du_vallon | (no subject)

(no subject)

By the time Porthos returns from the shop, the adrenaline of finding Aramis and their fight has worn off and he's dragging his feet. He still goes to his flat upstairs to feed Athos, fiddle with the computers Jim's brought (while leaving him a message asking if they can talk, soon), and making sure that he gets assent that Aramis has heard him come back. He's not shaking with anger anymore, but he burns with it, still. He's not even sure he can explain it, but he's so furious because there's no doubt in his mind that he'll be there with Aramis.

And maybe that's it.

He's had the decision taken away from him because he and Aramis are inseparable, because they've begun sleeping together, because they're brothers in arms. Right? Except that it doesn't feel like it's only that. He feels like he's so scared because he feels like he's staring into a voided future where all the things he'd started to think about are gone, now, wiped clean because Aramis wants to hunt down monsters that can and will likely kill them.

The long life expectancy he'd been hoping for in Darrow has been severely curtailed.

He lets that simmer for a while and it's the middle of the early hours of the morning when he finally calms himself enough to return to Aramis. He strips off his shirt and boots before making his way downstairs, passing Athos on the way (who has sprawled on a step on his back, snoring) and continuing until he reaches their bed. He's fetched some of those odd pills from the shop that deem to aid in pain relief and sets two of them with water on Aramis' side of the bed before he lifts the blankets and crawls into the bed where he can draw Aramis in tightly, burying his face in the good side of Aramis' neck as he tries to hide all his fear there.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He's not found much rest in the hours since Porthos left. However exhausted Aramis has been, sleep comes only in fits and starts, and none of it restful. His dreams are haunted with memories of Savoy, but instead of black winged crows, it is men and women with sharp teeth who set upon the fallen bodies of his friends, and no matter how he hacks and slashes, Aramis cannot keep them all away.

When he wakes yet again, throat shining with cold sweat, it's to the warmth of Porthos wrapped around him, and Aramis relaxes for the first time in many hours. Closing his eyes again, he drifts, and when his eyes again slot open, it is still dark, and Porthos is still near.

Aramis clears his throat against a sudden ache, his voice raspy when he murmurs, "Are you awake?"

Hypersensitive to movement, Porthos hadn't been awake until he'd felt Aramis' body shifting beneath him, trying to shift with him to make sure he doesn't jostle or cause too much distress. He gives a soft murmur of assent when Aramis asks his question, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he shifts onto his back, arm reaching to settle under Aramis' waist, drawing him nearer. "You were asleep when I got in."

"I feel as if I've been run down by a carriage," Aramis admits, glad that Porthos seems happy enough to move him, for he's not sure he could manage it if he tried. "Perhaps two carriages."

Smiling faintly, he gives Porthos a cautious look. "Are you still angry?"

Porthos laughs softly at the notion of Aramis being levelled with two carriages and he absently runs his fingers up and down his bicep, slow and steady, and enough to distract him. "Yeah," he admits, and he's not happy that he's still angry about things, but he doesn't want to be a liar about these things. "I'm scared," he freely says. "I was looking forward to this nice, comfortable long life with honour from our deeds helping citizens with things that aren't half as deadly."

He makes a face that in the dark, Aramis might not see, as he pulls him in closer. "I'm with you, always. So there's no decision about whether I'm doing it or not, because I am. And that means losing all those years of that nice, long life I was picturing."

"You didn't say," replies Aramis, watching him as best he can in the dim of their room. Perhaps he ought to have guessed - so much is possible here for Porthos that never had been at home. A peaceful, long life never occurred to Aramis, and neither had it occurred to him that it could be something Porthos might want. Soldiering has always been enough for the both of them.

"I hate to see you angry. I hate even more to be the cause. I only thought - we have never balked at danger before." He lifts his head, only to drop it with a pained whine. "I did not think to pull you into something you would despise."

He hushes and tries to soothe Aramis when he shifts and lets out a pained cry. His worry is paramount as he shifts Aramis close enough that he can take a look at the wound, cautious as ever and peeling back the bandage to get a look at the wound. "I don't despise it," he insists. "And you shouldn't feel as if you forced me to it," he corrects, thinking it's important to place emphasis on that. He gnaws on his lower lip, aware that there's something more, but he's not sure if he ought to say it.

