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Whether Porthos is keenly aware of the candles he puts out is debatable, though the dinner is definitely a cut above normal. He's not sure if it's to keep Aramis happy or to keep Athos' mouth full so he doesn't see fit to comment about Aramis' new state. Either way, he knows that the pasta with scallops and tomato sauce, along with the breaded cheese that's deep fried is enough to settle their bellies. He finishes with the last of the candles, wandering into the bedroom to fetch his deep green sweater, happy for such warmths when he hardly had any in Paris.

"Do you want to get the broom and knock on the ceiling?" he asks of Aramis. "Or should we just send the Captain up to find him?" is his next query, given how Athos might not come down unless forced. And despite the strangeness of Aramis at the moment, Porthos doesn't see a reason why they shouldn't be having dinner as they normally do.

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Aramis laughs, looking up the stairs. "I'll fetch him," she says, knowing that the Captain takes orders about as well as Aramis herself, but she's starving, and the sooner Athos gets down here, the sooner they can eat.

She bounds up the stairs, giving only the most perfunctory of knocks before jamming the door open and poking her head inside. "Athos!" she shouts, "I know you can smell what Porthos is cooking, do be a dear and hurry along." She leans her hip against the frame, waiting for Athos to show himself. "I don't mean to leave you a single leftover, if that's your game."

After the warnings from Porthos that morning, Athos has studiously avoided the apartment below, unprepared for the madness that lies in wait there. He believes Porthos, of course, as he would always believe the man. But that does not mean that he can quite comprehend this baffling idea: that Aramis has become a woman.

Sitting at his kitchen table with a glass of wine and a notebook that has become an ever-present appendage (he will get this wedding speech right, or he will die trying, he swears it), he looks up sharply at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Then he stills, caught like an animal frozen in the road. She really could be Aramis’ sister, were it not for the twinkle in her eyes that is instantly familiar. It’s an arresting combination.

It takes a breath for him to recover his voice.

“I would hate to deny you the opportunity to drag me down,” Athos drawls, closing the notebook and rising to his feet.

"Intolerable," Aramis pronounces, even as her smile grows indulgently fond. "You are lucky you are so handsome, else we would never keep you." She goes to his side to twine their arms together, as she has often found is the easiest way of preventing his escape, and draws Athos to the stairs.

"It is scallops with tomato sauce tonight," she tells him, "And some mad, brilliant concoction of fried and breaded cheese. And if that is not enough to tempt you, Porthos has put on his green sweater, you know the one." Aramis sighs. "His shoulders will be the end of me."

Athos remembers Porthos’ precepts: don’t tell her anything, don’t act surprised, pretend everything is as it usually is. In practice, these rules are infinitely more difficult to follow than he had imagined that morning, and its his damned imagination that’s to blame. As Athos takes her arm, the memory of Aramis leering at him from the chaise (already difficult to forget, no matter how he tries) shifts slightly, the figure becoming the woman beside him, and yet undoubtably, intoxicatingly still Aramis.

Dinner, he realizes with growing horror, will be an interminable affair.

But Athos is a musketeer, for God’s sake, and has braved worse than this. Aramis’ chatter does not require reply, thank God, and so he keeps silent, barely hearing her words as he forces his expression into something vaguely normal.

Porthos peers upstairs when he hears the noise coming downstairs, waiting until they're in his view to feel relief. He'd worried that Athos might have thrown some sort of fit, so it's good to see him. He grins and undoes his apron that's been protecting the snug forest green sweater and jeans, draping it over the chair as he pushes the candles out of the way (the normal lights all off) to make room for the food.

"Did he fight you?" is his innocent question. "I'd hate to have to repair nail marks on the way down."

Aramis laughs. "Not yet," she muses, casting a sideways glance at Athos' pristine expression, so beyond reproach that it's clear it's taking all of his might, "But we might want to bolt the door." She leads Athos to a chair and pushes him down into it, attaching a glass of wine to his hand like an anchor.

"Do you need any help?" she asks Porthos. With all the food cooked, it's not as though she can still burn it, even if Aramis means to stay away from the stove dials at all costs.

Athos sends Porthos a pointed sort of look, the kind that articulates all sorts of grievances that he daren’t speak aloud, but that largely boils down to one command: don’t make this worse than it already is. If he notices the candles, the low lights, the particularly elaborate dinner, it hardly registers for the moment, so distracted is he by…other matters.

Instead, he rolls his eyes, though that does not stop him from accepting the glass of wine gratefully. “You would think that I fled at every mention of a meal, the way the two of you talk."

Porthos sees the look on Athos' face, but blithely ignores it for the most part, wandering to Aramis to wrap an arm around her waist for a brief moment to steal a kiss from her cheek. "You can grab the oven mitts and put the food on the table," he suggests of her question. "And we'll pretend this is your crowning glory of cooking." He shares a smirk with Athos. "Aramis managed some eggy bread this morning, all by herself. Improving, to the point I don't fear for fire all the time."

