du_vallon | (no subject)

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In the weeks he's been in this place, this Darrow, Porthos hasn't exactly fit into society easily. For one, he still roams the city looking for ways out. He hasn't exactly adapted to modern society, either, wearing his weapons and his clothes. What he has started to do, though, is learn. First, there'd been the odd beverage, that piping hot stuff that kept him frantically awake. Coffee, they'd called it, and he'd drank as much as he could.

From there, Porthos had started spending his days at the library. He'd gone to learn English, but also about history and all the things they'd missed. Every day, for three hours, he brushed up on his language and made sure he learned something. He's almost starting to feel comfortable. He still pickpockets on the streets to find out more, to feel like he hasn't lost all his talents, and he always keeps an eye out for trouble.

Today, his trip to the library has proven more than fruitful. He'd checked out a book on electricity (that mad thing that powers the bright gleam in their apartments), had gone to a store to exchange some of the modern money for tools and trinkets, and then he'd headed back to Aramis' apartments, stripping down to his linen shirt and his trousers. The rest of his clothes and weapons form a pile on the messy blankets that form his bed -- which has been Aramis' couch these past few weeks, seeing as he's been too wary of this place to strike out on his own.

Now, though, he's got a task.

It takes hours and hours, during which Porthos is shocked, burnt, scarred, and swears at the walls far more than he likes. He has to refer to both books he's brought (one in English to practice, one in French to understand), but eventually, he starts to understand how the whole thing works. Really, it's the pictures that eventually help him. By the time the sun starts to set, Porthos has managed to fix the damned switches, making it so now there's an in-between between darkness and light. It's only a shame he had to muck up his hands so badly to do it. Still, he's had worse -- the scars on his body are a testament to that. Aramis will probably be back, soon, so Porthos turns the lights off and lights candles, wanting to surprise Aramis, before heading to the kitchen to wash up properly.

Today's been a good day, he thinks. Not only did he learn something, but he's done something with it. Maybe this place isn't so bad, after all.

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"Of course I do," says Aramis, smiling, though it grows more distracted by the second now that he can see again, "Your enterprising spirit never fails to amaze me, Porthos."

Waiting for his moment, Aramis seizes one of Porthos' large hands, pushing at the knotted cloth until it reveals the abused skin beneath. Aramis' brow furrows with worry. "Was this the cost?"

Porthos scowls, trying to swat Aramis' fingers off of him, but he's fairly sure that Aramis won't be dissuaded so easily. "It's only a few marks," he promises, given that he's had far worse. "The first few hours weren't exactly so easy," he confesses, drawing away from Aramis forcibly so he can start tidying up his things, folding blankets and organizing the books while he tugs at a pair of gloves to put them back on.

"Doesn't matter. You've got your lights done," he says, with a shrug that says he honestly believes the exchange has been worthwhile.

"Your generosity does you credit, my friend," says Aramis and means it, even as he heads into the kitchen to fetch a small bag. While he's hardly been as industrious as Porthos, Aramis has been curious about the medicines in Darrow, and has already procured a number of items to explore.

"And what sort of friend would I be if I left you to suffer for it unaided?" Aramis continues with a smile, even as his voice takes on a hard physician's tone. "At the table, if you please."

Porthos sighs and drops his blankets when Aramis takes that tone with him, knowing that disobeying does him no good at all. He scrunches up his nose in displeasure as he marches his way over to the table, dropping hard into one of the chairs as he lays his hands out on the table after ripping away the towels and the gloves.

It's not a pretty picture, sure. Some burns from shocks, a few scrapes, and one puncture from a stupid mistake he doesn't even want to bother talking about. "Tomorrow, I'll bring you some of this new stuff I tried today. It's called coffee," he says. "Gives you energy like a dose of wine in the morning."

"It sounds quite perilous," remarks Aramis, interested despite himself. He turns Porthos' hands within his own, tutting for the state of them. "You might have worn the gloves before, rather than after," he can't help but note, and reaches for a salve.

"I'm told this is very good for light burns," he explains, smoothing the cooling gel across Porthos' right palm, his eyes keen to make sure he doesn't miss a spot before Aramis pulls back, studying Porthos' expression for the effect.

He hadn't wanted to ruin his good gloves, especially seeing as he doesn't have a spare pair like he does back in Paris. No one told him to pack a bag, so he hadn't brought a second set of the things he owned (the only other set, in many cases). He hisses at the cool contact, but soon the pain is only a memory, which is fairly surprising given that usually cuts and burns like this tend to linger, even under Aramis' dutiful care. "Where'd you find this stuff?" he asks, when he finally lets out the breath he's been holding in, anticipating pain. "It's amazing."

