“Athos has strong feelings on the subject of rabbit fur, apparently.”
WHAT: Tending to an injury with the help of a bb! siren WHERE: Their house WHEN: Backdated to July 10, post bunny-boss battle WARNINGS: None! STATUS:Complete!
Porthos had spent a lot of the last few days in bear form, and likely eaten enough rabbit to last him a lifetime, but things appeared to be taken care of on that front. Now it was time to lick their wounds. Metaphorically speaking. Not that he wouldn’t have licked Aramis’s wounds if it would actually have helped and not just been horribly disturbing.
He knocked himself out of that strange meandering line of thought as he helped cut Aramis’s shirt off in strips. This wasn’t usually his job. Aramis did the battle wound care most days and even when he did get hurt, Porthos was usually just as bad off. He kept his touch delicate and his knife cuts careful. Soon there was most of a shirt laying on the table next to Aramis’s chair.
There was a sound at the door. Likely Athos returning with Tristan, fetched from his sitter. Porthos didn’t turn to look. “Give it a kick if it won’t open,” he called out. It wasn’t his room but he was focused on getting the last few strips of cloth away from Aramis’s battered skin. He lowered his voice just for Aramis. “Sorry about the shirt, but you know pulling this thing off you would’ve hurt too bloody much to stand.”
Aramis winced, pulling himself forward so he could rest his forearms on his knees and give Porthos a little extra access to his shoulder. It had been a while since he’d been the one needing patching, as being the group’s distance fighter had it’s advantages. Of course it was in a location he couldn’t exactly take care of himself, which left the bitten and bloody area of his shoulder and back into Porthos’ care.
“I have others where it came from,” he reassured, trying to keep a calm voice in the face of pain, because yelling would do no good here. Right now, he was in full control, but a little yelp of pain or something pushing him out of that control might hurt those around him, and Aramis kept breathing through his teeth to push the pain around.
He glanced up at the doorway, where he expected Athos and Tristan to walk through any moment. “A few more of those rabbits and we might be able to make a nice blanket or rug for the house. What do you think?”
Athos did not like the bunnies. Athos did not like most things, suspicious and cautious when delving into new territory, but it was likely this whole incident would put him off from small furry animals for good. He was not upset about this revelation. The next time he saw a rabbit would need to be in a stew.
He did end up giving the door a kick, with Tristan in tow. Though he was fully capable of walking, Athos felt a hurried need to carry him from the sitter's. Aramis's injury was not life-threatening, and Porthos was more than capable of tending to it in Athos's absence, but it did not make Athos concern himself less. It did not make him want to watch the procedure with his own eyes to confirm Aramis would be alright. Caring for people, even the handful that he held close, was always an overwhelming thing, surprising him with how deep his devotion went for them.
Met with Porthos's back and a pile of the shredded shirt, Athos made a small hum of recognition. "I do not want the memory of their infestation to taint this home. Is it not enough that you were—" Athos meant to say hurt, but even he couldn't bring himself to worry Tristan so immediately upon their return to the house. There was a level of innocence he tried to retain when he could. No one said he was particularly good at helping to raise a child with his two closest friends, but he tried.
Tristan leaned instinctively out of Athos's arms, reaching for Porthos. "Perhaps we should entertain ourselves in the other room?" That was for Porthos and Aramis to answer, though his voice was strangely light, since he meant it more as a statement to Tristan.
“Athos has strong feelings on the subject of rabbit fur, apparently.” Aramis was much better at sounding unaffected; Porthos sounded very affected, even when he tried to sound amused. “Guess wrappin' a few pillows is also out of the question.” He brushed a thumb up the back of Aramis’s neck in a soothing gesture as he turned to watch Athos carry Tristan inside. He was still blocking the damage, but he wasn’t sure what good it would do in the long run.
“I think he needs to know or he might throw himself into Aramis’s arms at some point and hurt them both.” Scowling, he tugged lightly on Aramis’s hair. “But it’s up to you, yeah? Want to put him on the sofa over there so he can just see your face or tuck him away in the bedroom for a nap?”
Aramis was far too pleased with Athos calling it their home and being offended on his behalf to really argue. Even if rabbit fur was soft and made for good blankets, he was just selfish enough to enjoy being doted upon.
