du_vallon | (no subject)

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While it'd taken far more control than Porthos had ever experienced having before, after his discussion with the man whose wings he's apparently stolen, he knows how to make them vanish. True, they're still there given that when he gets cross or impatient, they shimmer right back into being, along with the pulsing heat radiating in his immediate area, but he doesn't much care because they're gone and he can control them.

He'd be more eager to get back home, but he's not sure where Aramis is, his back still aches from the morning, and Porthos is currently shirtless. He fixes the last problem first with a bit of cash he's got on him, buying a loose-fitting blue linen shirt and draping it over himself before he grabs a quick bite to eat and a bottle of wine, heading back to the flat.

The aching, though, ought to be dealt with. "Aramis?" he calls, peering upstairs and setting everything down before he heads straight into one of the stretches that elongates his spine and presses his shoulders back, hissing when the muscles knot and scream, barely fighting off a headache.

He might not be cured, but he is happy to be in control again.

"Don't tell me you went and got jealous, had to go find trouble for yourself?" he laughs, shifting into a stretch they'd called 'downward dogs' or something of that nature.

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"Porthos, please," Aramis calls from the bedroom, where he's only been long enough to shift out of his boots. "I am not as fickle as you all pretend."

He ventures into the apartment proper, pulling at his belts, but stops at the spectacle of Porthos bent nearly in two. That the wings are gone doesn't even enter his mind presented with a sight like this. "What on earth are you doing?" he asks, but it hardly sounds like a protest.

Porthos shifts, enough to peer through his open legs to where Aramis is standing in the bedroom, blood rushing to his face as he shifts his way back up to a standing place. "It's a stretch," he says, arching his spine forward now, arcing in the other direction. "It's not fickle, it's you having trouble seek you out so easily. It happens with Athos, too." And himself, not that he's about to admit it. "I met someone who can tell if you're lying," he says. "And a girl-dog. Or a girl that's a dog who isn't normally."

"I ran into all manner of madness myself," says Aramis, "But no one that knew anything about...your wings, Porthos!" He hurries forward, spreading a palm against Porthos' back. The shirt that covers it is large, but could never hide a pair of wings. "They're gone!"

"I also ran into a man who used to have wings," Porthos says knowingly, smirking when it seems to take Aramis a good few moments to figure it out. He hooks his fingers in the shirt and steps back to give himself room, shrugging his shoulders. "Not exactly gone," he confesses, closing his eyes to focus on willing them back into being, shimmering and bursting forth. "Turns out, he's only got wings when he wants to have wings or when he's so angry, he can't control it."

He focuses on forcing them gone again, proud and pleased when he manages. "What sort of things did you see?"

"Extraordinary," Aramis murmurs, still staring at the place the wings at popped so quickly in and out of being. "I saw someone climb a building without rope, a girl who growled quite like a wolf, and what I believe to be a woman freezing everything she laid her hands on. I suppose it's a wonder I didn't wake to find myself altered."

He's still immensely proud, but he's also immensely sore, cracking his neck as he wanders back towards the living area, where he's cleared a space so he can shift into something on the ground that arches his back, calves tucked under his thighs and arms folded beneath, so his torso stretches as much as possible to the ceiling, wincing as he does. "If you'd woken up altered, we probably would've lost the flat to destruction and panic, maybe a bit of terror."

"I know how to handle myself," Aramis protests, though he's glad not to have had to find out. He follows Porthos to the living area, watching as he bends himself in ways no man his size should be able to.

"Heat will help," he decides. "But none of that wretched hot box kind. A bath, perhaps."

"It's not you I was worried about," Porthos points out, straining and gasping for a breath before he tips his head back, catching Aramis' eye with confusion when he suggests heat. "Bath? For what, me?" he figures out, thinking maybe they're discussing his sore muscles, now. Sometimes he forgets they don't have to fetch and boil the water, one of the wonders this place has that he truly adores.

Holding the pose for a moment longer, he releases his hold on his ankles, shrugging. "Maybe a shower's better?"

"Easier to angle against your back," Aramis concedes, "Though hardly as relaxing. Also, I've..." Hesitating for a moment, Aramis squares his shoulders and marches into the bedroom, marching out again with an air of determination.

"I've gotten you something," he says, holding out a plastic bag that crinkles distastefully. "A warming blanket. It works on their electricity, and you can drape it anywhere you please."

Porthos stares at Aramis with wonder. It's a small gift, to be fair, but it's not that. It's the fact that Aramis went out and purchased something modern that runs on electricity. He blinks, stunned and reaches for the bag, unearthing the blanket and studying it before turning that assessing gaze on Aramis. "Maybe a bath is a better idea," he agrees, setting the blanket on the ground beside him before he hauls himself to his feet.

"Will it be too warm?" he asks, a bit wary. "In the bed?"

"I've no idea," Aramis confesses, oddly warm in the face after administering his gift, but it's hardly the first time he's done something for Porthos. "It has these little notches, I was told you may adjust it to your level of comfort." He nods towards the bathroom. "Go and draw your bath. I will bring you something to drink."

