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[du_vallon]

Soft fluttering wakes Porthos up from a strange dream.

He's with Aramis and Athos in it, back in Paris, and they're running about after some murderer or another prisoner. It's like things are normal, except that they're not, because in the dream, Aramis seems distant, as if he's looking off for something else. Athos in the dream seems to notice nothing wrong with this, shrugging and remarking that with Aramis' heart being taken, it's only natural for him to be distracted.

Porthos wants to open his mouth and say that he's not in love, the man's gone, there's no one, but he can't speak. Before he can demand whether it's true, something crashes to the ground, shatters, and wakes Porthos from the strained dream. Breathless, he reaches out with weary eyes and fingers the broken mug in pieces, wondering if a bird got in. Slowly, a feather descends its way past his eyes, only giving more credence to his theory, but even that vanishes a moment later when Porthos feels the twitch and the weight at his back.

Heart racing a bit faster, he reaches a hand back and finds a great extension of wings sprouting from his shoulderblades and down his spine, bracketed there and sewn into the muscles of his body like they've always been there. Cursing under his breath, he hurries to the nearest reflection, watching in panic and awe as he stretches his arms out and the wings stretch with him, a span of six feet and then some in white and gray soft feathers. Cursing more, he grabs his trousers and hauls them on, followed by his boots. There's no way a shirt will do, so he steals Aramis' blue sash and works at tying it around his torso to hide as much as he can before taking his weapons with him and bolting out of the apartment without bothering to lock it.

He can't stay there.

This is Aramis' fault. It has to be. Or his God. Hand over the cross on his chest, the St. Jude medallion, Porthos lingers for only the briefest of moments before he bumps and stumbles his way out of doors, heading straight for the park they'd showed up in the very first day. Maybe Aramis' God has heard his thoughts, maybe he's heard what he wants and what he wants from Aramis, and this is some sort of punishment? Maybe he's meant to play some other role?

By the time he reaches the park, he's exhausted with questions and sinks down onto a bench, leaning his head between his knees and giving the wings space to expand and exist without being pressed against anything. Maybe this is just punishment for keeping his mouth shut. Maybe he should tell Aramis what he really wants and these cursed things will go away, to some other person who actually has faith.

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[afineseamstress]

It's the silence that follows the noise that wakes him.

Aramis is well used to the clamor of Porthos in their apartment. Quiet as the man might be when he wants to, he's loud in the mornings, even his yawns a thunderous sound, so when Aramis hears Porthos' brief scuffle and nothing further, he sits up at once.

There's no trace of the man in the apartment. There are, curiously, the ruins of a mug, several feathers, and the absence of Aramis' sash, none of which he can find any pattern to, but it sets Aramis' teeth on edge.

He dresses quickly.

Porthos is not to be found in the little shop that sells the coffees he favors, nor is he at the bakery. He is not at the horrid yoga studio, and neither is he at Jim', which seems unfair when it took Aramis three tries to manage a call on his little phone.

Porthos is also not at church, and Aramis has almost given up, traipsing home in defeat when he spies a span of something large and white in the park. It's no bird. It's nothing Aramis ever expected to see on this side of the divine, and he very nearly drops to his knees.

It's the curly head of hair perched atop those broad wings that has him staggering forward, only to freeze at the clear sight of his friend seated on a bench, an enormous pair of wings folded against his back.

"Mon dieu."

[du_vallon]

It's fear and worry that hit Porthos as soon as he hears Aramis' godly cry. His face crumples, knowing that he cannot run now. He could fly, he supposes, but it's not like Porthos even knows if these things do that. He looks up tentatively, face a picture of misery and guilt and longing, because Aramis looks so stunned and incredible in a way that makes Porthos think he's been so stupid not to just ask.

Not like he can do it now, infected with these faith-filled things, or whatever it is they are. "Aramis, get out of here," he growls at him.

[afineseamstress]

Aramis shakes his head, gripping the rosary hanging from his throat in mute refusal, and takes an unsteady step forward. It makes no sense at all - Aramis is certain that in all their years, Porthos has never been anything but a man, if the best man - he's never been an angel, but there's no arguing with the sight before him now.

"Porthos," he finally breathes, needing more than ever to name him, know him. "You - how?"

[du_vallon]

He doesn't know how, that's the whole point of it. He glares at Aramis, cross with this, with the weight at his back and how sensitive they feel, and it's like the air around him has gone warmer with his irritation, like he's boiling it. "I don't know, Aramis," he replies heavily. "I woke up from a dream about you and they were there, like they've grown in since I was a child," he says, accusatory and helpless at once. "What have you done to me?" he asks, voice bordering on tinny.

[afineseamstress]

"Not I," says Aramis with another step forward. He lifts his hands, settling them on Porthos' shoulders before they reach any further. "Only God could do this, surely."

He searches Porthos' eyes. "You are certain they were never there before? Not even in your dreams?"

[du_vallon]

It looks like the wings like it when Porthos is touched.

