du_vallon | (no subject)

(no subject)

Something's been off since he went to the gym the other day. He'd done a ridiculous number of weights, but only because he'd felt like he could. Once he'd left, it'd only gotten worse, and now it's twinging and pinching him to the point that he's making faces. It's right around that awful wound from the axe, that deep buried thing that still aches in the rain.

A few days later, he accepts that he needs to ask for some help. He still sulks about it for a while and after dinner, he rubs sheepishly at the muscle in question before taking the salve he'd bought from Hild in order to find Aramis.

"I need your help," he says, gnawing on his lower lip.

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"Oh?" asks Aramis, still seated at the table with his glass of wine. Porthos has been stiff for days, too proud to ask for help, and Aramis has just begun to doubt his own resolve to hold out when Porthos finally breaks.

Aramis folds his arms. "And how may I assist you?"

Porthos makes a face when Aramis looks at him like he's about to give him a mild scolding, but he knows he probably deserves it and more. Sighing, he sets out the little thing of salve and gives him a hopeful look. "I think I've done something to my shoulder and I need your help," he says, a rush all at once. "Please," he adds, as an afterthought.

Aramis reaches out to take up the jar, uncorking it for a deep sniff. It's rather foul, as most effective medicines tend to be, and Aramis raises a brow. "Take a seat," he says. "Do you need help removing your shirt, you stubborn ox?"

He makes a face and nods a little, because he does need the help. "If you could," he says, thinking that Aramis would have no issue stripping him down to nothing. "I don't know what I was doing, maybe triceps? Maybe I used too heavy a weight..."

"Or didn't stretch enough before or after," Aramis replies, but he stands and rounds the table to help Porthos with his shirt. He's being a bit harsh, but Porthos could have had relief days ago if only his pride would allow for it. "Where precisely does it hurt?" he asks as he inches Porthos' shirt over his shoulders. "Near the scar?"

He grunts in agreement, though the actual ache goes far beyond that and he knows that it's something he's going to have to deal with. "I think I might have pulled it or maybe the muscles just decided to slip." He makes a whining sound of pain when Aramis helps him out of his shirt, trying not to lift it too far, but even a few inches is far enough.

"Porthos," Aramis admonishes when the true breadth of his discomfort makes itself clear. He curses the man's stubbornness, and his own for waiting until Porthos asked for help. "You should not have allowed this to go on so long," he says, his hands as tender as his voice is not.

Porthos grunts again when he gets a little bit of a scolding, because at this point, he can't go back in time and fix his shoulder and can't do anything about it. "Well, now, now you get to help me," he points out. "And maybe we're early enough that there's no surgery required."

"If you require surgery under my watch I will go under the knife myself," says Aramis in severe tones, prodding carefully to test the tenderness of the muscle. It is near rigid beneath his hands, and Aramis sighs, placing a cloth in a dish of water to warm. "I cannot even begin until the muscle is loosened," he says. "Where did you get this salve?"

"Hild's got a new shop," Porthos shares as he looks around for a place to lie down on his stomach in order to give Aramis proper access to the muscle in question. He gives his husband an apologetic look, slipping in a hint of the wounded puppy, and tries to look as pathetic as possible. "Is it that bad?"

"Any longer and the strain would have pulled the discs in your spine out of alignment," Aramis answers, "And then nothing I could do would have helped you." He helps Porthos to the chaise to lie him down, going to the stove after to retrieve the cloth.

He settles it over Porthos' scar and cards his fingers through his hair while they wait. "You'd have to get surgery, and physical therapy, and believe me those nurses will not be easy on you."

Porthos shifts to lie down on the chaise, turning his head to the side so he can still speak to Aramis even though his face is buried in the comfortable fabric that's beneath him. "You're the only nurse I want," he says with a cheerful voice, trying to flirt as best as he can while in immense pain.

Sighing, he exhales, waiting for relief. "You could always come to the gym and spot me," he offers.

"I have half a mind to," Aramis tells him, "To keep an eye on you if nothing else, and not even the fun sort of eye," he adds, thinking of how he ogles Porthos when at his yoga. Aramis lifts the cloth and tests the tightness of Porthos' shoulder, at last deeming it ready for some light work.

"Deep breath," he instructs, for he knows it would be uncomfortable even for a man with as big an aversion to pain as Porthos, and begins to carefully coax the muscle into relaxing.

Porthos takes in a deep breath, but it's not even close to deep enough, making him howl with pain when Aramis first starts to work on the tightness of the muscle. He knows he ought to be braver by now, but pain is something he's never hid from and while he can withstand a great deal, he's never quiet about it.

"I thought massage was supposed to be sensual," he growls. "Sexy, even."

Aramis waits out the tumult of Porthos' reaction with all the patience of a man riding a bucking horse, resuming his work when Porthos is still again. "That is for people who haven't paraded about with a strain for so long that they've aggravated the nerve," he tells him, reaching for the salve. Perhaps it will further loosen Porthos' shoulder.

"What were you lifting, bloody kettlebells filled with lead?"

"I moved to higher weights and did something they called crossfit," Porthos shares, which had required him to do a great deal of work in a short amount of time. Grimacing, he cranes his neck so he can peer up at Aramis. "Normally, when it aches like this, I take a day off and then it's fine," he insists.

"You are getting older, Porthos," says Aramis, fondness creeping into his voice as he gently guides Porthos' head back down so he doesn't further strain himself. "Handsomer every day, yes, but older, too, and with that will come a longer recovery time."

Porthos grumbles at the thought of getting older, but Aramis is right. He doesn't recover as easily as he used to, which is something that he's been struggling to get used to. "When the baby comes, I don't think I'll have much time to go work out," he admits, hissing when his head is pushed back. "You won't mind if I round out, will you?"

"Not at all," says Aramis, even if he thinks Porthos won't as much as he expects. Caring for a baby is hard work, and Porthos is already so active - even without a gym, he'll be getting plenty of exercise.

"We will get one of their strollers with the wheels meant for running," he continues. "Our daughter will love it."

"Are you going to come with us? Become a pair of jogging husbands?" he imagines he'll still find a way to strain his body, but at least he'll get to see Aramis in all his glowing, sweaty glory. That said, he'll also have to jealously fend off all those who realize what he's got. "I might like that," he muses. "And lifting up our petit Ana will be weights, enough."

"And we'll want to carry her everywhere," Aramis agrees. "Not a moment's respite. Not unless we manage to sneak her into Athos' arms from time to time."

Aramis grins at the thought of it, still working carefully at Porthos' shoulder. "We'll have to have a camera going the first time we tell him we're having a long weekend and he has to watch the baby."

"Our wedding anniversary is going to be only two months after she's born," Porthos does point out, which means Athos might be facing that fear sooner than expected. Porthos cranes his head to the other side, the pain starting to subside the more that Aramis works at him. "You think he's come around? That he'd be willing to watch after our baby even though he's not sure of things himself?"

He wants to think so, but he still remembers too many conversations fraught with tension and walking on eggshells.

"No," replies Aramis without a second thought, "Which is why we will sneak into his rooms while he is sleeping and leave Ana with all her supplies and a note. By the time she wakes and her cries wake him, we'll be safely removed."

Porthos barks out a fond laugh as he imagines Athos waking up to a screaming baby, which is probably not too far off from how he feels on any day when he wakes up after drinking too much. "He'll hate us for it," he announces with a smirk on his face, which is to say that he loves the plan. "We can make it up to him when we return."

"You see?" chuckles Aramis, massaging the muscles around the sorest now, "You have stumbled onto a truth by which I've lived my whole life - it is better to ask forgiveness than permission."

He sits back. "How is your shoulder?"