He sets the bandage back to rights, coaxing Aramis to rest his head on Porthos' chest. "You terrified me," he says, thinking that he shouldn't withhold anything. "Watching you bleeding out, how pale you were, I had visions of being here alone in this place without you and that's what I hate, I like the future, I do." Stubborn and firm, he finishes that thought, "but not without you."

Aramis lays his cheek against Porthos' chest, just as he'd lain it many hours ago before he'd inadvertently chased Porthos from their home. "I have done you a disservice," he admits. "I thought only of what I wanted in that moment. I did not think how you must feel, still with my blood beneath your fingernails."

Aramis has felt that frustration himself, many times, always the one to restrain the wounded in battle, lest they go running back before they're ready and ruin all his work. "I am sorry."

His fingers are steady and careful now as he strokes his fingers through Aramis' hair, the warmth beneath his fingertips the best reassurance that he's still alive. "From everything you've said, this is an enemy that we are unevenly matched again," he says, worry plaguing his every word. "And I can't lose you, not when we've only just begun."

He slides his arm lower, fingers dangling at Aramis' thigh as he noses at his forehead, slow kisses pressed there. "I'm with you, though. All the way."

He's been cold for hours, too many dreams of snow and too drained of blood for mere blankets to combat, but the last sentiment warms him. "Perhaps we would be unevenly matched," Aramis concedes, curling a hand over Porthos' ribs. "Perhaps not. Without even knowing what I faced, I bested one. But I will not endanger myself out of turn."

Moreover, Aramis will not put Porthos in danger, especially when he knows the man will follow him into anything. "Let us research. If it proves too much, we will leave the task to more capable hands."

Porthos is in this no matter what, his eyes closed as he keeps Aramis as close as he can, stomach feeling a bit strange for the worry that he's feeling, unparalleled to anything before. "Research, then," he concurs, because he knows this is going to happen and that it shouldn't be avoided. He lets out a shaky sigh. "I didn't realize I could be so scared," he says. "It was like I was a kid again, like I could lose everything and I ... I don't know what to make of it, 'Mis."

"It is how I feel each time one of you falls injured," Aramis replies, moving his hand to grip one of Porthos' at that shaky sigh. He heals his friends as much for himself as for their own sake - he can no more stomach the thought of life without them than the thought of any of them in pain, but that was before. That was France.

This is Darrow, and he and Porthos are more than brothers now. "If it were you," he says, recalling Porthos' earlier demand, what if it had been me?, and shudders. "No, it is no different. Were I to lose you, I'm not certain even honor could compel me to go on, here or at home. It..."

Aramis sighs, knowing better than to invoke Marsac, but he feels a kinship with the errant Musketeer. A man can only bear to lose so much before he himself is lost.

Porthos moves his hand lower, until his strokes are slow and steady things at Aramis' hip, breathing in the smell of Aramis' hair as he keeps him secure where he can't run away or go looking for danger. He swallows, hard, and eases back so he can look at Aramis, a frightened look on his face at the fact that he knows so little.

Everything is so complicated now because he doesn't understand. He still wants to soldier, still wants to settle, but tonight has brought in stark contrast that the only person he can see himself being with for years and years, fighting alongside and making mistakes with, is Aramis. "So we both die at once, is that the deal?" he tries to jest.

"If we must," replies Aramis, with the same effort at levity, for he truly hates to see Porthos brought low by anything. "But a better solution is of course not to die at all. Not until we are fat and old, but - "

Aramis lifts his head with care. "I would like to live before I meet that end. Truly live, and do good. Live a life with purpose, with a - with someone I care for, deeply."

Fat and old, Porthos likes that. He grins against Aramis' skin and thinks of Aramis fat (he'd never round out), but old and content. "That makes me glad to hear," he confesses, knowing that this isn't just a deathwish that Aramis is chasing after. He's not sure that he's the one that Aramis cares for, but he'd like to be. It hits him deep in his heart that, more than anything, he'd like to be, even if Aramis takes a dozen lovers besides him.

"How are you feeling, chou?"

