Archive of Our Own

It’s been five years and he’s better now, but there’s still a hand on his back and Porthos’ voice in his ear saying that they’ll get through this day the same way they do everything: together.  Aramis, Porthos, and Fatima’s postcard.

A week after the postcard arrives there's an email from her.  Aramis reads it and gives a little happy laugh and calls out, “Porthos!”  When Porthos pokes his head in from the hall Aramis’ grin is spread across his face.  “There’s a conference in Paris next month. My girl is coming!" 

There is nothing Porthos enjoys quite the same way he enjoys watching Aramis be giddy in love.  Whether it’s with art or food or friends or lovers, the way his tone changes and his whole presence grows brighter gives Porthos so much joy.

“That’s fantastic! You told her she was welcome here, yeah?" 

“I haven’t said anything yet; I just got the message. Can I tell her that?" 

Porthos laughs. “Of course, yeah.  Might not work best for her but she should know she’s got a home here if she wants it. 

Aramis makes the offer.  Her dates aren’t even solid yet, but he wants her to know how welcome she is, how much he’s looking forward to seeing her.   When her schedule is firmed up, she calls him to iron out the details. 

“I’ll have meetings Monday through Thursday and probably dinner a couple of those nights but I would love to stay with you.  Actually, I’d love to come on Friday and have the weekend if that works for you.” 

“It very much works!” and while he wants to say something lewd about making the most of their time, there’s something hanging in the air between them. “Fatima, I—,” he starts. 

“Aramis, stop. Let’s not borrow trouble for ourselves. I love you, I always will. Get to the airport and we’ll see if the rest is still there. We’ll figure it out then, and we’ll talk to your Porthos.”  There’s a pause and when she speaks again her voice is so much lower.  “I’ve missed you, Aramis." 

Aramis can feel his belly twist because fuck he’s missed her, too.  They call and email regularly, but it’s not the same as feeling that wild cloud of hair under his hand and her head on his chest while they talk about everything and nothing.  “Just say when, I’ll come pick you up."

He laughs at Aramis cleaning everything in the flat, but it’s Porthos who buys new sheets for the guest bed, creamy and soft and with a sinfully high thread-count, and makes sure there are matching towels in the bathroom.  Porthos knows that no matter how excited he is, Aramis is more than a little worried about how Porthos and Fatima will get along.  He needn’t worry. 

Fatima’s plane is due in at a quarter to ten on Friday morning and Aramis has arranged for the day off, so he can spend it with her.  The night before, wrapped around each other in their enormous bed, Aramis says, “Are you sure you don’t want to come to the airport with me?” He kisses the scar just over Porthos’ right shoulder blade. 

Porthos takes Aramis’ hand from where it’s wrapped around his waist and brings it to his lips.  He kisses one fingertip after another with a pleased little hum. “Nope.  I told you before, and I’ll tell you again, this is a special moment and you two should have it to yourselves. Besides, I promised Athos I’d do a refresher course on one-handed takedowns.  He thinks a few of the new guys need some polishing.”  Porthos rubs one of Aramis’ fingertips against his lips, just feeling the skin against skin. “I’ll do that, stop and get some things for dinner, and be back here in the afternoon." 

He can feel Aramis’ breath against his back, Aramis’ fierce sucking kiss against the nape of his neck.  “Have I mentioned lately how much adore you?  That you are the love of my life?” Aramis says and Porthos laughs, curling Aramis hand against his own chest and thinking again how fucking lucky they are. 

Porthos’ voice is fuzzy with sleep. "'S been hours, I could hear it again.” 

“I wake up every day wondering how I can deserve you. I see your smile and it seems like everything that’s ever happened in my life makes sense because it’s brought me here, with you.” 

If Aramis says something else, something about the nobility of Porthos’ face and the magnificence of his ass, Porthos doesn’t hear it; he’s fast asleep.

If asked, Aramis would probably deny that he spends any time picking out the right clothes to wear to the airport, but he’d be lying.  She hasn’t seen him in so long, hasn’t seen him with this hair, with his beard, in any clothes but his uniform.  Aramis would love to be above this kind of behavior, but she can still make his heart race and he finds himself picking out his cleanest white shirt, his nicest jeans, spending a little extra time on his hair.  It’s raining when he goes to leave so he snags his new chocolate brown trench coat on the way out the door. 

Fatima, when she comes through the security checkpoint doors, is even more beautiful than he’d remembered.  They’ve talked a few times over Skype, but no matter how good the signal it could never properly show how luminous her skin is, how bright her eyes.  Her hair is piled on her head in a haphazard bun and Aramis goes weak in the knees a bit when he realizes that breathtaking smile is meant for him alone. 