He made a little noise when his hair was tugged, which helped distract him from the hissing pain he couldn’t see, and Aramis angled a forced grin in Porthos’ direction. “It’s unfair to pull my hair like that when we’re not equal levels of nude, my friend.” It was much easier for him to joke than it was to be serious, he did the same when any of his friends were injured as well.
Humor, somehow, made Aramis feel better, even as he tried to smile at Tristan in a reassuring way. He couldn’t really hold out his arm, but he did make a ‘c’mere’ gesture at both Athos and the toddler, “Stay nearby? Between Porthos being my doctor and you nearby,” he pressed a kiss to Tristan’s forehead as soon as he got close enough. “It’ll keep my mind off of it.”
Athos looked to the ceiling, the only small privacy he could afford both of them in the immediacy. His exasperation at their antics was mostly fond, rather than annoyed. If they were humoring one another, it was a good sign. Athos, despite his usually serious demeanor and the current hard-lined expression across his face, found small relief in this. He did not hesitate to bring Tristan closer when Aramis asked, warmed by their sweet affection. Aramis always had a way with people that Athos often questions but did not begrudge.
At the mention of nearby, Athos dragged over one of the chairs, so that he—and Tristan—could face Aramis and Porthos. It also gave Athos the opportunity to watch all of them, keep everything in check, observant and strategic as always. It didn't hurt that physical proximity to them also helped his own mood, for various energy-related reasons.
He was grateful that he no longer needed to explain this to them.
"Perhaps we should tell the story then," Athos suggested, glancing at Porthos, raising a brow as if to ask, join me in this? "Of how bravely Aramis fought today. As a distraction."
Porthos was glad he was behind Aramis enough that his friend couldn’t see his eyebrows shoot up his forehead at that nude joke. His eyes closed, a helpless smile tightly stretched across his face. It only took a moment, but he righted himself and set to work taking care of Aramis’s injury with strong, steady hands. He watched Athos take a seat in front of them and made a face over Aramis’s shoulder at Tristan, making the toddler giggle.
“I think we could all use the distraction of a good story.” He dug through the tin of first aid supplies. “And make no mistake little man, it’s a good story because every is fine and we came out on top.” The look he gave Athos was pointed, even as he gently started cleaning Aramis’s shoulder. “Your papa is very brave, Tristan. Honorable and ready to protect the people of this strange place. And us,” Porthos punctuated that with a gesture towards himself than towards Athos. Tristan reached out a tiny hand to clamp onto his fingers and frowned his little frown. Porthos’s fingers were still a little stained by dirt and blood he’d picked up as a bear.
“Ah,” he said. “Should’ve washed up. It’s alright, pup.”
Aramis pulled a face right where Tristan could see, and his worry melted away to an amused giggle. The Musketeer was practically immune to blushing, even as his friends came up with heroic stories of his bravery, but he wasn’t immune to Porthos’ hands. Dirty or not.
“First lesson to healing, always clean your hands.” Aramis leaned in a little as if he was whispering a secret to Tristan, but spoke in his normal tone, laced with just a little pain. Tristan was still too young to do more than instruct him on how to keep his siren abilities calm, as wailing tended to be a natural siren call to the very young ones. That had gone well, but he was still far too young for anything else.
There was always instinct, however, and that instinct had Tristan standing up on Athos lap in an effort to launch himself over to Aramis. It made Aramis laugh and hold out the arm that was uninjured, just in case he had to catch a leaping toddler. He winced through the movement and shot Porthos an apologetic look. “Second lesson, don’t wiggle your way through it.”
Athos was quick and economical; the moment Tristan climbed up in his lap, his hands were on his tiny side, giving him as much room to move around without feeling constricted. Holding Tristan back from Aramis or Porthos was a certainty for disaster. But he also didn't want Aramis further hurting himself to fatherly instincts. Athos turned a little to now look up at Tristan.
"Third lesson is to let people come to you," Athos said, shooting a sidelong glance to Aramis, then back to Tristan who seemed wholly disinterested in standing anymore. With an effortless movement, Athos placed Tristan down on the floor to allow him to wobble-walk the short distance to Aramis's arms. If he kept reaching for Tristan, Porthos would be unable to fix anything.
