du_vallon | (no subject)

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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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“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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