du_vallon | (no subject)

(no subject)

The infant won't stop crying.

Hours ago, David Nolan had stopped by saying he had to get to work and that everyone else he phoned hadn't been around. They knew each other through their swordfights and though Porthos doesn't see him as much what with Athos and d'Artagnan around, he'd liked the man when they'd met. And so, panicking but not wanting to say otherwise, he'd accepted charge of the young boy, wishing to hell and back that Aramis was here to help. David had loaded him up with things and left Porthos with a fussing infant who only grew worse once his father had left.

"No, no, no," Porthos begs as he starts to caterwaul again, after having spit up on Porthos' shirt. He maneuvers the child so he can strip it off, tossing it to the side as he starts to slowly walk around the house, bouncing the baby softly as he hums something to him. It takes forty-five ungodly long minutes, but Porthos eventually gets him to quiet down and he shifts the baby up against his torso so his cheek rests against his heart. He's not in the clear yet.

Because even though the baby is settled, he's still making little fussy noises that mean he could go off any minute. If this is what caring for a child is like, then Porthos is definitely, definitely not ready for anything younger than the age when they start to speak.

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Aramis lets himself into the apartment with one hand, balancing three bags of groceries from one wrist and another wedged between his hip and the door, but even with these distractions, he senses at once that something is different in the apartment. Head swinging wildly towards Porthos, Aramis' eyebrows lift.

"Hello!" he exclaims, his smile only growing for the renewed sounds from the baby in Porthos' arms, ever more delighted the higher the pitch of those cries. "Who is this?" Aramis' shouts over the din to Porthos.

"Good, you're home," Porthos announces the moment he gets back, even if he winces at the sound the child is making now that Aramis has gotten back. The crying is giving his head a pounding and he foists the child out to Aramis, nodding for him to take hold of him. "You made him cry, you take him," he insists, not mentioning that as soon as Aramis has the baby, Porthos has zero intention of taking it back.

"It's Neal. David's baby. You remember David, yeah? I spar with him, now and then."

Aramis whips the scarf from his throat lest it chill the baby's skin, taking him at once to arrange propped against his shoulder. "There, now, what's all this fuss then?" Aramis coos, beginning to bounce slightly on his feet, which at least earns him set of cries more intrigued than the last. "And how did we come by our young monsieur? Giving his parents some alone time perhaps?"

Porthos sags with relief the instant Aramis takes the baby, slinking into the bedroom to fetch a sweater and tugging it on, enjoying how the black wool hugs his chest and keeps him warm. He also doesn't plan to get this one dirty by staying far, far away. "His father had to go to work, couldn't get a hold of any of the usual suspects."

Now that he's free, Porthos curls into the massive chair, curled up under a blanket so he can watch the free show happening in front of him. "You're spellbound," he marvels.

"It's not every day I return home to two handsome angels," says Aramis with a beaming grin, venturing with Neal towards the small pile of what must be the boy's things. "He misses his parents, no doubt, but what else have you tried to calm him? Have you checked him for wetting, or tried to feed him?"

Turning, Aramis takes in the sight of Porthos, less wild looking now yet still shellshocked, and suppresses a laugh. "Did you sing to him?"

Porthos gapes at Aramis with a disbelieving and lost look on his face. He'd checked his bottom and it had been dry, hadn't known what to feed him with, and singing? The disbelieving look on his face is more than clear to see. "No, I didn't sing to him," he says, gaping. "I tried to walk him around, talk to him, hum a little."

"You do sound a bit hoarse," says Aramis, quickly washing his free hand so he can present Neal with a fingertip. The child begins to suckle at it almost at once, and Aramis nods to himself. "You'll have to help me warm his food," he says. They eat liquid at this age, and modern children often feed on formula. It is strange to think of, but perhaps no stranger than other foods Aramis has seen in Darrow. "Was there a bottle amongst his things?"

Anything that avoids Porthos having to take him back. He drags over the bag to his feet and peruses through it, discovering a bottle filled with liquid underneath a fuzzy blue blanket. He stares at it for a long moment, fingers wrapped up in it as he clasps it tight, wondering if he'd ever had a blanket like this.

Porthos shakes it slightly, heading to the microwave to begin heating it, gnawing his inner cheek as he watches Aramis. "I'm not the hoarse one. He's the one who's been crying his eyes out since his father left. Do they all make so much noise?"

"I have only met a finite sum, but I would imagine so," Aramis tells him, joining Porthos at the microwave so he can lean in long enough to kiss his cheek. "If I had no other way of making my feelings known, I would scream."

He pulls back to frown at the numbers ticking down. "Better take it out and see it's not too hot," he decides. "Perhaps a drop against somewhere tender, like your wrist."

Porthos leans into the kiss, even if he's quick to move away to fetch the bottle from the microwave, wondering how much Aramis has learned about this for his own child and how much for one of the future. He takes it out and squeezes a little dollop on his wrist, thinking that it's lukewarm and not so bad at all.

Handing it back to Aramis, he snorts. "You scream plenty when you want your feelings known," he teases. "Especially in bed."

"You see?" laughs Aramis. "We are all prone to our little tantrums. Now then..." Lowering the bottle towards Neal's mouth, Aramis is pleased to see him grasp it immediately between his chubby hands, lips fastened for pull after silent pull of formula.