"If you are the injured party," Athos corrected, his now free hand patting Aramis's cheek affectionately and lightly reprimanding. They were all foolhardy when it came to the thick of battle—it was what it meant to be a Musketeer, to risk more than ever intended—but Athos felt the most responsible when one of them took a blow regardless. Every wince, every concerned expression, every drop of blood spilled, Athos felt it. He was more empathetic than he gave himself credit for.
He added, "Some lessons in healing can't be helped, no matter how many rules you follow. Some break them all the time."
Porthos rolled his eyes, even though he couldn’t really argue. The bathroom was close so he squeezed the back of Aramis’s neck and ducked inside to wash his hands while they talked. “Lesson number four,” he called out loudly as he came back into the room, rubbing his hands on a towel. “Be gentle with the injured party, no matter how heroically he suffers.”
He punctuated this by covering one of Tristan’s grabby little hands and easing it off of his father. Tristan gave him big, confused eyes for a moment before returning a soft look of concentration to Aramis. As young as he was, he was a siren, and Porthos was convinced - from his vast experience of exactly three sirens - that they all came predisposed to empathy. So it wasn’t a surprise at all that the toddler reached again to press little fingers to Aramis’s cheek and started to hum with power.
“Look at you, tryin’ to help,” Porthos murmured warmly. He figured it didn’t hurt to work together and set back to finishing up with Aramis’s wound care.
Aramis made a little noise when tiny hands touched his face. He’d wanted to whine at his brothers-in-arms, to compliment them, to stare so fondly, but now he was utterly distracted by the existence of his son that Aramis was about to embarrass himself. There was so much love in his gaze, taking over the pain that was there from his wound, and he couldn’t be sure if it was from Tristan’s attempted humming or just the experience as a whole.
He let his forehead drop to gently rest against Tristan’s own, and he ducked in to give his son a kiss on the forehead. “Much better, thank you.” He let Tristan sit on his knee, wrapping an arm around him to combat any wiggling, and glanced back at Porthos. “At least we get cake after this. We do get cake after this--” He glanced to Athos as if asking permission. “Right? I owe Porthos a song.”
Even Athos was not immune to Tristan's attempt at helping his father. Watching the three of them interact, the sheer amount of care they gave one another, Athos felt something hopeful stir inside him. The tiniest smile found its way onto his face and glanced away to hide it until he could craft his expression into something more neutral.
It was not that he hated smiling—contrary to popular belief—only that he was usually quite unaccustomed to it. No one smiled often in battle, and his life was a constant case of downward spirals. It had been Aramis and Porthos, D'Artagnan and Tristan, which made his life all the more bearable. Athos had found reasons and people to be happy. He smiled again at the thought.
Athos cleared his throat and nodded. "We do. We were only slightly derailed by today's events, but that does not mean we forget to celebrate someone," Athos said, raising a brow toward Porthos. Birthdays meant something, and fighting vicious bunnies in the forest would not keep them from giving attention where it was deserved. "Cake would be a necessity to do so."
Porthos watched Aramis and Tristan over Aramis’s shoulder with a full heart and a sting behind his eyes. He was helpless to do otherwise. A soft smile teased at his mouth and he turned it towards Athos, only to see him trying to hide his own. That only encouraged Porthos to smile brighter, bolder. He reached over to ruffle Tristan’s curls, so like his father’s.
“I think you made us all feel better, pup. And such an honorable deed definitely deserves cake!” He wasn’t actually sure where the cake ended up. They’d rushed out so quickly once the news spread. Still, he had a wounded shoulder to wrap so he nodded towards Athos as he pulled out the bandaged roll and started to unwind it around Aramis. “Can you peek in the kitchen? See if Aramis hid any melons in there, while you’re at it?” he smirked, one eyebrow raised challengingly.
Aramis attempted to make it easier on Porthos, by lifting his injured arm just slightly with a wince, and balancing Tristan with his other arm. It was then that he was thankful for the training he went through, keeping check on both things without hurting himself even further.
