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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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"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.

"You're plenty good with a knife, too," Porthos points out with a smirk, thinking of the shorter knives and target practice, but they're still knives. He laughs and leans in to kiss Aramis' cheek hard when he fetches his wine, wrapping his arms around him from behind to hold onto him as he works. "This is usually how I bribe Athos into helping," he admits, of his current position.

"You could have tempted me here with the same," says Aramis, putting down his knife to lean back against him, smelling the same herbs that fill the air present in Porthos' skin. "Wine and cuddling and sharp tools, what more could a man ask for in a chore?"

Porthos holds onto him, not swaying because of the sharp object in his hands, but resting his chin on Aramis' shoulder to watch as he works, pleased with the proximity and the closeness. "So, now that we've picked the woman, we submit our request and the money we've set aside for the first payment? We'll need the lawyers for the meeting too, I think."

"Yes," Aramis agrees, not daring to chop while the speak of this. "It is all so complex, we will need them to make sure our needs and wants are represented. And the money?" he asks, twisting in Porthos' arms. "We are ready to pay it?"

Porthos frowns a touch, but only because it's a lot of money and it's all at once. Not to mention, it's right after they bought the house. "Maybe so long as the cheque isn't in my hands. I might hesitate and not hand it over when I'm meant to," he admits, but purely because it leaves his inheritance from De Foix practically emptied but for the quarter he'd put in savings.

"I will hold it," Aramis promises, kissing Porthos' furrowed brow. "And I will take another contract so we do not feel the hurt." He laughs a little. "And we will hope our little Ana does not find the photographs that prepared our household for her, for every prospect I have been sent is shirtless."

"I don't mind doing some, either," Porthos promises, and he feels like he can take a few more jobs at the consulting office. "It's just giving away a lot at once between this and the house." Not to mention they already have to make payments on a house that's still needing to be rebuilt.

"It is," Aramis agrees. "But we are gaining a lot in return." He kisses Porthos' cheek, hoping that he has a swift way of dealing with the rest of the potatoes, for Aramis couldn't give a toss anymore. "A home for all of us, the start of our family. It is worth whatever ghastly sum they charge, is it not?"

"I know," Porthos admits, it's just a lot to hand over, which is why Aramis is going to do it for him. He peers over his shoulder and pinches Aramis' arse. "Okay, switch with me. I want scalloped potatoes with dinner and the rate you're going, we'll have them for brunch." He takes the slicer to get the peel off, working at it as he stares at Aramis. "I might have to buy a new suit, if we're meant to impress."

"Not too fine," says Aramis, for he has thought on this. He shifts to let Porthos work. "We don't wish to appear to be putting on airs, or living beyond our means when a child is to come. Wear your dark gray one, and the green tie. I can't imagine a person exists who could refuse you anything in that suit."

Porthos keeps at the peels as he imagines the suit Aramis is describing, knowing the green tie. He knows they can't go in uniform or they'll be thought mad, but he misses the comfort that idea brings. "I was going to suggest steel grey for you," he admits. "With a dark skinny tie. Then, you look fetching in everything."

"So long as you promise to keep your hands to yourself," says Aramis, for he knows full well what normally happens when he wears that suit. It is a wonder the thing is not in tatters. "A blue tie for Athos. His eyes could move mountains."