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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Aramis nods, squeezing Porthos' hands in lieu of squeezing Athos' and making him flee. "Thank you," he exhales, "I know we will be better for it. Without you I might just agree to the first person I meet and trust the child will be ours after. That is how much I want it."

“Frankly, I am surprised you have not snatched an infant off the street,” Athos says, managing a ghost of a smile. He takes a breath, forcing back the panic and fears that always manage to arise when he thinks on this child for too long. “I will let you finish,” he says, setting down his now-empty wine glass. “Call when dinner is prepared?"

"I've said the same thing," Porthos jests, but he gives Aramis a crooked, wry smirk as he leans up to kiss him, watching Athos warily, but knowing he shouldn't insist that he stay much longer. "I'll give you a shout when we're through," he agrees, turning his attention back to the book where they're down to two choices, as far as he's concerned.

"Take more wine if you wish," says Aramis, though he worries for the thought of Athos drinking alone upstairs, for all that he knows it is Athos' long custom. "It is for you. When you return, we'll all enjoy an excellent meal together."

Athos hesitates, but then nods and takes the half-drunk bottle from the table. He will finish it in short order, and he takes no pride in the fact. “Don’t be too long,” Athos says, and returns to the stair.

Porthos glances warily as Athos goes, lifting Aramis up from his perch on his legs in order to set him down. "Should probably start to cook while we talk," he admits, because if he lingers too much, he can't imagine that will go well. He opens the fridge and spends a moment longer than usual peering inside to calm his thoughts.

With Athos gone and Porthos lost in the depths of the refrigerator, Aramis rises slowly, pressing his hand against the small of Porthos' back. "He has agreed to come," he murmurs. "He looked at a picture. That is momentous, Porthos."

Porthos pulls out some of the thawing chicken and gives Aramis a small smile. "I know," he agrees. "I'm pleased for that, but I can't help feeling worn and upset whenever he acts like he hasn't got a place in our future," he admits, still feeling the icy press of those feelings.

"I don't understand why it must divide us so," Aramis agrees with a frown for where Athos sits above them, drinking in solitude. "Children will claim some of our attention, yes, but he will be with us. I don't mean to let that stubborn man escape, not for anything."

"No, neither do I," Porthos agrees, setting the chicken on the counter and swatting the cat away before he returns to the fridge for the ingredients he intends to stuff them with. He pauses at the counter, eyes on the book. "Do you think he's fearful? Because it's something he almost had with Milady?"

"If he is, it will be another year of our lives before he admits to it," says Aramis, and the roll of his eyes is as fond as it is despairing. "He is an impossible man, resisting happiness at every turn. Thank heaven he is so dreadfully handsome."

Porthos smirks at Aramis over the counter, feeling like at least some of this is pure dramatics and nothing else. "You never let me prod at him," he points out. "I mean, I know I'm liable to crack him open and then we wouldn't have an Athos at all, but maybe it's the sort of wound that needs to bleed out."

"We do not know how deeply that wound goes," Aramis replies. They have already witnessed Athos shake to near pieces when presented with the new token that hangs around his throat. "I know it is frustrating, but we must be careful with him, Athos." Aramis shrugs unhappily. "People with that sort of armor built around them are often fragile beneath."

Porthos isn't used to fragile people. He's used to seeing the worst of the world and recoiling back to fight. This sort of thing is foreign to him, especially when all he wants to do is make Athos happy. Gesturing over his shoulder, he angles Aramis to a drawer. "Fetch the potatoes for me? You can peel them while I prepare the toppings to scallop them," he says.

"I'm not saying he has to be a father, but it would be nice if he could tolerate the idea that he'll be with us when we start a family. At the same time, whenever I bring up fostering, he doesn't react nearly the same."

"No?" Aramis' frown deepens for that. "It cannot be my blood he fears," he says, stamping down the old terror that children of his lineage are cursed. He moves to the potatoes, hardly aware of what his hands are doing. "Perhaps he believes they are already damaged by the time they come to us. Nothing we do could re-tarnish what has already lost its innocence."

Porthos thinks it's something else, though. "I think maybe it's that we're bringing a stranger into this," he admits. "The orphans that we'd foster aren't permanent, either," he points out. "Two big reasons why he doesn't pale and get angry like he does when we talk about this." He hands Aramis the potato slicer and a bowl for them, sighing as he thinks of how much he hates that Athos is unhappy about something they want.

Aramis looks down at the potatoes, feeling unusually clumsy as he picks one up and begins to divest it of its jacket. "Do you think he is angry?" he asks, stomach churning with sudden illness for the thought. All this time, Aramis has counted on proving Athos wrong, however long it takes. He had not thought the man to be truly angry with them.

"He gets pinched in the face. Maybe not angry," Porthos admits, stuffing the chicken with the herbs and the cheese to give it flavour. "Annoyed? Upset," he says, but he's stabbing in the dark as far as he knows, because he doesn't know why Athos is actually cross with it. "I don't know. Maybe he needs to spend more time with us at the shelter with kids? See how we'll be as parents?"

"I'm not certain that would make him any easier," Aramis sighs, "But it is worth the attempt." In truth, he does not know what to do beyond continuing on with breakneck speed, trusting Athos to keep pace with them as he always has before. Perhaps in this, he will be a few steps behind, and Aramis prays it is only that.

"Which woman did you like best?" he asks to stave off the ache in his heart.

"The one with the blue eyes," he says, because despite all of their arguing and the issues, Porthos still wants the one who will have a bit of all of them (with any luck). He knows that he'll have to bring it up to Jim and see which works, but he still likes that idea more than the rest. "You?"

Aramis smiles, placing one peeled potato onto the cutting board. "I like her, too," he says. "Her hair, her skin and her eyes are all perfect. We might even make more of those," he says for the latter, looking up. "My grandmother's eyes were blue."

Porthos leans over to cup Aramis by the cheek, holding him in place so he can steal a kiss, smirking as he pinches that cheek. "You'd have looked too pretty with blue eyes," he chides, but there's fondness there. "Cherubic," he teases, giving Aramis a bowl to put the peeled potatoes into. "You can slice them, too," he instructs. "Good and thin, then put 'em in the bowl with the water until I'm ready to bake them."

Aramis laughs to think of his blue eyes framed by the wildly curling hair of his youth. "I will leave the angelic charms to you," he says, though Aramis grimaces faintly when confronted with the peeled potatoes. It takes ages to cut them as thin as Porthos would like, and Athos is far better than he is with a blade.

"When can we begin putting Athos to work down here?"

Porthos snorts, because being angelic-like isn't exactly something he considers himself doing on an everyday basis, especially since his hair is naturally frizzy versus the curls that most angels in pictures seem to have. "He helps out, sometimes," Porthos admits, finishing with toothpicks to hold the chicken together. "Suppose he's not in the mood for it today is all."

"You should save the knife work for him," says Aramis, but he furrows his brow, concentrating on getting the blade as evenly through the potatoes as he can for neat slices.

"Ugh, I need wine," he says when he's scarcely halfway through, finding his glass to drink deeply from it.