du_vallon | (no subject)

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

His hips buck forward, sensitive to the touch, and he lets out a soft cry of delight at the touch. He wants to turn around and watch Aramis explore, but it won't do much for him. "You like 'em?" he asks, hopeful and desperate.

"They are magnificent," Aramis breathes with reverence. "And they suit you. I wish Athos were here to see them, though perhaps not quite like this." Aramis chuckles. "No need to kill the man."

Porthos smirks wickedly, turning in order to let Aramis share in the look for a moment. "I don't know. I always thought he was rugged," he growls, approvingly. "Very masculine and handsome." He continues shifting forward, wings flattening even further at the touch.

"Oh, certainly," replies Aramis, "And so skilled with that sword of his. But it's the dourness that gets to me. Ill-tempered people are always incredible in bed." Aramis continues stroking along Porthos' wings. "But what I mean to say is, perhaps the sight of two naked men, one of them suddenly winged would be a touch confronting."

Porthos laughs warmly, easing into the touch with a happy sigh. "I don't know. I'm sure he'd think you concocted some terrible scheme and I was only going along with it because it's better than doing nothing," he says. "He'd probably just sigh and tell us not to break anything before drowning in red wine."

"Or maybe he'd join," Porthos says coyly. "Maybe that's why he never takes on women. He prefers men?"

"I'd know it if he did," says Aramis at once. "I believe it's more...he loved a woman once, and it ended badly, and he does not yet have it in him to try again. If he ever will."

He frowns, moving one hand to squeeze at Porthos' nape. "You have seen his passion when confronted with that Madame de la Chapelle woman. There is something there he has not told us."

Porthos weighs Aramis down with a heavy look over his shoulder. "You didn't know about me," he feels compelled to point out, still thrilled with the fact that he'd surprised Aramis in that. He swallows hard, not liking that there's something that Athos is keeping from them. "Why don't you think he's told us? You think he doesn't trust us, maybe?"

Aramis sniffs for the first, convinced that somewhere deep down of course he'd known. And even if he hadn't, everyone wants him at least a little bit.

"You know Athos," he says. "He is a private man, even with us. And he called her 'the most dangerous woman in all of France.' I wouldn't be surprised if he felt he was protecting us by leaving us in ignorance."

"Don't see why he thinks we need protecting," Porthos grunts, seeing as between Aramis and himself, they can handle any threat that comes their way and have proven it a dozen times over. Porthos sighs and realizes he can't lounge like this all day, not if he wants to find a solution. "Get off," he finally says, reluctantly. "I need to start figuring out why I've got wings."

"She hurt him," replies Aramis. "Our stoic Athos. He would not risk her doing the same to us, however impossible we might believe it."

He releases Porthos with a sigh, but it's a moment more before he slides onto the sheets beside him, head propped on an elbow after a languid stretch. "Where will you begin?"

Where would he start in Paris? "Probably see if I can't find any witnesses, someone who knows something," he says, trying to figure out a next step. "Maybe someone has got experience in angels or wings like these. I'll start there," he says with a firm nod of his head. "I'll come back around afternoon, though."

"I hope you fashion something more clever than, pardon me, monsieur, but have you ever been an angel?" Aramis says with a grin. "Are you certain you don't want me to come with you?"

Porthos shoots Aramis a dubious look. "If you go around with me asking if people have ever been angels before, you're gonna end up in their bedrooms and I won't have any answers," he grumbles. "Split up, I think, cover twice the ground." There's no threat to be wary of. Porthos gives himself one last clean and wipe, bending down to put on his boots, thieving Aramis' sash with his fingers. "If you see anything else odd, I don't know, tell me later?"

Aramis laughs, for that is very much the truth. He sits up with a regretful look for the bed - he likes nothing more than to laze after a tumble - but there's important work to be done, and Aramis reaches for his clothing.

"As you say," he agrees. "Shall I take the southern portion of the city?"

Porthos nods, wiggling his other foot as it gets comfortable in the boot. "Yeah," he agrees, leaning back cautiously so the wings don't knock anything over, but he wants to get close enough and take a lazy, slow kiss for luck for himself, easing to his feet when he's had his share. "Don't get into trouble," he warns, slinging his swordbelt around his waist.