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Friday, 22 August 2014 18:35There's not one shred of regret in Porthos' blood for what he'd done.
The only trouble is that physical pain and regret don't exactly go hand in hand, so when the lady at the tattoo parlour that Tommy had taken him to mentioned that he ought to think about doing this in steps, he hadn't exactly given it much serious thought. Instead, he'd insisted on doing one very long session, a time where Aramis thought that he'd been at a hot yoga session (seeing as he's still scared away from the things). Several hours later, Porthos has a fleur de lys on his shoulder the size of his pauldron with a crucifix woven into the base and Aramis' signed letter 'A' wrapped around it.
It's covered in bandages and hurts as if he's been stabbed, shot, and punched all at once. He's got a salve name written down on a piece of paper and now he needs to make sure the thing heals before he can unveil it to Aramis.
And herein lies the problem.
Porthos had started cooking dinner (braised ribs in a pan with a soup) and the moment he'd tried to use his right arm, the stinging had stopped him. Clad in his linen shirt from home (now that most of Aramis' blood has been cleaned out of it), it hides the large bandage well enough, but it does mean that he's prone to favouring the other arm and he's trying his damnedest not to let the pain show.
When he hears the click of the door, he can't help the way his mood lifts and he cranes his neck towards the entryway. "Chou, I've got ten...fifteen minutes left until dinner," he warns, amending the time when the pain in his arm makes him reconsider. "Kick up your feet a while. Or better yet, be useful and pour me something, will you?"
The only trouble is that physical pain and regret don't exactly go hand in hand, so when the lady at the tattoo parlour that Tommy had taken him to mentioned that he ought to think about doing this in steps, he hadn't exactly given it much serious thought. Instead, he'd insisted on doing one very long session, a time where Aramis thought that he'd been at a hot yoga session (seeing as he's still scared away from the things). Several hours later, Porthos has a fleur de lys on his shoulder the size of his pauldron with a crucifix woven into the base and Aramis' signed letter 'A' wrapped around it.
It's covered in bandages and hurts as if he's been stabbed, shot, and punched all at once. He's got a salve name written down on a piece of paper and now he needs to make sure the thing heals before he can unveil it to Aramis.
And herein lies the problem.
Porthos had started cooking dinner (braised ribs in a pan with a soup) and the moment he'd tried to use his right arm, the stinging had stopped him. Clad in his linen shirt from home (now that most of Aramis' blood has been cleaned out of it), it hides the large bandage well enough, but it does mean that he's prone to favouring the other arm and he's trying his damnedest not to let the pain show.
When he hears the click of the door, he can't help the way his mood lifts and he cranes his neck towards the entryway. "Chou, I've got ten...fifteen minutes left until dinner," he warns, amending the time when the pain in his arm makes him reconsider. "Kick up your feet a while. Or better yet, be useful and pour me something, will you?"