Or maybe that's not the wings, but Porthos himself. He calms when Aramis lays his fingers on his bare shoulders, as if giving proof that Aramis is a good influence on him. "I've never dreamt of wings," he replies, thinking it's more the opposite. He's had nightmares about hellfire and damnation, but never wings. Aramis is so close and Porthos wants so much and is so fearful, but he knows what's happening to him is impossible. "I thought maybe this was because of you," he says. "Some sort of punishment, from God."

[afineseamstress]

Aramis frowns, his dark eyes sweeping along those magnificent wings. Unfurled, they must span twice as wide as Porthos is tall, and again he feels a weakness in his knees. "Because of me?" he echoes, struggling to understand it, even as he's unable to look away. His fingers twitch, curling tighter against Porthos' shoulder lest he touch those feathers out of turn.

"Surely becoming an angel is a sign of favor, not condemnation."

[du_vallon]

"For you, maybe," Porthos points out, shifting forward to deliver the words, which slides Aramis' hand over the juncture of wing and bone and skin, the reaction instant when Porthos feels it and the wings shudder and he shivers. The touch, simple as it is, is like the sort of intimate touch he's only ever thought about. "It's like every thought," Porthos struggles to get the hoarse words out, "every dream, God's been watching and thought to turn me into something else, so I don't taint you."

Is that what this is? Is that what it could be? Now that Aramis' hand is on his wing, Porthos finds he doesn't want it to leave and the wings seem to respond to that, folding inwards to maximize the touch.

[afineseamstress]

"What on earth are you talking about?" Transfixed by the wings as Aramis is, every start and shudder as keenly felt as if it were his own, Porthos' misery draws him back to himself. The man is upset, frightened, no doubt, and Aramis cannot blame him for feeling overcome.

Leaving those wings, he cups Porthos' stubbled cheeks. "How could you ever taint me?"

[du_vallon]

He's not sure what he should do. Honesty has driven Porthos through every measure of his life. He'd learned early to say what you meant, what you felt, and never lie if you could help it. It had set him apart from his days at Court and it had been an important part of becoming a Musketeer. Now, though, he's more frightened than he's been in ages, even knowing that Aramis doesn't shy away from men.

The wings seem to be some extension of himself and they expand, curling around the both of them as if to offer some privacy. He doesn't want to look at them, but there's a fascination in how he can see bone through the ridges, like they really are a part of him. "The things I want," he manages, a bit dry-mouthed, completely scared. "I thought I'd left them behind a decade ago."

[afineseamstress]

Aramis steps deeper into the circle of Porthos' wings, all but forgotten now save for the sudden curtain they present between them and the world beyond. Aramis' focus is on Porthos - the unusual tremor in his voice, that joyful mouth downturned and eyes cast away.

Aramis cards his fingers through Porthos' hair. "I did not know you then," he says. "You still belonged to the Court. To your Flea and your Charon." Aramis' eyebrows lift. "Is that what this is? You still desire him. Or - " Aramis' brow furrows, but he does not let go. "Men like him."

[du_vallon]

The sound torn from him is soft and base, a whimper when Aramis touches his hair like no one's done since Alice. She had laughed when she'd discovered the reaction she could elicit, winding her fingers through the curls with ease. He misses her, he does, but she hadn't been willing to be a soldier's wife. Not many would. "I desire someone else," he gets out. "And I think it's enough that I desire him that God wants me to bear these things on my back."

They're heavy, so much more than he's used to bearing, and his strength is capable of men this size, just not constantly on his back. "I haven't belonged to either of them in years," he feels compelled to remind Aramis.

[afineseamstress]

"You don't believe in my God," Aramis reminds him, but his gaze falls to the cross on Porthos' chest, the wood pale against all that dark skin. Porthos speaks of desire, and Aramis' fingers are still tangled in his hair, pulling just hard enough to tear another sound from Porthos' throat, and Aramis has to draw a breath.

"Let's go home," he says suddenly, unable to have this conversation in the open where anyone may look at them, at Porthos. "Please."

[the_other_guy]

For lack of a better word, the world had gone nuts...not just him.

Bruce had taken measures against the inevitable hangover after letting Kenzi talk him into a bender, if not the ramifications of actually getting hammered. She was home, he was on his own...and he only felt a little wrung out as he walked down the street, taking in the sights with the slow, staggering realization that he wasn't alone. People all over the city had been blessed with supernatural gifts while others seemed lost, powerless.

Which meant this wouldn't last...the Other Guy would return.

So he was enjoying a brisk walk across the park when he spotted one man with wings...not a natural state from the body language, and the restless way they moved. They appeared naturally occurring, however, and were the first supernatural bequeathal he'd seen that was purely physical in nature.

"Excuse me!" He called out, wandering over as he rubbed his hands restlessly together, compelled to offer aid...the guy looked so damn miserable, and he was molting a little. "Sorry, I just...did you wake up that way? The wings...I have some medical training and a working knowledge of avian anatomy, I might be able to help." Maybe that summer Betty wanted to take up bird watching might finally come in handy...

[du_vallon]

Porthos looks up, alarmed when he realises that it's him the other man's speaking to. Faintly wary, definitely feeling on display the way he hasn't since he got here, Porthos grips the bench a little tighter, knuckles cracking in the event he needs to get physical in order to escape. "I woke up and these were fixed on my back," he replies carefully, not wanting to mangle his words because they're speaking in his second language. "Do you know how to fix it? Know how to make 'em go away?"

