du_vallon | (no subject)

Porthos can only imagine Athos behind the wheel of such a thing. "I don't think we could allow him to drink before piloting one of those," he points out, eyes more than a little worried. "But I wouldn't mind the both of you knowing how, I'd trust the both of you with my life," he says, thinking of how they'll get to town much faster with one of them.

He's still wary of it, of course, but it seems necessary. "When are you going to sit for the test?" he asks, picking up a second blanket, just in case.

"I must pass the driving examination first," says Aramis. "I have chosen a date in three weeks time. I always meant to tell you," he says quickly. "It is only - it is rather shameful to fail, I think. They allow their children command of the wagons here."

Porthos doesn't mind being kept in the dark for a time, provided that Aramis eventually tells him the truth. True, there's still small issues of trust since those memories, but he's doing his best to push them aside. "I don't think you less of anything for hesitating," Porthos promises, wrapping his arm around Aramis' waist. "I've got no intention of sitting for an exam to learn how to steer one of those things, so you're already a step ahead of me."

"No?" asks Aramis. "I would think it would appeal to you." Without missing a beat, he sidesteps the couple attempting to reach the chenille lavender throw. "All that speed and danger, hurtling around every turn in the bowels of a steel machine."

"Too many rules," is Porthos' honest reply. If he got to drive one of those things with no rules around a countryside like France's bare roads, he wouldn't mind, but here it's all stops on reds and signs and rules and Porthos already feels restrained just thinking about it. "Maybe I'll get one of those little ones you can ride around our property. One of those smaller ones. Besides, then if you and Athos learn, I get to sit back and enjoy."

"I think you should have basic lessons," Aramis decides, head tilted as he considers. "Suppose something happens to me and, God forbid, one of the children. You cannot put us both atop a horse with you and ride us to treatment."

"There are taxis and if it's a real emergency, I'd be calling for an ambulance anyway," Porthos feels inclined to point out. "Which would be better if medical attention is needed. You and Athos learning will be enough," he promises. "I'll have the horse and a phone, that's all I need," he promises.

Aramis hums. "I find I like the thought of you dependent on me," he murmurs. "Perhaps I'll only drive you to town if you promise to cook only the items I enjoy."

Nevermind that Aramis enjoys everything that Porthos fashions in the kitchen. "No trips unless I am able to touch you during yoga."

Porthos doesn't remind Aramis that he could still very well ride into town if need be, because he also likes the idea of sprawling out in the back seat while Aramis drives (or, really, sitting in the front and trying to distract him). He loads up a third blanket, just in case, and directs Aramis to the cash. "I suppose I'll have to start doing yoga twice as long. Half an hour of actual exercise, half an hour of you pestering me with your hands."

"Are we buying all these blankets?" asks Aramis, even as he's herded towards the register. "Are we going to dirty one or two of them?" he asks with a grin. "Because I believe we may buy specialty laundering fluid only a few stores over."

"One for each of us," Porthos protests. "Blue for you and Athos, and green for me," he says, because he knows how excellent he looks when clothes in hunter and forest greens, earthy tones that bring out the warmth of his eyes. "And besides, we do enough laundry as it is," he says. "We're awful, like that."

"We are conscientious owners of a fickle and volatile fabric," Aramis counters, and now that the idea is in his head, he wonders that they do not buy two for each of them. "That does not sound so awful to me."

Porthos smirks as he noses at Aramis' neck to nuzzle him with a kiss. "We're lucky there's such a thing as the washing machines here," he points out. "Could you imagine having the sort of sex we do, making the kind of mess we happen to, and having to do it by hand?"

The cashier's brows make it quite evident that they been understood despite their French, and Aramis immediately smiles and pays, putting his bright eyes to use until she's too flustered to complain. Thanking her with the brush of his lips to her knuckles, Aramis grins and steers Porthos from the shop.

"We'd buy new sheets once a week," he says belatedly. "Perhaps more."

"Every other day," Porthos jokes, but the truth is probably a little too close to that to be funny. He takes hold of the bag so he's holding the both, heart still accelerated and mad. "Are we to buy anything else? Or are we going to go look at your books and plans again?"

"Books," says Aramis, for it is all he can do not to turn around and go back into the baby store. "I will be lest tempted to buy everything I see on the pages if they are not there before me."

"Then we'll go home and curl up with the books, maybe even get you properly studying," Porthos says, with a stern look that implies that now that Aramis has vowed to learn this thing, he's not going to do it by halves, not with Porthos involved. "And you can ear-mark the things you like best."

"The entire booked is earmarked," says Aramis with a laugh, "As are all its brothers. But if we agree on a theme - blue - then we may begin making real plans. I can cut out the images I like and place them all in miniature paper room together. Perhaps Athos will lend an eye." Aramis raises both brows. "La Fere was well appointed."

"It has to be blue," he agrees, smiling softly when Aramis brings up the mansion. He remembers bits and pieces of it, but he'd been in so much pain that day that the whole thing starts to blur now. "Is this another way to try and involve him?" he asks, winding the bags into one hand so he can take Aramis' in his other.

Aramis slips his fingers through Porthos', their hands swinging comfortably between them. "Yes," he admits, "But I also think he has a better idea how to fill a room than we do. Apart from our apartments now, my only other real room was in Paris, and it was sparse. The child should have a nice room.

"Better than me, for certain. I've only ever had the garrison," he points out, because apartments cost money and Porthos had gambled a touch too much. Besides, for all the times he'd met a woman, he usually went round to hers. "We should have a nice room, too. And I should get a nice kitchen."

"And will that be blue as well?" asks Aramis. "What new contrivances have you envisioned to make our family's food with?" Aramis squeezes Porthos' hand. "Beyond two ovens and an extra set of ranges on the stove."

"All white and clean, with gleaming machines for our food," Porthos says instead, because he's attached to this new idea that is hard to get out of his mind. "There's mixers and other things we can buy that will help me cook faster. And I imagine I'll be making many cakes, especially for birthdays."

Aramis beams at him. "Oh, I shall like that," he says. "Perhaps I could help to decorate Ana's? Only a little, lest I ruin what you have done." He cocks his head, gaze going distant. "They buy them balloons here. She'll have cake and balloons and presents, even before she understands the day."

"I'll make two, and you can decorate the one with wonderful flowers and treats and sparkles," he promises, thinking that the other will be what they cut and serve. It makes his heart ache with love to think of such family events, and he lets out a choked sound when a thought catches him off guard.

He blinks back the tears before they show, but knows he has to explain himself to Aramis. "She's going to know when she was born," is all he says, which seems like something everyone ought to know, but Porthos knows better than to take for granted.