du_vallon | (no subject)

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It's been only a few days since the funeral and Porthos hasn't left bed for anything more than the bare essentials. He's gone to the washroom, fed himself, and then trundled back to bed with the comforter slung over his shoulders like it can protect him. Loss isn't new to him, but it has become fairly infrequent. It's something strange for it to happen here, where he'd thought themselves so safe, but here they are.

It's like a punch to the gut, something that he hadn't been anticipating, but now that Tommy's gone, he has to deal with the reminder that just because they're in a more tolerant future, it's not perfect. Death can happen, just like anything else, and no one is exempt. On day three, he feels like he should get up and do something more than poke around in bed with Lucie when she's placed there, but he still feels too heavy, too sad, too worn to do anything but lie there and think about Tommy and the last time he'd seen him.

All that he wished was that he could've made him happier, that he could have been there to celebrate an engagement instead of try and make him feel better about what happened. Now, he's gone. He's not going to find his next person, because he's dead. It'd been for a good cause, but that doesn't undo it. Shifting with the covers to tug them over his head, he wishes he could feel better, but he's just too tired.

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With Lucie safely napping in her swing in the living room, Aramis rests his shoulder against the bedroom door. On the other side lies Porthos, much as he's been these last few days, lying in a dejected lump near the head of the bed. Aramis sighs. He's tired. Looking after a young child nearly on his own has taken a toll, but nothing so heavy as the sight of Porthos now.

They've both seen loss in their lives, both endured misery and hardship, but Porthos hasn't been this poorly over a death since their first failed mission took the lives of three of their brothers. Aramis clears his throat. "Porthos?"

Stepping into the room, Aramis holds out a mug. "Would you care for some brandy and cocoa?"

He shifts in the bedsheets to push them away, in order to draw away and look wearily at the door. He could use some food, but cocoa and brandy sounds far better to him. Sitting up just enough that he can be vertical, he manages a nod of his head. "Yeah," he agrees, voice rough. He feels dried out and tired, like he can't quite shake the grief out of him.

"Only if you come in and have it with me," he says, but then thinks about that for a second. "If Lucie's sleeping," he amends. "Or she can come cuddle with us, too."

"She's resting beautifully," says Aramis in a hushed voice so as not to wake her. He crawls onto the sheets, holding the mug carefully so it doesn't spill, and hands it to Porthos. "She misses you," he adds.

"Well, the version of you not tucked away in this room."

Porthos takes the mug in hand, feeling weary and worn down as he curls up his eyes only half-lidded as he stares at Aramis. He hasn't been able to do anything since the funeral, has felt completely worn down, but at least he's got Aramis and Lucie and Athos to keep him sane, along with his friends.

"Are you telling me that I shouldn't be grieving?" he snaps, not up to fighting right now, but annoyed at the idea that he shouldn't be here.

Aramis leans back against the headboard, crossing his ankles before him. "Grieving, certainly," he replies. "But only the living may mourn the dead, and you haven't eaten properly in days."

Aramis nudges Porthos' foot beneath the blankets with his own. "You know I can scarcely cook for myself, let alone the pair of us."

He deflates slightly, but only because he also hasn't got the energy to keep up a big fight. Shifting in bed so that he can sip the brandy and then set it down, he curls up against Aramis' body so that his cheek is in Aramis' lap, staring up at him. He hasn't shaved in a few days, so his face is starting to get unruly, and while he knows Aramis is right, he can't bring himself to move.

"I'm sure Athos is at least keeping you well drunk," he says. "I know I have been. Maybe food isn't such a bad idea, though," he confesses, though he feels grumpy to say it.

"Yes," says Aramis simply, even as he longs for a drink. Between Porthos' terrible state, the job and the baby there's not been time for alcohol, but it doesn't bear mentioning now. "I could manage a sandwich," he offers. "Or - "

He pulls a bit of rumpled cloth from one of his pockets, laying it before Porthos. It's an apron, one that he's never quite understood the point of, but Porthos looks darling in them all the same. "I've bought what I believe to be your preferred ingredients for a coq au vin."

Porthos isn't sure that he wants to move, but it's probably why he ought to. His entire body feels sluggish with misery, but he slowly works himself into a sitting position, giving Aramis a knowing look because he's being fairly obvious.

He's just not sure he minds. Taking the apron in hand, he gives him a worn look. "If I end up only managing half the recipe, will you mind? I feel exhausted," he confesses, though he knows it's not from any physical cause.

"I'm certain that will be plenty," says Aramis, brightening as Porthos accepts the thinly veiled baiting to remove him from the bed. The sheets need a wash, and so does Porthos, but Aramis has chosen to fight one battle at a time.

He kisses Porthos' rough cheek and offers him a hand to rise. "I'll help where I can."

Porthos takes the hand and while he doesn't get up at first, he sits up. That's about all that he can do for a long moment, his lips pressed together, and then he gets to wobbly, unsteady feet. He hasn't worked out since the Purge, and while he knows he won't lose his abilities so soon, it feels strange and odd, like the muscles are starting to waste away.

"Right now, I just need coffee," he says, aware he sounds grumpy. "Maybe put some of that brandy in it."

"You'll give yourself a stomachache," says Aramis, but just now he'll do anything to get Porthos out of bed short of setting it on fire, so he adjourns to the kitchen for a cup that's mostly coffee with a snap of brandy on top.

He delivers the cup into Porthos' hands and says, "I'll begin warming the oven. If you don't come out to help we'll surely both perish."

"I've had worse," he mutters, of the drink. Sipping the coffee and the brandy, he winces and grimaces for the taste of it, but soon he's on his feet steadily and with a little more energy. Now that he's up, though, he makes a face when he inhales deeply.