"And," he adds, setting napkins on the table where he can loom above Athos. "It's not the meal you flee at, but we do notice when you make it a point to curl up in your room like a hermit and ignore the world."

"Which you have done even more so of late," says Aramis, eagerly accepting the task. She taps at the pans and dishes to see if they are indeed hot, and hastily puts on the advised mitts, carrying all the dishes to the table.

"It is not as if our clothes will suddenly fall off if you are trapped in a room with both of us together," she tells Athos with an arched brow, and takes her chair across from Porthos'.

Nearly as strange as the change in Aramis is the way that Porthos seems to take it in stride. At the very least, he has figured out how to hide his earlier panic behind more usual jovialty. Athos is having a bit more trouble. Try as he might to resist, even he, who is known for being gentlemanly to the point of indifference, follows Aramis into the kitchen and back with his eyes. He manages to look away before she (he?) can catch him at it (or so he hopes), drinking down a generous gulp of wine.

He likes these dinners, usually, for all his grumbling. Mealtimes remind Athos that not everything has changed, that friendship and easy intimacy are perhaps not so swiftly left behind as he sometimes still fears. Porthos’ cooking is truly a marvel, and Athos has even come to appreciate the coziness of the apartment - made more comfortable still, tonight, by the low, soft candlelight, he belatedly realizes.

“I’ve been busy,” he Athos, which is mostly true. If he has spent many more hours than usual hidden away, it is only because his role in their upcoming nuptials looms larger with every passing day. Rare is the moment when he isn’t thinking about his speech, frankly.

Aramis might not notice, but Porthos does. There's something calculating on his face, a subtle knit of his brow, and he peers at Athos curiously, wondering if he maybe has a thing for Aramis in this state. He still isn't as sure as Aramis thinks that Athos has any flicker of want for them usually, but this is definitely curious. With napkins and plates in their places, Porthos leans forward to grab several of the cheese triangles for himself, having been hungry for these ages ago.

"Busy," he echoes, but it's filled with approval. "That's good! Anything you feel inclined to share with us?" he prods, though his gaze slides back to Aramis to share a smirk and a wink, as if in Porthos' mind, 'busy' equates to someone in his life.

Aramis huffs out a laugh, pushing the plate towards Athos before all the cheese mysteriously disappears. "The more interesting the tale, the less inclined he will be to share it with us," she reminds Porthos. "We will have to wile it out of him as we always have, with wine and cunning."

Helping herself to the pasta, Aramis twines it around her fork. "But he has been hard at work, haven't you, Athos? Still at your notes for your speech? Do not worry over it so." Finally sliding the fork between her lips, she gives an appreciative hum for Porthos' fine cooking. "Simply expound on Porthos' strength and my uncommon beauty, and you will find your speech quite long already."

Leave it to Aramis - even this very different Aramis - to ferret out the true explanation for his more-than-usual silence. Caught in sentimentality he cannot deny, he shifts in his seat, turning focus to the food so he does not have to look either of them in the eye. “Perhaps I’m having trouble coming up with anecdotes that will not completely horrify your guests."

Porthos is still watching him, though he takes a moment to grin for Aramis' uncanny beauty remark, thinking that wouldn't have been any different were Aramis still a man. "I'd like to politely request that none of our previous sexual antics make it to this speech," he says, raising his fork in the air as if to make such a claim. "If at all possible, but otherwise, embarrass us freely. I doubt Aramis would protest, would you, chou?"

"I am incapable of embarrassment," agrees Aramis, "Athos, do your worst." She grins at them both, reaching over the table to fork herself one of the fried cheeses. Watching Athos as she chews, she thinks he is perhaps more uncomfortable than usual and lays a hand on his shoulder.

"Truly, do not worry. Porthos and I are happy enough to have you stand with us - anything you may say we will treasure, even if it is to call me a peacock and him a bear, for we know you love us. And besides," Aramis adds, smirking at Porthos, "I will be such a spectacle in my dress, that is all anyone will remember."

For a moment, the thought of Aramis - their usual Aramis - in a dress strikes him, and Athos has to steady his horrified amusement with a significant gulp of wine. When recovered, he assures them, “Nevertheless, the only man I intend to embarrass is myself.” A beat. “Or woman.”

Ever so carefully, he avoids Aramis' gaze. Those eyes could provoke men to war, he thinks, given the right circumstances.

Thank God, the dinner provides an excellent excuse to change the subject away from the upcoming nuptials and a distraction from Aramis' current form. The food is remarkable, far outpacing even Porthos’ usual fare. Never free with compliments, Athos is happy to offer one here. “This is truly an excellent meal, Porthos."

