du_vallon | (no subject)

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There'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?"

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The smell of dinner wafts all the way down the hall, and Aramis is smiling when he lets himself into the apartment, the straps of a bag filled with cut flowers curled around one finger, his others clinging to a bottle of wine. Porthos is at the stove, as expected, and something in the set of his body chafes at Aramis before the man has even opened his mouth, speaking around a knot of pain in his voice that Aramis would know even in slumber.

"You're hurt," he says immediately, dropping his bags on the table to rush to Porthos' side. "Tell me what's happened."

Porthos flinches defensively, at first, a stubborn flair in him used to dealing with Aramis telling him not to confess or to tell the truth. After all, it's hardly as if he's that transparent (is he?). Still, it's a bit of a heady thing to watch Aramis come so quickly and so worriedly when he thinks Porthos might be hurt. "I'm fine," he protests, even if he's a bit stiff as he says it, pressing his hand to Aramis' arm to keep him just a touch away. If he pokes and prods enough, Porthos is useless to help himself and will fold and end up confessing.

He'd really been hoping it would be healed when Aramis got to see it, rather than the ink still drying. "Yoga was a bit of a mess is all," he adds, grimacing as he rolls his shoulders back. "Got a bit ambitious, I suppose, aiming for things to do with you," is added with a cheeky grin as he takes advantage of the space to lean in and steal a kiss from Aramis' lips. "What, you can't say hello like a normal person?" he teases under his breath.

"You are not fine," Aramis replies, though his anxiety quells a bit at the mention of yoga. "The hot one?" he asks, "Well, I can't say I'm surprised. That heat would push anyone to injury."

Accepting the kiss, he smiles a little. "Hello. Shall I work your back later, then?" he asks, attempting to take the spoon. "Sit down, I can finish this."

"Fine, I'm not fine," he accepts, a quiet sigh on his lips given the way Aramis seems to be able to sense the very smallest shift in him. He'd be impressed if it weren't working against his aims, at the moment. Porthos leans in and nips at Aramis' lower lip when he tries to take the spoon, backing away with it and holding it out of his reach with his left hand (the current good one). "None of that, now," he insists. "And nah, I don't need a massage," he says, trying to pass it off as normal. "I'd rather do other things with you to fill our time."

He peers past Aramis, eyes lighting up when he sees the bag. "What's in there?"

"Other things may not be possible with your back in a tangle," Aramis replies, but he looks back at the bags he's left on the table. "Flowers," he says, striding back to them, "To brighten the room." He pulls them out, a colorful display of Bluestar and Clematis, their blue cut with smatterings of yellow daisies. "And wine as well. Spirits, to lift our own," he says with a broad smile.

Porthos can't help his delighted smile, caught a bit off guard with how the gesture takes him aback pleasantly. "So thoughtful," Porthos says fondly. "You're such a romantic, much more than me," he continues, aiming to get the conversation away from him. "And there's plenty we can do not involving my back, namely me tying your arms up and using my mouth." And that way, Aramis won't be able to paw at him.

Aramis bows for the compliment, then lifts a graceful brow. "Or mine," he says with a dark eyed wink, for it would not do to let Porthos' mouth have all the fun, and though he's not convinced Porthos is not a born romantic, Aramis has never heard a compliment beneath which he will not preen. "But for either, we shall require nourishment, so to your spoon, Porthos."

For his part, Aramis finds a tall glass that will have to act as a vase, and arranges the flowers inside.

Porthos is grinning right up until the moment he realises he's going to have to take off a heavy plate of ribs and a heavier pot of soup from the stove. He needs to distract Aramis and he hopes that between the flowers and the wine, that'll be suitable. "Grab some glasses and pour for us, too," he insists. "And maybe feed Athos? I haven't had time." There's a sliver of hope in his voice, as if Aramis will actually wander away so he won't have to watch the way Porthos winces or the sound of a bandage moving with cloth.

"Merde, the little beast will be gnawing on our ankles," says Aramis, but with a touch of fondness as he goes for the cat food first. As expected, Athos produces himself the moment he hears the tin, and Aramis smiles as he spoons it into a bowl.

At his back, he can hear Porthos moving about, and Aramis drops the spoon with a clatter. "Put that plate down at once. And leave the pot as well, neither will do your back any favors."