“Well hello, look at you. How is it possible you've gotten better looking?” she asks and then laughs.  “Are you blushing?”

Aramis doesn’t say a word, he just bundles her to him, buries his nose in her hair behind her ear and soaks in the fact that she’s here, in his arms, and she is incredible. She’s been on a plane for eight hours, crammed cheek by jowl with hundreds of strangers, but she smells amazing. 

“I missed you,” he says, his lips at the join of her shoulder and neck. “I missed you so much." 

She’s on her toes, her arms around his neck and her fingers in his hair just above his nape. “I missed you, too.”   Fatima takes his head in her hands and kisses him firmly on the mouth, her lips smooth and sweet under his. “And that’s all you’re getting until you get me somewhere where I can change out of these clothes and get a nap, I barely slept.” 

Aramis smiles against her kiss.  “As the lady commands."

The drive back to the flat is mostly quiet, they are still soaking up the sheer presence of each other.  The only thing of any note is that as soon as they’re out of the tangle around the airport she slips her hand over his where it rests on the steering wheel.  It’s a perfect echo of the first time she touched him like this, of that ride out to Abéché in the hot, dry African air, and Aramis feels himself shudder all over at the intimacy of it.  Whatever else may have changed in the years since he walked down that hall in her building and turned to wave goodbye, the strength of him wanting her hasn’t diminished at all.

Just before they get back to the flat, she catches sight of the trees along the road and the park beyond.  “Is that your park?  Yours and Porthos’? It’s so beautiful." 

Aramis squeezes her hand.  “Wait." 

She’s nearly as stunned by the view as Porthos and Aramis had been when they’d first visited the flat. “Look at it all down there, you can see so much.  Oh, Aramis.”  She turns to look at him, her eyes bright.  “Do you two stand here of an evening and just look out over it, just marvel at it and your lives?” 

If it were anyone else asking Aramis might not admit to such rank sentimentality, but she knows him too well and she will know the admission for the perfect thing it is.  “Every time we get a chance." 

Fatima walks over to where he’s standing and runs her hand up the back of his neck, carding her fingers through his hair. “I am so happy for you, my Aramis. So incredibly happy.”  She kisses him again, then.  It’s not soft, not sweet, it’s the kiss of a woman who has missed her lover for long years and suddenly finds him in front of her again.  She’s relearning his mouth.  Aramis wraps his arms around her, his hands splaying wide against her back and dragging her toward him. 

She presses her chest up into his, sighing softly into the kiss before saying, “I’m going to go take a shower now, and then there will be more of those.”  He tells her where the bathroom is, says he’ll get her bags to the guest room, and grins as she swats his ass on her way to the shower.

“Fatima?” he calls after her just as she’s walking through the bathroom door. When she turns back to him he says, “I love you." 

She leans against the doorframe, her smile so soft, “Oh Aramis, and I love you." 

While she’s showering, Aramis feels his phone vibrate.  It’s a text from Porthos asking if she’d gotten in safe.  In reply, Aramis sends back a picture of her suitcase on the chest at the base of the guest bed.  Porthos sends back a smile and says he’ll be home after three.

The door to the bathroom opens and Fatima comes out in a cloud of sweet-smelling steam looking like her world has been set to rights again.  “I’m not sure what ecologically unsound things Porthos had to do for you to get water pressure like that, but I’m so very grateful to him.”   She’s in a white tank top and soft flannel pajama bottoms.  Her feet are bare, and Aramis can see her bright blue toenail polish peeking out from under the hems of her pants.  Raising her arms to let her hair out of the towel drags her breasts against the fabric of her top and Aramis can see the outline of a barbell in each nipple. 

His mouth goes dry and he swallows before he says, “Are those new?" 

She flashes that amazing smile at him. “They are, at least since you saw me last, but before you get excited, I really need a nap.  It didn’t hit me how tired I was until I got under that hot water, and all my muscles loosened up.”  She tilts her head a little and her smile softens.  “Will you lay down with me for a while?"

Aramis reaches out and takes her by the hand, leading her to the guest room, stripping to his boxers and crawling into bed beside her. She’s on her side, a towel draped over the pillow and her hair piled on top of her head.  It’s left the back of her neck bare, and when Aramis spoons up behind her he can’t resist pressing a kiss there.  She sighs and wriggles back into the curve of his body, tugging his arm around her and kissing his knuckles. 

She’s asleep before he is, the trip having caught up with her finally, and Aramis takes the quiet time to remember the feel of her against him.  There are a few more pounds on her hips, her skin is softer and her hair is longer, but the delicious warmth of her body is still the same.  She still fits perfectly along the length of him and rests the soles of her feet on the tops of his. 

