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"You know," Michele says as she taps her portable saw against her hand, standing by the front door, "I don't normally do house calls, but this was sort of a special favour seeing as he was so good in bed," she says with a winning smile in Aramis' direction. It's short-lived, though, as she shifts with Porthos' weight -- able to handle him given that she's not exactly a mere mortal. "And you're cute," she adds with a wink.

Porthos flushes pink in the height of his cheeks as he settles on the couch, staring at the new removable cast that's sitting to the side. There are bandages to go with it, but more importantly, there are no pills to go with it. With everyone having vanished from the city, Porthos is raring to get out there, but he can't do anything but sit here and try and heal.

"Do you need another explanation of the stretches you're meant to do?" she asks. Porthos shakes his head, thinking that they're fairly straightforward. She leans in to tuck the blanket over his shoulders and Porthos shifts uncomfortably, not sure he likes the shared history in that they've both bedded the same man, not to mention the odd feeling he'd carried the last time Aramis had been with her. She clucks her tongue and leans forward, hair falling over her shoulders. "Don't look so fussed, it's not like he had a chance," she says, leaning in a little closer. Her smile is wicked and all-knowing as she tugs his earlobe into her teeth, even as Porthos yanks his head away. "I'm a goddess of love," she whispers her secret. "And don't worry. He's all yours. I can feel it radiating off him. I'm not sure I could seduce him now even if I tried and I don't like lost causes."

She eases back and beams brightly at Aramis, handing him a pamphlet of stretches.

"Massage helps, that's all I'm saying," she says. "And I like red wine best, if you're in the market for a thank you drink." With that, she's gone, and Porthos is just as red as ever, staring at Aramis with shock and amusement as he rubs his hands up and down his newly-freed leg, staring at the loss of muscle mass with some dismay.

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Aramis leans against the closed door, an uncharacteristic blush on his own face before he gathers himself, hurrying forward to poke at Porthos' leg. "She did say there would be some atrophication," he says, guessing at Porthos' most immediate fear. "We will have you back to form in no time. And - what on Earth did she say to you?"

Aramis' eyes grow wider, and he shakes his head. "No, I don't want to know. Are you in pain?"

"It's horrible," he mutters with a great deal of disappointment as he stares at the leg, moving his hand up to rub at his hot cheek, clearing his throat as he tries to knock the images out of his head of what Aramis must have done with Michele. He's feeling something lingering, but unlike last time, this time makes him feel a bit lighter and he's not sure his arousal is her fault.

"Pain's not horrible," he quickly amends. "No, it's fine. It aches, but it's better," he vows, staring at Aramis and shaking his head. "Honest to god, I don't know if I want to tell you. It's not like your ego needs the inflating."

"I'm not certain I want to know," Aramis mutters. "That whole afternoon was a blur." A prurient, sweaty blur that he knows he enjoyed, but not much more. Giving his head another shake, he straightens.

"Where would you like to begin?" he asks, touching his own hand to Porthos' cheek as if to rub that flush away. "Toe stretches?"

The last thing he wants is for Aramis to linger thinking that it's somehow terrible and Porthos doesn't like keeping secrets. He gives him a fond smile as he tips his head into the touch, running his fingers over the scar on Aramis' forehead. "You slept with a goddess, chou, of love," he informs him matter-of-factly. "Only you could manage to snake out a goddess of love in a new city," he marvels with a shake of his head.

Porthos looks down at his foot and wiggles his toes. He leans forward to grasp at the pamphlets to flip through the stretches until he finds one he likes. "This," he says, pointing to one that has him grasping the palm of his foot with his hand to stretch out the calf while he leans forward.

Months ago, Aramis might have scoffed, bristled, even, if he thought he was being teased. A goddess. Now, though, he finds a tiny smirk, all but hidden beneath his moustache, and moves to help Porthos into position.

"Indeed," is all he says. "Now, go slowly. I imagine your muscles will be quite tight at first."

Porthos shifts, rolling his shoulders as he gets his legs out in front of him, grateful that in nearly two weeks, he hasn't lost all use of his flexibility. When he slowly inches forward, bent at the waist, it's not hard for him to wrap his hands around both his feet, though it's hard not to tug back on them -- which would cause the pain. Aramis is right. The muscles of both his legs are tight and he's trembling within seconds, though he stubbornly sticks to it. "She says she wouldn't be able to manage, now, though," he pants out. "Seducing you. Says you're a goner."

"Easy," says Aramis, rubbing between his shoulderblades, pushing a little when he thinks it will help. "And I would imagine not. I can't conceive of wanting someone other than you now. Well." Aramis considers. "Perhaps if we were seducing them together, but I would not be the subject of seduction then, would I?"

Porthos breathes in deeply and then again, closing his eyes as he forces himself into the stretch, only sitting back when the ache vanishes. He peers over his shoulder at Aramis with a bemused smile on his face. "That something you've thought of?" he asks, happy to be clear-minded and clever, right now. "Us seducing someone, together? Should I be shopping around for your birthday gift?"

"Well, it's a very entertaining thought, isn't it?" asks Aramis, brandishing a cloth to wipe the sweat from Porthos' forehead before it can sting his eyes. "And an extremely diverting shopping trip, as you sa, even if we do not end up with anything in our baskets."

Porthos shifts through the papers as he peers up at Aramis, something dangerously possessive in his eye. "Not until we're married," is all he has to say on the subject. "I want a little time knowing you're mine and only mine before we go shopping." He glances at the papers and huffs out a laugh when he sees one that he enjoys. "Here's one," he says, tapping the page that talks about using his foot to draw letters in the air, like an alphabet spelled using his foot while extended. He shifts and locks his hips and knee in, drawing 'Aramis' in the air, followed by 'is' and then 'a fussy mother hen'.