It didn’t help that he enjoyed having Porthos’ hands on him, even for this very unromantic thing. There was nothing like a wound to kill the mood, but there was still that part of him that was slightly glad he couldn’t reach the wound to heal it.
“Oooh, look next to the new ice box! I put them in a basket-- I bet I could still throw a few of them with my good arm.” To prove his strength, Aramis picked Tristan up with the good arm and lifted him high, before jostling Porthos as he worked, and setting him back down with an apologetic grin.
"Let us not be hasty," Athos said when Aramis suggested throwing with his good arm, his own hand coming up preemptively to slow him down. Athos knew to stop him, any of them, was a fool's errand. Even he could be stubborn and unrelenting when put in the right circumstances. However, Athos preferred both arms to be good, and at least one of them to be fully patched before they did anything reckless, even if it was as a distraction from the pain. Someone had to make sure the people in this house got the rest they needed when injuries occurred. They could be costly in the long run.
Not that Athos ever said all of this out loud; it was mostly a look, a sigh, or a stare that seemed to accompany his chiding or disapproval, throwing all of his weight behind the silence he brought with non-verbal communication. If it didn't work on them, he was losing his touch. The look he shot both of them as he rose from his seat to check for the abandoned cake said behave.
Athos came back from the kitchen with only the cake. No melons, for now. Setting the cake down on the table, Athos leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. "Still intact, it seems it was meant to be."
Despite his focus on carefully coiling the bandage around Aramis’s torso, Porthos was able to watch Athos play stoic motherhen and smirk fondly at him. He’d have stopped Aramis himself if he’d had his hands free. But it went to show how well they moved together, three parts of a whole. He finished with the bandage and tied it off, pressing a calloused hand to Aramis’s spine when he was done.
“Try not to twist right out of this and ruin all my good work, will you?” he murmured close to Aramis’s ear before he straightened up and started cleaning up the mess of first aid supplies. Eyebrow raised teasingly, he nodded towards the cake. “Are we meant to eat that with our hands then?” His grin bloomed and he ruffled Tristan’s curls as he walked towards the cake. So what if he swiped a finger full of frosting and popped it into his mouth. It was his cake. “The pup would love that.”
“I’ll try,” Aramis followed Porthos with the most fond look, and perhaps it was his inability to multitask or just a slippery toddler that was suddenly summoned by cake, but it really took no time at all for Tristan to wiggle out of his arm and head straight for Porthos. “Oh, no-” He’d just promised not to mess up Porthos’ good work, had just pushed aside that tingle doing down the back of his spine.
So he didn’t move when Tristan dove right towards the cake, hand outreached, little fingers going right into the edge of the frosting as he stood on his tip-toes, hand already being brought back to his mouth before anyone could sweep him away. Aramis only laughed, and gave an unapologetic shrug. “You just showed him that bad habit. Guess we’d better get on with it?”
Athos wasn't horrified by Tristan's decision to mimic Porthos, but his brows certainly raised a few centimeters higher in surprise when his hand went for the frosting without any hesitation. Athos would have to take the blame for not bringing anything to eat the cake on or with, but he was hard-pressed to find fault in the current predicament. Bad habits or not, it was endearing to see Tristan take after Porthos and Aramis in tiny ways. His own observant nature tended to catch them more often than he had expected.
With a soft sigh, Athos eyed the cake and weighed his option of following suit to get his own swipe of icing. He refrained. Instead, Athos cleared his throat, and asked, "Will we be following local traditions? I would rather not spoil this birthday further than the bunnies by subjecting any of you to my singing voice."
Maybe Porthos should have felt guilty for setting a bad example, but all he could do was laugh his full-bodied laugh and swooped Tristan up into his arms. His gaze lingered on Aramis for a moment, double-checking his work but also enjoying the laugh still present in his eyes. After a moment, Porthos shifted Tristan to his hip and reached out with his free hand to pick up the cake plate.
“Well see, now I have to insist you do sing, Athos.” He winked. “I may not know what day I was really born, but I do know there’s some kind of law that says I can make unreasonable demands on my birthday.” Tristan giggled, grabbed for another handful of cake, and tried to feed it to Porthos. Of course that meant he ended up with icing all over his beard and a helpless laugh trapped in his throat.