Aramis can feel the adrenaline, the tension of waiting for her and worrying about if that physical connection would still be there, draining out of him.  As the worry leaves he finds himself growing tired, the warmth of her body pulling him toward sleep.  He sighs against her neck, kisses her shoulder, and closes his eyes.

When Aramis wakes again, it’s to the feeling of someone’s mouth against him.  Fatima has turned in his arms and is laying little kisses along the seam of his lips and over each cheek.   He hums in pleasure and returns the kisses. Neither of them needs words, they let their kisses speak for them.  Each kiss gets deeper, slicker and dirtier. Aramis slips his hands under her tank top, shucking it up over first her ribcage then her breasts, tugging it up and over her head.  He flings it against the far wall and wraps his arms around her back, pulling her close and feeling all that perfect, warm skin against his own. 

There’s a pinprick of hardness on either side of his chest where her piercings are pressing against him and he remembers wanting to explore those. Before he can bend his head to kiss her collarbone, Fatima takes his head in her hands.  “Aramis, one second.”  Once his eyes are on hers she asks, “Do we need to wait until we can talk to Porthos?" 

“No,” he says, leaning forward to kiss her nose. “We talked about it already. While he would appreciate a full report, strictly for entertainment purposes, anything we want to do has his blessing.”  He kisses her mouth again, feeling it open under his and her tongue lick into his mouth. 

“Wants a full report, does he?  Should we make it especially good so that you’ll have plenty to tell him?”  she asks and Aramis’ hips jerk against hers completely unbidden. “Mmm,” she hums against his neck. “Or perhaps we should save the particularly interesting things for when he can observe in person, do you think?" 

Aramis’ harsh “Fuck!” is nearly a shout.

Fatima’s fingernails are dragging down his back, her teeth scraping lightly over his collarbone. “Oh, Aramis, such thoughts in your head.  So selfless to want to give your beautiful man something lovely to watch.  But, how selfless can you be?”  she asks and scratches lightly across his belly with her nails. 

Aramis hisses and arches into the touch. “I can be anything you want,” he says and with any other lover he would immediately regret giving them a blank check like that, but this is Fatima. She holds his heart so gently, and she respects Porthos, and there is nothing Aramis would not give her. 

“My Aramis,”  her hand snakes down inside his boxers and wraps around his cock.  She isn’t stroking, not yet, just feeling him throb in her grip. “We wouldn’t want him to feel left out, would we?  Would you let him come join us?”  Aramis’ cock jerks in her hand and she smiles at him. 

His hands start desperately pushing at the waist of her pajama pants.  “Off.  Off off off. Please.” He used to be better at this with her, he used to be able to play and tease, but the idea of having both of those gorgeous bodies in bed with him has taken all his composure.

While Fatima is stripping off her pajama bottoms and tugging Aramis’ boxers down, he’s twisted himself around to reach the drawer in the bedside table.  His amazing, perfect Porthos has left condoms and lube and Aramis loves him fiercely at that moment; Aramis grabs both. There hasn’t been time, he doesn’t think, for her to be wet enough to go without lube, but he can’t bear to wait.  He needs to be inside her and if the way she’s rubbing herself against him is any indication, she feels the same.

Aramis tucks the lube between his knees letting his skin warm it even if it’s only a little while he rolls the condom on.  Once it snaps into place, he slicks his fingers up, letting the lube warm against his hand.   Fatima tilts her head up to him, and Aramis bends to kiss her, feeling her gasp into his mouth when he slides his slick fingers over her clit and drags them through her cunt.

She arches against him when he slides one, then two inside her, rolling her hips into his hand and moaning. “Now, Aramis. Now.”  His girl seems to be as short on patience as Aramis is.  For this time, the first time in so long, he wants to be covering her, to be able to look down at her riot of hair spread over the pillow. 

Fatima’s knees fall open and her hands reach for him and as Aramis leans down into her embrace he feels his cock snug against her opening, pressing but not pushing.  She hitches her hips up against him, fucking him into her.  “Did I pique your interest, Aramis?  Are you so close to the edge now because you’re thinking of both of us there with you?” 

Fuck, she’s right; he could come now if he let himself.  His face twists as he drags himself back from the edge, but when she sees it relax she smiles up at him, and Aramis knows that look, she’s up to something.  Sliding one hand between their bodies she circles her fingers over herself.  She’s pressing at the pad of flesh over her pubic bone with the heel of her hand and slicking her fingers down her clit while she stares up at him. 