"You spelled 'gorgeous' wrong," Aramis notes, "Far too many letters. But excellent stamina." Settling his hands on both of Porthos' shoulders, Aramis leans down to speak into his ear. "But you never had a problem there, did you?"

Hooking his chin on Porthos' shoulder, Aramis peers down the length of his body. "Does your calf need massaging? I believe I can handle that."

Porthos breathes out shakily, reaching up to grasp Aramis' wrist hard, eyeing him with a very knowing look. In just his black boxer-briefs and a black tank top to match, Porthos is hardly fit for company, but it's not company he's after. "Ten days," is what he says. "Ten days, Aramis, since I fractured the bones of my foot and ten days since I went on the pills, which left my system a whole twelve hours ago."

He wiggles his feet and reclines back so that he's all spread out on the chaise, in a starfish manner. "Which is to say, yes, dear, I'd love a massage."

"Do not pretend you have not been massaged since," Aramis tells him with as severe a look as he can manage under the circumstances, "Or I will go and massage myself."

Still, he sits, drawing Porthos' slightly smaller leg into his lap. "Tell me if it is uncomfortable," he says as he digs in his thumbs.

"It's not massage I'm talking about," Porthos replies bluntly, but he allows Aramis to take his newly-freed leg into his hands, breathing out with a moan of relief when his thumbs dig into a muscle that's been tight with tension since the cast was on. "I'm never breaking another bone in my body because if I ever have to go another ten days without having sex with you, I might actually lose my mind."

Aramis hums, following the familiar pattern of Porthos' sighs and grunts to every knot beneath his fingers. "I would appreciate your restraint," he says, "But I'm not certain you ought to have sex just yet. You've only just gotten your cast off. Suppose you strain yourself?"

Porthos levels Aramis with a dangerous look, withdrawing his leg as best as he can so that it's out of Aramis' hands. "You don't want to do it?" he demands bluntly, having been in worse situations and still gone to see a Madame or Mademoiselle to take the edge off. Hell, he and Flea had slept together after that awful day and his head meaning to explode. "Are you feeling well?" he demands, an incredulous look on his face.

"Oh, very well," replies Aramis, who's gotten exceptionally good at hiding his mirth from Porthos over these last trying weeks. "But it is like your foot, is it not? Your muscles are underused, your body weak and unconditioned. After so long without having sex, I can't imagine you would be very good at it."

Porthos' growl is hard to stop, a dangerous look washing over his face at the implication that he's lost all his skills between the sheets. "Then my calf must not be the only thing smaller from lack of use, seeing as your cock hasn't had much practice lately," he snipes back bitterly, somewhat childish at not getting his way. "Does it need a stretch too?"

"Stretched daily, I'm afraid," Aramis tells him with a serene smile, "I've not had such sore wrists since my first spar with Athos. It was an interesting challenge, managing to keep it creative with only myself for company."

He drags his hand up Porthos' calf. "Are you certain you won't have a little more?"

Porthos' hand darts out to wrap up in Aramis' shirt, yanking him forcibly closer and holding onto him as confusion and frustration and some disappointment flickers over his face. "You've been touching yourself while I can't?" he manages, a betrayed look swiftly crossing his features. "Without letting me touch? Or watch?" he gets out, that frustration building into a whine at the back of his throat.

"Oh, I'm sorry," breathes Aramis, who hasn't, in fact, touched himself in weeks, having decided to take up the challenge first out of intrigue, and then stubbornness when it began to wear on him. Pulled so close to Porthos now, it is becoming difficult to keep up the ruse.

"Did you want to?" he asks, hips hitching down before he catches himself. "I apologize."

Porthos' breathing is heavy and hard and he flexes his fingers again to adjust his grip on Aramis, keeping him on his good side and away from his mildly swollen foot, not hesitating when he hauls Aramis in this time for a kiss that he's been waiting for since the day he broke his foot, parting his lips and hungrily pushing it into an intently deeper kiss the very moment Aramis' lips are on his.

"Next time, I'm buying you a chastity belt," Porthos warns, sliding his lips to the corner of Aramis', the smooth skin there touching the bristles of his beard. "That way, you don't get to touch yourself unless I let you."

Aramis whines into the kiss, opening his mouth eagerly when it grows more demanding. He shudders for what Porthos says when they finally break, being denied release somehow even more erotic to his mind when there is no more reason for it than Porthos' wish.

"We ought to try that anyway," he murmurs, carefully insinuating a knee between Porthos' own. Nosing Porthos' head to the side, he begins mouthing down his throat. "I have missed this."

Porthos gladly lets Aramis maneuver him in whatever way he likes, though there's a touch of confusion on his face when he speaks. "But...you said that you'd been touching yourself all the while I've been broken," he says, stretching out his neck to give Aramis more room to kiss. "While I was on so many drugs that my whole world was a haze and I told you all those honest things," he gasps, for Aramis' tongue.

"Forget the chastity belt. I'll buy that plug and force you to ride the edge all day," he murmurs.

"Forgive me," Aramis breathes, "I was lying, but you are so glorious when you are angry." His hips give a decided hitch downward this time, and Aramis pushes the thin stretch of Porthos' tank top away to mouth at the start of his tattoo.

"When you are truly well," he promises, "You may do anything you desire to me."