"There is some improvement," says Aramis, though it's everything to do with the smile on Porthos' face. "I feel as if I've been run down by just one carriage."

He reaches until he can twine his own fingers in Porthos' curls. "And you? Are you more easy, now?"

He's never fought like this before with anyone and it's left him drained and confused, but the result is more than pleasant. Having Aramis here, in his arms in the bed they share and talking about a future makes his smile go a bit shy. "Yeah, much better," he admits, breathing out slowly. "Don't know what came over me. You scared me so much and I got so worried because I love you and I don't want to lose you," he rambles, barely even noticing that he's confessed the words exactly, maybe because he doesn't feel as if they're much of a surprise.

Smiling, Aramis finds the strength to lift his head. "You've never said that," he observes, trailing his thumb down the scar over Porthos' eye. "But I am glad to hear it. And because I love you, in turn, I will endeavor never to leave you, so do not fear it so much, dear Porthos."

Energy spent, he lays his head down again. "I am too stubborn to go back on my word."

"Haven't I?" He swears he must have before, because while the depth of his feelings might be new in this romantic light, they were there before. "I should have said it before, in the years and years we've known each other," he insists, eyes falling shut as his whole head tips into the touch of Aramis' thumb on his face, as if he's unable to help himself.

He shifts them, just once more, because he feels compelled to steal a kiss, supporting Aramis' jaw with both hands and claiming what he can, eager to lazily kiss Aramis as if he can coax the words out again, heart racing faster as he eases back, looking impossibly young and boyish.

"No one's ever said that," he confesses, sounding a bit lost and dazed. "Not to me."

Aramis pulls away, and if that confession is not enough to break his heart, the look on Porthos' face would be. "That is a crime," he says, though the word is not enough, but Aramis does not protest or argue. His every action since nearly their first meeting has spoken of great affection for Porthos, but he's never said it aloud until now, and does not doubt that everyone else in the man's world has been just as guilty.

"I can think of no one more worthy," he says fervently, struggling now not to grow upset. "No one."

Porthos bows his head so that Aramis can't see the haze of grateful tears building in his eyes, not wanting to seem so weak when he's so happy to hear the words, thinking that it's been a very long time and he'd thought maybe he just wouldn't be that sort. Flea had needed him and Alice had been so glad to meet him, Athos and Treville were proud, but no one had ever loved him. "S'just words, really," he mumbles. "I'm sure there's others who've never heard it too."

"Words they may be," replies Aramis, who eyes are far too keen to miss the sudden sheen in Porthos' own, "But words you deserve to hear. Forgive me."

Pulling Porthos' hand to his lips, Aramis kisses his knuckles. "I have long felt it." Whatever he says in action, however long that had felt like enough, Aramis sees now his mistake. He's had no shortage of love in his life, but Porthos has led an entirely different one. "I ought to have said."

His intake of breath is shaky, but grateful and he wraps his other arm around Aramis so that he's so securely trapped in his hold that there's no chance of him going anywhere. "I'm glad you said it," he murmurs, kissing Aramis one more time. "I brought you some pills for the pain," he says, gesturing to the other side of the bed. "Be a good man and take them, would you, so I don't feel bad about wanting to kiss you a bit more."

It's only because he does hurt that Aramis pulls his gaze away from Porthos, and when he sees the pills he smiles. "My friend, I'm not certain I can take them."

He's too tired to make a show of struggling, and settles for shifting in Porthos' arms. "You have me quite at your mercy."

Porthos groans when he thinks that to give Aramis a bit of relief, he has to let go of him. He grumbles as he shifts and leans forward, withdrawing his arms as he rounds the bed and sits, perched on the other side, with pills in hand. It's cool, now, outside of bed and far from Aramis (and without his shirt) and he holds out his hand. "How do you figure we start to research all this?" he asks. "What do we have to do?"

Aramis takes the offered hand, wincing as he's pulled upright. "There are some in Darrow more knowledgeable than others," he says, thinking of the boy he'd met that day with the enormous snake. "Some whom I expect would have a lot to say, if pressed," he adds, thinking now of Mam'selle Argent, and the flash of silver he knows he saw in her quiver.

"Perhaps even some at the Church, or the library."