before. Now, their domestic mornings of sleepily working around each other is something he never wants to trade.

"Are you to become a morning person for her? Wake up while I do yoga and tame her hair before mine?"

"I imagine much will change," says Aramis, even if he cannot conscion such a life now. Will he wake before dawn? Will he learn to cook the children's meals, will he have a vehicle he uses to take them to school?

There are so many things to come, and Aramis feels excited now, rather than afraid. "But for the better."

Porthos smiles softly as he turns the page to his other favourite. She has freckles, too, but is very light skinned. It's the hair he loves, how it curls in such wild excess, springing outwards. "I suppose I could do the morning," he admits. "I'm already up making breakfast and doing yoga and coffee. I could make them meals and get them dressed while you wake like the sleeping beauty you are," he rumbles playfully.

"That does not seem a very fair division of labor," says Aramis, no matter how tempting sleep will no doubt be in those early years. "You make the coffee to rouse me, I will take care of her while you are at your exercises. We can eat breakfast together."

Hearing the door close below, Athos comes to the stair and descends with his hand dancing along the rail. With Aramis home, dinner will surely follow soon - and more importantly, there is wine. He has spent most of the day in Petros Park with his sword, and it has left him both tired and content, and certainly ready for a good meal.

He grabs one of the bottles of wine - and one of Porthos’ cookies, for good measure - on his way to the kitchen for the bottle opener and a glass. “You are looking serious,” he observes mildly, though there is a question in his eyes.

Porthos rests his chin on Aramis' shoulder as he peers up at Athos from where he's sitting. He's a touch nervous because Athos isn't really the most encouraging when it comes to kids. He rubs his palm over Aramis' back in circles, trying to keep him steady. "Bit serious," he confesses. "We're narrowing down our choices before we go to Jim and ask for some help with the science."

Aramis cannot help an internal wince. Much of Athos' aversion is the supposed unnaturalness of the process, and adding in yet more science will surely make his disdain for the process grow.

"In order that the child be born with as many of Porthos' features as we can manage," he explains. He smiles a little. "That's a very good bottle."

Porthos’ answer leaves Athos puzzled until Aramis explains. Reaching for a glass in the cabinet, he stills briefly, terribly glad his back is turned and they cannot see the uncertain flicker of his expression.

“Want any?” he asks, reaching for a second wine glass.

He shakes his head, but gives Aramis a searching look, hopeful that he's not too upset given that he knows this could be a tempestuous conversation they're about to have. "None for me, yet. I'll have to start cooking and I like to be fairly even-keeled for the beginning," he admits, giving Aramis a curious look. "Do you want to give your opinion?" he asks, not sure how it will be taken.

"I'll have some," says Aramis, thinking wine surely couldn't hurt. He waits for Athos to pour the second glass, knowing he will have to bring it and be nearer to the book. "Curls, dark skin, a button nose like Porthos'. We have a number of prospects if you'd like to see them, Athos."

Athos takes down the second glass and pours the wine with a studied carefulness, avoiding the moment when he will approach the table. When he turns to face them, he doesn’t miss the tension in Aramis’ face, or the direction of Porthos’ concern, and he wonders if it wouldn’t be best if he left.

In the end, he must, at least, set the wine beside Aramis at the table. “I don’t see what purpose I could serve,” he says quietly as he comes to stand next to them, staring into his glass.

"Athos," Porthos chides mildly, because it makes his heart ache to think that Athos doesn't want to have any kind of participation. "As much as this is hard for you and I know it is, this is going to affect your life. Don't you want a say in what the child running around you is to look like? Perhaps there's a part of you, that we could find and hope for?"

"Even if you do not," says Aramis, "Perhaps there is something you might object to? There is a woman we like very much for it, with dark skin and curls and freckles, and blue eyes. They are quite fetching," Aramis admits, catching Athos' hand before he can escape. Aramis rubs his thumb against it. "And we enjoy the reminder of your own."

Athos’ hand tenses in Aramis’, and he nearly pulls away - but in the end, he has not the heart. He keeps his head down and his eyes averted, but he remains. “Does it matter what I think of her looks?” he asks, and though he sounds a little dismissive, he also genuinely wonders at the importance of his opinion on the matter.

"Yes," Porthos bites out. He's not sure how it's come to be like this, but the notion that Athos thinks his opinion doesn't matter makes him physically ill. "Athos, your thoughts matter to us. We love you. We might not be willing to stop, but we want to know your thoughts on this." He holds Aramis a little tighter, both arms wrapped around his waist as his brow furrows, upset that Athos thinks the opinion is moot.

"He is right," agrees Aramis, brushing his thumb over Athos' hand again when he feels it tense. "We will always want your thoughts. We are quite greedy for all that you might wish to give, Athos. Never think we will not listen."

“Gentleman, for God’s sake, I could not care less what this woman looks like.” This time he does pull away, though he covers up the gesture by striding to the kitchen to fetch the bottle of wine and bring it to the table. He is tempted to drink straight from the bottle. “If she is healthy and will take your money, what else matters?"

Porthos keeps his hold on Aramis as loose as he can, fearful that he'll tighten it and squeeze him to the point past breathing if he isn't careful. All he hears is that Athos doesn't care and for all that they love each other and have made such great strides, Porthos sometimes forgets the gap that exists between the three of them and all because of this. "It matters that you're in our lives. You matter," he says, hurt that Athos thinks otherwise.

Hand now empty, Aramis uses it to hold onto Porthos' own, peeling one from his side before Porthos has an aneurysm trying not to crush him. "Peace, Porthos," he murmurs. They always knew the conversation would not be easy, if Athos allowed it at all. "Blue eyes, then," he says, for he quite likes the idea of that, if such things are possible with their science.