Soon, he falls into the state he often lives in when Aramis patches him up -- a blissful half-alert place in which Aramis' steady hands would never harm him. "I should start working upstairs," he mumbles. "Get my place set up so I don't spend every night on your chaise."

Porthos has never had a talent for artifice, and Aramis smiles, pleased that the salve works both quickly and well. He's even more pleased that Porthos has gentled beneath his hands, giving himself over to Aramis' care, and while an injured Porthos is never cause for joy, there is comfort in the act of putting him right again.

"Don't hurry on my account," he says, eyes trailing briefly to the couch, where Porthos has made his bed these many nights. "It is no hardship having you around, my friend. Quite the opposite, in fact," he notes, looking up at the newly dimmed lights. "My life is much improved."

It's about all he needs to decide that he's not going anywhere quickly. It's not as if he wants to leave Aramis, but he also doesn't intend to be a burden on the man. Getting his word that Porthos can stay as long as he'd like secures his intention to do exactly that until he's driven out because Aramis has other needs. "Don't think that means you can start taking advantage of my skills," Porthos grunts, staring at the small wounds and the glisten of the strange salve on them. He doubts they'll scar, but if they do, they'll just be a few more.

"Shame we didn't have this stuff when I took the knife to my eye," he says. That had stung for weeks while healing, reminding him of the pain every time he'd blinked. "Could've saved me months of wandering around Paris like some kind of outcast."

"I don't know," says Aramis, carefully wrapping Porthos' first hand before he moves to examine the second, tutting again for the puncture. "Supposedly these salves will prevent scarring, and I think yours makes you look rather dangerous. A man not to be trifled with."

"Imagine that," Porthos replies, laughing as if he's imagined himself a fairytale in his head and is only now living it. "Living without scars, as if the future has managed to undo them." He takes back the hand Aramis is done with, peeking under the bandages by using his teeth to get them aside, as if he doesn't trust Aramis (he does, he simply needs to see things for himself). "What've you been doing, then? Apart from finding these for your stores?"

"Mind my work," says Aramis in easy tones that nonetheless brook no argument. "And precious little of value," he says in those same light tones, though anyone who knows him well would see that Aramis is frustrated.

He's quiet, examining the little puncture in silence until he admits, "I've been spending some time at chapel."

Porthos doesn't say much for a moment, looking up over his hand to Aramis (he's let up on the teeth, not wanting to make Aramis upset). He considers what he's said, considers the fact that he's just as bored and that he's gone back to some old habits, though he doesn't plan on sharing that little bit with Aramis.

"It's not a good place for us to be idle," Porthos finally says. "Maybe I ought to start finding something to keep you busy. I'm sure I can find plenty of trouble, if that's what you need," he offers with a bright smirk.

Aramis laughs, finally deciding to seal the puncture with a single stitch so that it will not hinder the application of salve. "I prefer to call it excitement," he says, demure until his smile fades.

"I was torn when I became a soldier," he allows after a moment more. "I very nearly became a priest, instead."

Porthos can't honestly imagine Aramis as a priest. Maybe it's because he's grown so used to having his friend by his side in all things and he doesn't like imagining a life where that doesn't happen, but still, it's an odd thing to picture. "If Richelieu can be a priest, then I think you would've excelled at the whole business," Porthos grunts his opinion, hissing slightly when Aramis gives him a stitch, an affronted and childishly pained look on his face at not being warned.

"So, what? Are you thinking about the priesthood here?" he asks, trying to keep the worry of being abandoned from his voice.

Aramis shrugs, and like most everything he does, it is both artful and heartfelt. "These modernities outpace me at every turn. I could not dim these lights were I left alone with them for a fortnight," he replies, a touch of sadness in his voice.

"The world has marched on without me, but our loving God remains the same. It may be that I am qualified for nothing else, now, Porthos."

"You could've done that," Porthos gets the words out, even though it takes a long time to find them, buried underneath the hoarse worry that Aramis is going to leave him. "I didn't do it because I knew how or because I wanted, I did it for you." His face has fallen now, sulking as he pulls his hand back to his stomach. "So, what? You're going to go on to the priesthood and leave me with this place, on my own?"

Porthos sounds as conflicted as Aramis feels, and he reaches over the table, curling his hand over the one pressed to Porthos' stomach. "Only death will separate us, I promise you. I'm simply trying to find my place in this strange new world."

He thinks again of the lights that Porthos is so proud of, the trade he'd learned for no purpose other than to please Aramis, and squeezes Porthos' hand. "You've made great strides at understanding this place. Perhaps I will be easier if you help me learn. Why do the lights burn without fire? How are they struck with only a touch?"