"You okay to let the oven run for five minutes while I bathe?" He wrinkles his nose, not really wanting to admit it, but, "I think I smell worse than the raw chicken."

"I'm afraid I agree," says Aramis, but he leans in anyway to kiss Porthos' mouth, carding his fingers through his greasy curls after. "I'll see about chopping the vegetables as well." He still has a hard time getting them even, which is absurd when one considers how excellent Aramis is otherwise with a blade.

"Take your time."

Too long in the shower and he won't leave. He'll just end up soaking with the water until he prunes. So he heads into the shower and makes it scalding, but he only stays in long enough to soap himself up and shampoo, trying not to linger too much. When he steps out in fresh sweats and a new hoodie, he feels like a new man.

Once his hair is towelled, he heads into the kitchen and nuzzles Aramis' neck from behind, placing a slow kiss there, burrowing in. "Don't you leave me like he did," is his mumbled plea.

Aramis cooks with one ear on Lucie's cot and the other on Porthos' shower, lest he hear any telltale bumps or exclamations from either, but Porthos soon appears clean and unscathed. Aramis smiles and leans into him, even as his heart aches for that plea.

"We long ago discovered I am too pretty to die," he answers, keeping his voice light. "You're quite stuck with me."

Porthos makes a quiet noise, like he's not entirely sure that he believes that, but he feels like he has to. If he's sunk down by grief, then he won't be able to overcome thee fears. "Even with these new greys?" he murmurs, plucking at a few of them in Aramis' beard, a fond look in his eye.

He takes the apron and slides it over his head. While he doesn't feel like he's got all his energy back, he's got some back thanks to the shower. "Okay," he says with a determined nod of his head. "Coq au vin? It's been a while since I made it."

"These grays are all your doing and you know it," Aramis replies before he remembers to deny they exist. He turns and steps aside to let Porthos at the food.

"I'm sure it will be lovely. What about these vegetables?" he asks, gesturing to the carrots and onions. Sangdieu, his fingers will smell for ages. "Have I cut them properly?"

"At least some are Athos and plenty are d'Artagnan." For the first time in a while, Porthos is struck by how long it's been since he thought about that man, their young protege, and he's amazed at how it stings to feel like he's somehow failed him, by not thinking about him in recent days.

"They're fine," he says, of the vegetables. Perfection doesn't matter to him right now, so weary from everything, and all that he cares about is being able to move around. He works to get the ovens going, to prepare the chicken by washing it. "Lucie's been okay, though? No nightmares, no effects from that night?"

"Had d'Artagnan had more years then yes, he might have outstripped you, but these are entirely yours," says Aramis, touching the silvers his temple with a chuckle. He sobers as he glances at Lucie's cot.

"None that I can tell," he answers, unable to repress a shudder as he recalls shooting vile people whilst cooing down at his daughter. "I did my best to pretend it was a game."

Porthos leans over in order to kiss the spot that Aramis is pointing to, a chaste thing that he enjoys before he nuzzles down his neck a little, still thinking of when he couldn't do this. It brings that grief back, because he's thinking of all the close calls they had before, all that potential loss.

"Good," is what he says, of the Purge. "I hated being trapped away, but I think the boys are better for it. They didn't go out and get a taste of something they would've liked." That had been his real issue. He knows how tempting it would've been, if they'd remained unhurt. It would've been hell to drag them back after that.

Aramis can't help grimacing. Whatever he's done - whatever he's enjoyed doing - no violence has ever been for the sport of it. Those boys are lucky to have Porthos, and the city is, as well.

"Next Purge, God willing, we will be safely in the country," he says, again forcing his voice into something lighter. "With Lucie, and perhaps a brother or sister to keep her company."

"I don't even want to think about this place having another one of those," Porthos growls, because he can't do that again, not without wanting to take up arms and head into the city to make sure that people are defended and they're not having to go against a terrible regime.

"Brother or sister, though?" He gives Aramis a searching look, hopeful even though reality creeps in. "What about money?"

Money is really more of Athos' specialty, but Aramis has a decent enough idea of it, he thinks. "Without these apartments, and with house completed, that's quite a bit of money from the city to pocket each month," he says. "And they'll be no need to keep the horses' place at the stables when we have our own."

Aramis smiles. "I see no reason not to consider it."

It's a strange thing for Porthos to come around to, because he knows that it's something that they've talked about and something in the future, but at the same time, he thought that they wouldn't be able to afford it. "We only just started getting rest again now that Lucie is a little older, you want to do it again?" he asks fondly.

Of course Porthos does, he's only joking a little, but it also makes his heart clench with affection to imagine having an infant in his arms again, so small and precious.

"Of course," says Aramis without hesitation. The joy that Lucie has brought them is immeasurable. How much more full will their hearts be with one more?

"We could adopt," he continues. "Or perhaps have one with your own...contribution," he ventures delicately.

"You know how I feel about adopting," Porthos says, his voice struck tender by the topic coming up again, seeing as he still feels so strongly about giving a child a home when they don't have one. "I don't want us to go seeking it out, though, I want to make sure that we'd be doing it for someone that wouldn't get a chance otherwise and that's not usually an infant," he warns.

He's still wary about a child of his own, even though Aramis has brought him around to the idea more and more. "Are you sure? About one of mine?"

Aramis doesn't hesitate. "I've always been sure," he says, washing his hands so he can touch Porthos without making him smell of chopped vegetables. "I think Lucie would enjoy a playmate, especially when we are far removed in the country. Apart from the Captain, there will be little to amuse her there."

"Other than us teaching her all the things she'll need to learn to be a proper Musketeer in training one day," he says, because that's something that he's been planning to teach her from a young age. He gives Aramis a grateful look, even if he's not sure he's ready to switch from grief to joy so fast.

"You know my preference," he says. "I'd prefer to adopt an older child, but it's not like they come around so often."

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