Porthos pauses, reaching out to touch his fingers to the flush of Aramis' cheeks, half testing the warmth, half because he wants to and that's reason enough. "We'll have to figure it out," he says firmly, drawing away towards the bathroom, but not before he can gesture to the kitchen.

"I bought wine," he says, not wanting to say that he'd bought it to celebrate, because saying that sort of thing aloud is frightening, because while he means to celebrate control of his wings, there's other things they could be saluting to, as well.

"Ah," says Aramis, attempting to chase the heat from his cheeks, but he only ends up curling a hand where Porthos' had briefly lain instead. "Kind of you."

Shaking himself, he walks into the kitchen to retrieve it, shedding another belt and his hat as he goes. "And water," he calls after Porthos. "Your muscles will thank you."

"Kind of me to enjoy my own wine?" Porthos retorts, stripping off his belt and his boots, socks and trousers following while he unlaces his braies (having worn them after making a mess of his undergarments earlier in the morning). The hot water still runs in the bath, but Porthos steps in when it's only half full, sinking down and trying not to stay utterly aware that his wings might pop back up and make this very uncomfortable.

He sighs as the hot water begins to fill and swirl around him, already beginning its work on weary muscles. "You were right," he mumbles, voice lazy. "This is a better idea."

"Are you surprised?" Aramis asks when he appears in the door, two glasses of wine in his hands. He hands Porthos one and seats himself in the corner, glad that he's stripped out of his coat when the steam of the room settles around him.

"You're looking better," he observes.

Porthos takes the glass of wine in hand and stretches out in the tub until his toes touch the other side, arms draped over the edges as he sips at the glass and reclines back, neck against cool porcelain. "Feeling much better," he admits. "Didn't realize how heavy those things were until they were gone. And I can wear a shirt again and less people stare," he points out, even though he knows they're still there, lurking.

"Hope you're not hungry. Didn't exactly pick up dinner." He cracks one eye open, then the other, tracing Aramis' form in the corner with his clothes still on, and wonders what, exactly, they do now.

"I did manage to feed myself before we shared quarters, you know," says Aramis with a smile, gaze cast downward as he fingers at his glass. "I can make something for both of us," he ventures, looking up at Porthos carefully. It is one thing, after all, to be disrobed before one's brothers. It is another to see a lover in this way, and Aramis finds himself caught somewhere inbetween.

"I could do it now," he says, "If you wish to relax alone."

Porthos shakes his head, shifting so he sits up, knees to his chest in a move that brings him across the room and closer to Aramis. "Nah, never did like relaxing alone," he confesses, drinking enough that he stains his lips red, droplets of red wine in his moustache. "I found out what I am, what powers I've got. It's not exactly an angel," he says, to give Aramis something to focus his mind on -- conversation rather than anything else.

"Not exactly," Aramis repeats, glad to have been asked to stay, and leans forward on his elbows to better see him through the steam. "What does that mean? What can you do besides manifest wings?"

Porthos leans forward, setting the glass of wine (mostly gone by now) on the floor, shifting that last bit so he's curled into the corner of the tub nearest Aramis, where he can reach a soapy finger out and trace idle patterns on the back of his palm. "Well, it's more that he used to be an angel, is all. Used to be, now is just on earth."

So, yeah, probably still just as much angel, but Porthos wants to move them away from that distinction. "Haven't even been able to look. Are there marks? Scars?" he asks, turning his back to Aramis.

"None that I can see," says Aramis, but runs his palm over Porthos' damp skin. "Only the scars you had before," he decides.

"I cannot believe there is a real angel in Darrow," he says. "Even a former one. And now you bear his wings." Aramis smiles a little, very nearly all nerve. "The world is a funny place."

Now that Aramis is touching his skin, he's inclined not to let him stop. Porthos breathes out a steady, content breath, hating that he also wants to keep Aramis' gaze and he can't do both. Instead, he elects to face forward, shrugging his shoulders. "Maybe when this is all done, you can sit him down and ask him about God and faith."

"Of course, he probably won't be very pleased with us if I accidentally stole his wings for good," he points out. "Might even want revenge, for that."

"He would not find it," replies Aramis. Even if Porthos is stronger than ever before, it's not him this angel would have to fear if he threatened him.

"And I think not," he adds with a smile. "Unhappy is the scholar who knows everything. Besides, it is faith that comforts me, not fact."

"Might be nice for a dust-up," Porthos admits. "I can't keep going back to Tommy, he might get sick of his fists in my face." And vice-versa, but he doesn't mention that part. His look turns curious and lost, though. "I don't understand. There's a former angel here, one who could tell you everything you want to know about God and heaven and you don't want to learn?" he demands. "There's faith and then there's being stupid," he says bluntly.

Aramis gives a quiet laugh. "'We live by faith, not by sight,'" he quotes. "If the mysteries of the universe were meant for man, God Himself would have revealed them well before Darrow, Porthos. I am content to believe."

Aramis catches Porthos' hand where he still traces patterns on his skin and threads their fingers together. "I believe in God, and in you, and in Athos. I am content."