The words make him feel a little better, even if he's still a bit wary of the idea of Aramis returning to the priesthood and mentally makes a vow to start looking for something else to fill Aramis' time that's closer to what they did before. There has to be some sort of answer. All the books he's been reading, all the things he's picked up, but he's blank right now when it comes to this.

"It's something called electricity," he murmurs, voice quiet as he lets Aramis' touch soothe him as it usually does. "It's why I've got the burns I do. There's wires," he says and true, it's not like he understands all of it, only that when he'd picked at the wrong one, it had burned him sharply. "Don't know how they did it, but it's like they took all the sun's energy and pushed them in those wires." He shrugs. "I followed pictures, mostly, after I read about lights not having to burn full bright."

"They are an energetic people," marvels Aramis, "Though I suppose...with so much food readily at hand and illness largely conquered, there is more time to puzzle out how to harness the sun."

He releases Porthos' abused hand. "Will you take it up in trade, then? Porthos, harnesser of the sun?"

He shakes his head, not thinking that he wants to do this on a regular basis. Too frustrating, too much work, and hardly any reward in it (money or wine). "Nah," he says. "I'm looking for something that'll keep the both of us occupied," he goes on, more serious. "Especially if you've gone around the bend and started thinking the church is your only option," he taunts.

"How the hell would you even manage?" Porthos adds, a hint of derisive mocking in his tone. "Celibacy? You?"

Aramis cannot even pretend offense at Porthos' lack of faith, for he himself has doubts. "I am told it brings one closer to God," he explains, "As does any kind of discipline. Perhaps you are right."

He exhales, shoulders loosening as he smiles. "Perhaps it is not yet time for me."

"I hate discipline," Porthos says, wrinkling his nose. "It's all well and good on the battlefield, but what's the point of denying yourself pleasure outside of it. What's the point of living?" he wonders, shaking his head. "Don't worry, I'll find something," he says cheerfully, reaching forward to clap Aramis on the shoulder with one bandaged hand, wincing when it pulls his back.

"Maybe after I get a good night's rest. Your chaise isn't exactly fit for a man my size, I think," he admits.

"A King's bed wouldn't be fit for a man your size," observes Aramis with a chuckle, but he glances at the chaise. He doesn't wish for Porthos to strain himself, but neither does he want the man to leave.

Admitting so, however, would be a weakness, and Aramis has no wish to make a fool of himself. He can manage very well on his own, after all. He simply doesn't want to.

"Sometimes I wish we had been assigned something different," he says. "Two rooms, one apartment. The better to keep an eye on you, of course," Aramis hastens to add.

Porthos shrugs. "I've slept on worse," he admits. "It's a matter of getting used to it, again, is all," he assures Aramis, not exactly willing to leave. His back'll hurt, but he'll find some stretches to help him out with that, maybe even turn to some modern way. He raises a brow when Aramis talks of two rooms under the same roof and can't help his delighted smile. "We'll make do. Maybe I'll even get fed up and hoist my mattress down here one day," he teases.

"There's certainly no shortage of space." Like all things seem to be in Darrow, the lodgings they've been provided are far more than Aramis is used to, but he'll hardly complain.

"Though that will be difficult to explain, should you wish to bring a female companion by."

Porthos snorts derisively, his brow knit together with disbelief. "As if I'd ever bring a woman back here? The minute she got in sight of you, she'd get all confused by your lies and I'd never again have her attention without it being poisoned by your charming lies and that face of yours," he accuses.

He shakes his head, a knowing smirk on his face. "Your pretty lips and eyes aren't stealing anyone away from me again."

"Why Porthos," says Aramis, leaning back with a beatific smile on his apparently pretty lips, "I am flattered. I think. But I never lie to women."

He might speak around the truth as necessary, but Aramis tries very hard not to delve into outright falsehoods. "That's why they like me so much. Well, that and..."

He waves a hand over his face. "All of this."

"What, that annoying arrogant look of your face?" he wonders. "Nah," Porthos says, drawing out the word. "Athos is better looking than you. Only reason he hasn't got as many women after him is because they can smell the reeking sadness off him. That, and the reek of the wine," he admits, seeing as that does turn a woman off (he knows from experience). "You've got words, is all, I figure."

Aramis pulls a face - Athos is handsome in his own right, but certainly not better looking. Still. "I do have words," he concedes, "Seduction is a machination of many parts, my friend."

Leaning back, he winks. "Perhaps if you are lucky, I may one day be patient enough to teach you."

Porthos gives Aramis a bemused look, as if he's somehow behind the curve when it comes to women and charming things, but he never is. "I don't need teaching," he counters. "You might have your words and Athos has his face and d'Artagnan's young and fresh, but women like me because I'm strong, I care, and I'm extremely selfless," he adds with his own teasing grin in reply to that wink. "Hours of selfless care."

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