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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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.

“I thought we were discussing your woman’s eye color, not me.” Athos keeps his mask of careful calm in place as he sips his wine, fearful of what he will say or do if he allows it to slip. That will hurt Porthos, but Athos fears that if he allows himself to say much on the subject of children, he will hurt them all even more.

Porthos leans his cheek on Aramis' shoulder, happy for his proximity and the touch of his hand. He knows they're going to keep forward with this, but he can't help but feel like they're going to hurt their relationship. "We just wanted you to be a part of this. Maybe one day, you might appreciate it," is what he says, trying not to sound snide or cruel, because he earnestly means it.

"We are hopeful, that is all," says Aramis on his heels, for he senses them drifting towards another argument. He loves Porthos for his huge heart, but the man has no finesse at times when it comes to inviting others into it. Pushing Athos will only result in heartache for them all.

"There is no expectation. And," he adds, "Because it interests me, I may show you a photograph or two." Aramis smiles. "Ignore it at your pleasure."

But Athos is not part of this, and cannot see past his own prejudices to a world where it might be otherwise. He is unnecessary to their enterprise – both literally and spiritually. It is as though a wall of glass divides them, and he can look in on the life they are building, but never truly join it. And yet both men look at him so entreatingly from the other side, as though breaking down the wall really could be accomplished by the color of a strange woman’s eyes.

He makes a gesture of compliance, as though to say show me what you like.

Porthos takes advantage of the gesture and turns the book hopefully, wanting at least to get Athos' opinion in this much. "Which of the tabbed pages do you think looks the most like me?" he asks, keeping his voice steady despite how much he wants Athos to at least be able to contribute in such a way as to give his opinion, seeing as he knows Porthos and Aramis as well as he does.

Aramis sits quietly as Porthos turns the pages, though he cannot help watching Athos' face. The first image is of Yvonne, with dark skin, though not as dark as Porthos', but her hair curls and her nose is the spitting image of Porthos'.

The next is the tall woman with wide shoulders and darker skin than Porthos', and the third is Aramis' particular favorite. She is charming, with dark skin and, impossibly, freckles and pale blue eyes. Whatever her extraordinary parentage, Aramis would like to congratulate both on a job well done.

At least this is a concrete question he can answer, even if, to Athos, it seems like a remarkably silly one. His posture remains guarded, with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, but as Aramis turns the pages, he studies each neat portrait carefully.

“The first one, I suppose.”

Porthos had liked her too, but now that Aramis has broached the possibility of blue eyes, it's something he can't get away from. Nodding, he feels his mouth go a touch dry, but he doesn't want to bring it up. "It's the nose," he says, knowingly. "She's definitely got my nose. It's very cute. Such a shame we couldn't have figured anything out when I was a woman," he admits, because that would have been exact and perfect.

"You would have had to remain a woman for nine long months," says Aramis, laughing for the thought of it. "And given your reaction to a mere splinter," he adds, sharing a grin with Athos, for surely the man can see the humor in this, "I'm not certain you could endure the agonies of childbirth."

Athos scoffs softly, but a tiny smile tugs at his lips despite himself. He doesn't relax, precisely, but something around his eyes softens. "Hear that, Porthos? You lack the strength to remain a woman for long."

Still keeping a careful distance, he refills his wine glass. "Tell me you're not choosing this woman by looks alone."

He scowls and flicks Aramis' shoulder. "I didn't mean it like that," he huffs out, because he knows very well that he could never manage the pain of a pregnancy or a childbirth. "There's some information about family history of disease and occupation," he admits. "What else should we be looking for?"

"Detailed health records," Aramis agrees, though it is oddly heartening to have their methods critiqued. It is a step up from dismissal, after all. "Notes of their accomplishments as well, though it is anyone's guess what the child's proclivities will be. For all that it has accomplished, the human soul is too complex to be captured by science."

“And her character?” If they are to go through with this unnatural plan, they might as well put some actual thought into it. “You are choosing the mother of your child,” he tells Aramis with a dismissive wave of his hand, “not a new hat."

"I don't know if we're allowed to meet her properly until contracts are signed," Porthos says, but truly doesn't know the process of this. They very well might be permitted to meet this woman. He glances to Aramis, as if seeking out his help, because he's gone over this inside and out.

"We may," says Aramis. He has rarely felt nervous in the presence of a woman, but even to say it now causes him to shiver. "In the presence of our counselors so that we are all informed of the full ramifications of the process. When we determine we are a good fit, then we sign our contracts, assigning Porthos and I the parentage even before the child is born."

Aramis understands that part to be very important - they must adopt the child in advance, rather than take their chances after birth.

Athos scoffs. “Well. That is something.” The more he hears about this business, the less he likes it. He wonders what would be worse: if they took the child from a good and honest woman who might regret what she has done, or if they were swindled into choosing some less savory woman with no such fine feelings. Either way, won’t the character of the mother be reflected in the child? At least they will have to meet her first, for all the good it will do.