"A dress which is not even picked out," he clarifies, and prays, prays, that Aramis doesn't make up her mind. That's definitely money they don't have and he can only delay for so long. He glances over the table at Athos, slightly surprised with the compliment. It's not completely without history, but it is still a bit unexpected. "Thank you," he replies, warmed at the words.

He slides his hand under the table to slide over Aramis' knee, squeezing slightly. "Except, now, I want to hear more about the stories for consideration in this speech. Don't you?" he asks of Aramis.

"It is narrowed down to three," says Aramis for the dresses, "And it may take Athos' eye to truly decide. Porthos likes me in everything," she tells Athos with a small smile.

Stretching a leg beneath the table, she slides her toes along Porthos' ankle, creeping upwards towards his knee. "What I want to hear is whatever Athos most wants to talk about," she says, still sensing something strange in his bearing. "We have swept him along with us long enough."

“Well, you will have to wait. Both of you.” Athos looks away under the weight of their scrutiny, however warmly it is meant. In truth, he feels certain that he will never discover quite the right words, no matter how he struggles, that the speech will be bland and blessedly brief, and that he will have to trust that Aramis and Porthos already know what they mean to him. Even if, these days, he is sometimes unsure himself.

No. Those thoughts are absurd, and should never leave solitary darkness.

Porthos sits up a touch straighter, a touch of distress in his eyes as he gives Aramis a look that says 'what do you think you're doing' with a bit of sharp pleasure attached to it. He breathes out slowly and keeps his focus on Athos, though, seeing as he'd made the lovely dinner to make sure Athos knows how much he's appreciated for his help and his company. "I told you, it's not that I like you in everything, it's that you're perfect in everything," he grunts, unwilling to let that go.

"Come, Athos, pick the topic for dinner," he prods. "Aramis won't let it rest until you do, isn't that right, chou?"

The desperation tinged with intrigue only pushes Aramis' toes higher against Porthos' leg, but she keeps her gaze on Athos, resting her chin against a hand. "Quite right," she agrees. "Have you seen anything new to turn your head?" she asks him. "A sword, a gun, or even someone new? Another flaxen haired beauty, perhaps."

Aramis sighs, lifting her wine glass to her lips. "I did enjoy the Comtesse. Even snatched from the jaws of death, she deserved far better than she got."

His eyes darken with a certain sadness, as they so often do at the mention of Ninon. But it is not flaxen hair that is on his mind, and damn it all, this dinner would be infinitely more comfortable if it was.

The corner of his mouth turns up dryly. “If you expect me to keep the conversation going, then you are even greater idiots than I thought.” A beat. “Though if you must know, I have been curious about that gun of yours.” He still cannot quite look at Aramis as he usually would.

Porthos reaches down to wrap his fingers around Aramis' foot before it can travel too far forward, feeling a little awkward sitting so close to Athos and doing what they are. "I keep telling you," he insists, using his free hand to eat pasta. "You should let us buy you one, then you can bring it on the hunts," he insists, watching how Athos avoids looking at Aramis and finding his suspicions are growing very, very firm.

Should he be jealous? It's strange, but he's not. It's an odd fluttering feeling in his heart that comes when he thinks of Athos wanting Aramis, sort of a hopeful little thing -- though he doesn't know why. Aramis is only a woman temporarily and then Athos will go back to judging them and nothing will have changed.

"Oh, I already bought him one," says Aramis, smiling down at her plate as she selects her next bite, a perfect mix of pasta, scallop, and a dollop of sauce. "Not long after I let him shoot mine in the park. I was only waiting for Athos to ask for it."

She looks up and smiles at them both, noting that for the present moment, she will have to smile at Athos' averted cheek. That's the mention of Ninon, perhaps, but Aramis refuses to feel guilty for it. Athos could stand to admit to actually having feelings more often. She exchanges a look with Porthos and arches a brow. "Athos," she calls patiently. "Would you like to see it after dinner?"

“You might have said.” Athos huffs, though he nods gladly in reply to the offer, is frankly relieved that they seem to have finally settled upon a safe subject. Eying Aramis, he is struck by yet another strangeness of the situation: he cannot imagine this woman as a musketeer, or anything like the soldier that Aramis is.

He isn’t such a fool as to mention that aloud.

"You kept scowling when we brought up the things we bought for you," Porthos points out, feeling like that's the most logical explanation. "Speaking of, I bought you new boots," he adds helpfully, considering they'd been shopping and Porthos had thought it silly to buy them for himself and not get Athos something new.

"And no guns in the house," he says, almost stunned to hear the maturity in his words. It's only that he's spent a lot of time fixing it up and he'd hate to ruin any of that. Maybe he's growing up and maturing after all.

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