Porthos opens his mouth to protest, but he's too busy marvelling at how Aramis seems to be able to sense what he's doing without even a spare look. "How'd you...?" He shakes his head and goes quiet, seeing as Porthos is going to get away without having to lift anything without even asking for help. "They're braised beef ribs in port," he says, grasping cutlery and napkins for the table. "And a leek soup."

That sounds heavenly, and Aramis groans faintly. The smell that greets him when he opens the stove is even better. "We are a pair," he observes, lifting the heavy pan with a grunt, "Stitches fine enough for the Queen's chemise from my hands, and a meal fit for a king from yours. You are a wonder, Porthos."

Porthos lights up for the compliment, his pride practically shining in the set of his face. Once Porthos pours some wine for them both, he takes a deep smell of the flowers and eases the vase aside slightly. "I'm getting better at it," he agrees, starting to feel like he's found his groove with the cooking. "Don't have to throw out half as many first batches, lately."

He takes a seat so that his tattooed and bandaged shoulder is opposite where Aramis will sit, but he knows that Aramis is going to notice when Porthos uses his non-dominant hand to lead eating. Maybe he can excuse that on the back, too.

"What a world," marvels Aramis, "that we may throw food out." After years of a soldier's rations and dried meat, stale bread, even if Porthos' creations were not masterpieces, they would still seem them.

He takes his own seat, serving Porthos before himself. "You've taken a different than usual," he observes. "Does the light better catch my eyes from there?"

Porthos scratches at his hair with his good hand, a sheepish smile on his face. "It might not have gone to the trash, so much as some to little Athos and the strays in the alleys," he confesses, lifting the fork with his left hand and eyeing the knife warily before picking it up, gingerly trying to cut at the meat. "You're handsome no matter what light you're in," Porthos insists. "And you know it."

Aramis does not disagree, tucking into his food with pleasure, but his spoon drops a second time when he catches sight of Porthos. "Does your back bother you so much?" he asks, eyes tracking the waver in Porthos' right hand. "This is more serious than you've let on, suppose you've pinched a nerve!"

Pushing back his chair, Aramis rounds the table towards Porthos, curling a hand against his neck to feel for vertebrae slipped out of place.

Porthos mumbles complaint, but sighs when Aramis gets a hand on him. He knows it's only a matter of time before he's caught out, but he still has mild hopes that Aramis will give him only a cursory inspection and go back to his meal. "Eat your food, will you?" he notes sharply. "I didn't cook it so it could sit and cool."

As ever, Aramis allows Porthos' protests to wash over him like water, fingers prodding with determination along Porthos' spine, but he can feel nothing wrong.

"What have you done to yourself?" he mutters, frustrated, but then his eyes catch on the unmistakable white of a bandage. "Porthos," says Aramis in the calm, even tones he uses just before making a deadly shot, "What have you done to yourself?"

"You weren't supposed to notice until it was healed," Porthos grumbles, tugging the collar of his shirt a little higher so that it covers the bandage again, "But I forgot that you have that uncanny sixth sense when it comes to me." He's both amazed and annoyed with it, at the moment, because it's interfering with his surprise for Aramis.

"You have a wound that spans - merde - your shoulder and half your arm," says Aramis, pulling Porthos' collar determinedly down again, "And you did not think I would notice until it was healed? What happened?"

His fingers work swiftly at the tape, peeling it away to reveal a layer of pink bandages. The blood is not great, but to cover such a large area, and so evenly! Aramis swears again.

Porthos reaches up with his good hand and covers Aramis' fussing hand, stopping it in its' tracks. "Not a wound," he says calmly, having learned that when Aramis starts winding up like this, the best thing to do is not throw kindling into the fire by getting as emotional. He sits back and strips off his shirt, draping it over the chair and pushing Aramis' hand away slightly so he can start to peel off the bandages slowly, uncovering little bits of the tattoo at once.

The fleur de lys is black and flecked with gold and is the very same as the one as his pauldron (he'd brought it in for reference), and the cross at the base is the deep blue of their winter capes (the crucifix modelled on the one he wears). Winding through it all is a familiar 'A' in cursive writing -- Aramis' own writing, that Porthos had stolen and brought to the studio. He looks up at Aramis expectantly, but says nothing, stomach turning as he waits for reaction.

In its separate parts and all together, the tattoo is undeniably beautiful, and for a moment Aramis' breath is gone, observant eyes taking in the gold and the blue, the many flourishes that make the tattoo unique and undeniably theirs.