[the_other_guy]

Bruce took note of the other man's accent, and his careful pronunciation...and his tension. Hoping to put him at ease, Bruce switched to French, despite his uncertain pronunciation and poor accent.

"I can't, I'm sorry, but I may be able to help you use them." He replied. "Fold them, move more naturally with them...prevent injury. You're not alone in this, people all over the city have been affected, myself included."

[du_vallon]

Porthos means to scowl, but then the man (in French) starts talking about other people, other afflictions, and then includes himself in that list. He perks up enough at that, thinking that maybe it means it's not something that he's done. Maybe it's not his fault. "You look normal," he says, not sure what that means. "What's happened to you?"

[the_other_guy]

"Something was taken from me." Bruce replied, moving closer as he peered at the man's wings. "When I'm angered, I become something else, something more than human..."

He faltered, finding no word that fit, so he said it in English.

"The Hulk."

[du_vallon]

Porthos stares at him for a long while, blank when it comes to what a 'Hulk' is, never having heard it before. He lets out a laugh when he hears when it happens, though, seeing as usually when he gets angry, he either keeps it quiet and channeled, ready for when Athos says he can use it, or he mostly just starts talking with his fists. "I don't know what that is," he says. "Normally, I get angry, people sort of stay out of my way is all. Don't have a word for it."

[the_other_guy]

Bruce flashed him a small, sad smile, speaking in French again as he replied.

"Imagine if, when you got angry, people died. Every time, lives were lost. Just the act of feeling rage meant that you would hurt anyone who crossed your path. Imagine...if your rage had a face, a name, a body. Imagine that creature sprang from within you as Athena sprang from Zeus's skull, every time you felt any strong emotion. That is the Hulk, my friend...that is what I lost, and I am blessed for it."

He paused, taking a deep breath as his smile brightened a little, more friendly as he gestured to the man's wings. "I'm...let me have a look at these, okay? Please?"

[du_vallon]

Even in French, there's some words in there he doesn't understand, but he does understand asking to be looked at, and that makes him a bit wary. He's gotten to the point that only Athos or Aramis ever look after his wounds, the latter more often because Athos can't stitch worth a damn, so he's got a bit of misplaced trust issues still about people wanting to look him over, wanting to do him harm.

"You're not planning to take me apart?" Porthos checks warily, because after all this conversation about creatures, he feels like he ought to at least ask. "Cut me open?"

[the_other_guy]

"God, no!" The reaction was instant, abrupt, and genuine as his features registered real shock. "No, I..."

He wanted to explain himself, but if anyone knew trust issues, it was Bruce. Instead, he simply moved to show the man he meant no harm, stepping to the side just enough to lean in and peer at his left wing, looking at first without touching.

"It's hard to say the species of these wings...feathers and coloring don't match any bird species I've ever seen." Leaning back a little, he laid a single hand along the top edge of the wing, letting out a low whistle as his fingers kneaded and probed with the deft, gentle touch of a physician.

"The muscle density is remarkable!" he breathed, looking to the other man with a small smile. "These seem to be functional. You may be capable of flight, my friend."

[du_vallon]

Porthos hisses, more out of expectation than any actual sensation, staring up at him with a frightened look. It's almost worse to hear that he could fly away with these things, seeing as he doesn't want anything more for them to go away. "You see a lot of this, then...?" he asks, trailing off because he'd never gotten a name. But whoever he is, he seems to know what he's talking about, which is even stranger for Porthos to realize.

"What if...what if it's not a bird," he rambles, before he can even get an answer. "What if it's something more not of this earth? As a sort of punishment?"

[the_other_guy]

"Banner. Dr. Bruce Banner." he offered when the man sought a name, and laid a hand on his bare shoulder in comfort when he questioned the situation in a manner that was...

Well. Once upon a time, he'd have called it ridiculous. Later, unlikely, and later still, abnormal. At all times, he would have called it a fantasy of faith, for obvious reasons...but knowing Kenzi has softened his viewpoint a little.

"I'm a man of science." he replied, plain and simple, his French gaining some confidence. "I don't believe in gods or magic, because I have met gods, and seen magic...and I know these gods to be no more than men who do not walk among us, and their magic as science we do not yet understand. I promise you, my friend: this is an earthly problem with an earthly solution."

[du_vallon]

Well, at least he's a doctor. Porthos sometimes didn't even have that much to reassure him that he's safe and being a doctor is a step more than anyone in the regiment. "Porthos du Vallon," he introduces himself, barely more than a mumble as he keeps himself leaning forward, medallion of St. Jude and Aramis' cross hitting his neck with every sway, two signs of faith he doesn't have.

He shrugs, the wings moving with the muscle. "Not like I believe in God," he clarifies. "I don't. Which is a point of contention between my friend and I, but after what I've been through, I don't really know that any god or any magic like that can exist." He raises his gaze, meeting Bruce's. "That's why I think I'm being punished. Maybe it's to pay for not believing."