Porthos du Vallon

It takes nearly three hours, Aramis' devoted attentions, promises, and other skills, but finally Porthos feels calm. He's had to borrow a few clothes from Allison, but now he's got a pair of jeans that fit decently. He's still not really fond of the notion of wearing a bra, even a sports one, so he's wearing one of Aramis' baggy shirts (or maybe it's Athos'? It's a blue thing from the bedroom is all he knows and it pools on him like mad) as he goes back for his third cup of coffee for the day while Aramis is out, calling and making some arrangements, as if to check to see whether they could postpone a day, if necessary.

Porthos really, really doesn't want to think about that, but he's not walking down any aisles in white wedding dresses, so it'd best be solved by then. Raising on his toes to reach into the cupboards that yesterday, saw no trouble at all for him. He grasps the bottle of brandy down and spikes his coffee with it, working an admirable buzz considering the hour of day.

Carrying both the brandy and the pot of coffee, Porthos returns to the table where he curls up in the chaise with his legs tucked under him, dragging Aramis' notebook of wedding details closer so he can review the menu one last time, even if it's probably not even the twentieth-to-last time.