"Remarkable," Aramis exhales in tones normally reserved for church, but there is blood flecking beneath the ink, the skin raw and angry, and Aramis feels his ire stir again that Porthos was allowed to do this all at once.

"It is beautiful, Porthos," he says in gentler tones, "But it must pain you terribly."

"I've had worse in my time," he reminds Aramis gently, leaning in to steal a slow kiss from his lips, trying to quell some of that worry. He shifts, slightly uncomfortably, and peers at the ink pouring down from his shoulder. "There's a salve I'm meant to get and put on it to treat it and once it dries a bit more, I'll be wearing a good number of modern tank tops, to keep it airing out."

He reaches over for Aramis' hand to slide it towards the tattoo. "Gently now," he warns. "Touch it, tell me if they got the cursive right."

"You came home to cook instead of retrieving the salve," says Aramis, toneless in a way that again speaks of danger, but he lets Porthos' guide his hand. The touch is brief, fingers skimming just long enough to feel the heat of abused skin, and Aramis nods. "It is perfect," he promises, curling that hanad to Porthos' cheek after.

"On whose recommendation did you choose to do it in one go?"

There's danger in everything Aramis is saying and Porthos has to tread very cautiously, now, to avoid getting himself shot in the face. He leans into Aramis' touch to his cheek as though he's touch-starved for it and tries his best to earn favour rather than further condemnation. "I thought you'd be hungry and it didn't hurt so badly when it was done. Besides," he points out. "You have to knock me unconscious to give me stitches. Do you really think I'd ever have a finished tattoo if I did it in stages? I'd knock the poor man out and be forever left half-inked."

"Aramis, it's fine. Really. I went to a reputable shop and inspected his instruments. Cleaner than yours, even," he promises.

Aramis wrinkles his nose. "Mine are quite clean," he says primly, releasing Porthos to stand. The man does have a point, if not one good enough to excuse damaging himself all in one go. It's a wonder the artist is still alive.

"There will be a scrap of paper," he says, remembering what he's observed, "Authorizing the release of your salve. Tell me where it is and I will go retrieve it, it is senseless for you to sit here and suffer."

"I know, chou, and his were even cleaner," Porthos assures soothingly, giving Aramis a hopeful little smile as he stands, the chair scraping the floor as he fetches the folded piece of paper so he can hand it over to Aramis, inspecting the writing. It's in English and it's complicated enough, so all that he knows is that it's meant to give him some relief.

"I could come with you?" he suggests, because it's just a part of his arm that aches, not his whole self.

Aramis recognizes the apothecary, at least, if not the tincture itself, but he will certainly ask no shortage of questions. At Porthos' suggestion, Aramis studies him.

"Will it pain you to walk?" he asks. "Perhaps you should be still and rest. I can cut your meat for you before I go."

He bristles at the notion of his meat being cut for him as if he's a child again, but he knows Aramis only means well. Still, it's enough to make him a bit defensive and he shakes his head. "I can eat it off the bone, if you want to get going. And soup's easy, I'll use my left hand," he promises, trying to offer a hopeful smile to allay some of Aramis' worries.

"Maybe pick up some more bandages while you're there? Until it's dry enough to air out."

"I shall," Aramis promises, already composing a list. "Next time, tell me before so I shall be better prepared."

Smiling fondly despite himself, Aramis leans in for a kiss. "I love you, you ridiculous brute."

Porthos had meant to go out himself after dinner and care for himself, but he supposes this is one of those things that he has to get used to. He has Aramis now, and Aramis has him, which means he can rely on someone else in his life to help him. He doesn't have to do things completely on his own.

He uses his good hand to cup Aramis' cheek and kiss him a bit more, reluctant to let him get away. "Chocolate, too," he whispers with a grin. "If you're going to the shop. And maybe some lube?"

"Chocolate," Aramis promises, still in wonder that they can attain it so readily here, but lifts a brow for the lubricant. "I will procure it," he decides, "But we will see what effect the salve may have before we go lubricating any part of us."

"We're almost out, is all," Porthos says (even though he hasn't checked and is only saying so because he'd like to be almost out). He lights up for the promise of chocolate, delighted as he uses his good hand to curl around Aramis' hip to kiss him one more slow, lingering, fond time. "And I love you too, you fussy mother hen."

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