In the blissful calm, Aramis asks, "What else is in that bag of his?"

Aramis sort of looks as if he's been drugged. Porthos isn't really sure if that's all the baby, but something must have clicked. He's worried that if this is the test to see whether he's ready for kids, then he's failing because there's nothing but failure and worry on Porthos' part. He wanders to the bag and lifts up the blanket. "This," he says. "Cloth underpants, a few toys," he observes.

Peering up again, he spends some time silently watching the loving and fond look on Aramis' face, laughing softly for how predictably taken Aramis is.

"Toys?" asks Aramis with interest. He comes forward to see, but with Neal in his arms he can't do much, and after a moment he looks to Porthos. "Will you hold him while he eats?" he asks. "I'm sure he's too hungry to give you any trouble so long as you keep the bottle tipped the right way." Aramis hums. "Rather like Athos."

Porthos stares up at Aramis with panic in his eyes, taking in his blanket again as he swallows back the fear and manages a perfunctory smile. "I don't think I should," is what he says. "He cried and fussed until you got here, and now he's settled. Don't think we should really chance any of that," he opines, tangling his hands in the blanket so they're occupied.

"He was hungry then," Aramis points out, "And you endured all that while without me. Surely you can handle him in his respite." Still, he keeps hold of Neal, helping to resettle the bottle when it threatens to slip.

"I expect he'll nap after," Aramis continues, more than aware of Porthos' discomfort, and just as determined to break him of it. "Perhaps you'll hold him then."

"You're doing fine, I don't need to hold him again," Porthos insists, shaking his head to try and dispel him of the notion that he has to take the infant back. He does reach out to steady the bottle, aware he can do that much cautiously and carefully. "Here," he says. "I'll fetch the toys," he says, digging into the bag to hold out a plush little dog.

At the sight if the dog, one of Neal's hands skips free of the bottle and reaches wildly, catching as much of Porthos' finger as the toy itself. With Aramis keeping the bottle upright for him, Neal now seems more than content to be held and to hold Porthos and the dog in turn.

"Ah," says Aramis without bothering to hide his pleasure, "It appears you are quite trapped."

Porthos' heart stops for just a moment and he stares up at that tiny little innocent face and swallows. It's not looking up and seeing Aramis' features, which is a brutally helpful thing in not pushing him too far, but it's still a bit much. "You planned this," he accuses playfully, but he's trying to slowly extract his finger, allowing Neal to have the stuffed toy.

"Is he gonna scream?" he asks worriedly. "If I hold him?"

"I cannot promise anything, but he seems very content," says Aramis, his encouraging smile going soft when Neal presses the soft toy to his own round cheek. "Hold him until he is done eating, and then I will burp him," he offers. "If he is to cry anywhere, it will be during that."

Porthos is still vibrating with nerves and worry, but he knows he ought to face this and Neal does seem calmer. He reaches out with both hands for the baby, sliding one broad palm around his little back to support him as he curls Neal into his arms, careful to bring the toy along and wiggle one of its paws, watching how the baby seems absolutely enraptured by the sight of it.

Next, he eases the bottle into a slow tilt, careful to keep him eating so he doesn't have to go hungry. "I like him better already when he's not screaming in my ear."

Aramis' smile as Porthos eases the tiny child into the crook of his arm is nearly sick with adoration. "You are a natural," he breathes without a hint of artifice. "This is the baby's clever trick, of course," he notes, smoothing Neal's fine hair down with one fingertip. "So sweet and beguiling when they are calm, all to soften us to keep them when they are not."

Porthos gives Aramis a dubious look, even as he shifts with Neal. "He was screaming at the top of his lungs for forty-five minutes before you came home," he points out. "Not exactly a natural." Starting to get wary that Aramis might not give this child back when his father comes home, Porthos nods towards the kitchen. "Put our groceries away, chou, before we waste the money."

He tilts the plush dog back and forth, watching as Neal grasps at it with wide, eager eyes, babbling as he shoves the dog's paw into his mouth instead of the bottle.

Aramis nearly whines before he remembers himself, his unwillingness to let their food spoil at war with his desire to stay near the baby, but he supposes they have some time yet. He moves away as quickly as he can, his eyes fastened to the pair in the living room all the while. Porthos seems a bit easier now, not smiling but not scowling either, as seemingly fascinated with Neal and his toy as Neal is with the toy itself.

Aramis smiles to himself, placing the last carton into the cold box. "So you have not destroyed him in my absence. Is he done eating then?" he asks when he returns.

Porthos lifts up the half-empty bottle, somewhat displeased that he hadn't finished, but he supposes for a thing that little in size, it's an admirable amount. Shifting Neal into his arms a little higher, he holds him higher, taking in that strange smell that's sort of soft and warm. "He's all done, yeah," he says, shifting him expectantly with a look to Aramis. "You can take him back now."

Porthos is grateful that he hadn't screamed and cried, but he's still wary of breaking him or doing something wrong and he'd much rather just hand him off to Aramis.

"A moment," says Aramis, watching Neal squirm. "No time, I'm afraid," he says, lifting one of the thinner blankets to drape across Porthos' shoulder. "He needs to settle his stomach. Try bouncing, just a little, and rub his back. Your broad hand will be better than mine."

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