“I’m close, too. Do you know what has me so close, Aramis? It’s not both of us here with you.  I’m this fucking hot, this fucking close, because I’m thinking about you sitting in that chair, right there, and watching the two of us without you." 

Aramis’ hips buck forward and he’s inside her, sliding into her and thanking god for the lube.  She’s so tight and so hot and the image of her laid out on this bed with Porthos has Aramis whispering, “Stop. Stop,” until she’s quiet and he can get some control back. When he starts to move again, when he’s sliding out and back into her, she smiles at him. 

“Would you ask us to do things for you, do you think?  Or would you let us lose ourselves while you tell us how perfect we look?”  She’s stroking faster now, her cunt starting to tighten around him, and thank fuck because he’s so close he’s not sure he can hold back this time. 

“So perfect,” he says, fucking into her.  “You’re always so perfect, both of you. Please,” he says and neither one of them knows what he’s asking for.  Neither of them truly cares. 

“Aramis!” she calls out, high and needy.  He looks down at her gorgeous smile and kisses her, biting at her lower lip and trying to make up for years of missed kisses all at once. 

The sting of his teeth in her lip is what she needs and he can feel her clenching around him, hissing into his mouth as she comes.  Somehow he holds off, going still while she tightens and releases over and over. 

When she’s still under him, loose-limbed and smiling, he fucks himself into her just a few more times, whispering to her how beautiful she is, how perfect, how much he’s missed her.  He comes with a cry, her hands stroking gently over his back and her hips cradling his. “I love you,” she whispers into his hair as he curls over her. 

It isn’t until he’s tying off the condom and putting it into the trash bin that he checks the clock.  It’s just after one, Porthos won’t be home for a couple of hours yet.  “Come here,” Fatima says, holding her arms out. Aramis slides into bed next to her and wraps his arms around her.  He rests his head on her shoulder, smiling as she presses a kiss to the top of his head.  Her fingers stroke through his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, and Aramis barely notices his eyes closing before he’s asleep again. 

The buzz of Aramis’ phone wakes them an hour later.  Aramis reads Porthos’ message saying he’s on his way home, to text if they think of anything they need him to grab, that he loves Aramis.  Smiling, Aramis feels lucky all over again.  Ducking his head, he kisses Fatima on her forehead, brushing his lips across her skin and smelling her hair.  “I love you so much,” he whispers.

She groans and stretches, her back arching in a gorgeous curve and her legs stretching straight out.  Aramis watches her balled fists reaching out for the wall and can’t help but smile. “Time is it?” she grumbles. 

“It’s just after three.  Porthos will be home in about twenty minutes and I thought you might like to not be naked when he gets here.”  His grin is positively lewd. 

“Who knows, I might want to just to give him that show,” she says, rolling onto her belly and looking at him from over her shoulder.  Fatima is watching as Aramis’ eyes go wide, pupils dilating just for a second.  “Oh, Aramis, if only it weren’t so fun to get you riled like this, you might have gotten that lovely, sentimental reunion sex I know you secretly wanted.” 

Aramis most assuredly does not blush. He’s missed this about her so much, not just her smile or her smell or the physical presence of her, but the way her face lights up when her mind engages.  Fatima’s intellect working is one of the most magnetic things Aramis has ever seen. “That really was just dirty pool on your part. You knew the idea of the two most beautiful people I know wrapped around each other would be more than I could resist." 

“You’re a man of simple pleasures, Aramis.”  She kisses him, quick and firm, and goes to dress.  Aramis is watching her, her long legs sliding into the jeans and her nimble, clever fingers fastening her bra and wonders how it’s so sexy to watch her put her clothes on.

Aramis is nervous.  It’s ridiculous, of course. He remembers Porthos and Fatima talking to each other all those years ago, how after he’d fallen asleep their conversation had gone long into the night.  They liked each other then; there is no reason they won’t like each other now. Still, he won’t fully relax until he sees them together.  Aramis just loves them both so much, the idea that one wouldn’t like the other sits like a stone in his belly. 

They’re sitting on the couch together when they hear Porthos’ key in the lock.  Aramis jumps a little and he can feel Fatima’s small, strong hand on his arm, calming him.  “Aramis, I promise you, even if this all went to hell we’d both still love you.”  He rests his forehead against hers and kisses her softly. 

Porthos calls, “Honey, I’m home!” as he sets the carrier bags on the floor just inside the door and walks into the living room. 

“And I’m glad to see you, dear,” Aramis says, laughing. 

“Wasn’t talking to you,” Porthos says, and his eyes are dancing. He turns to Fatima and his smile gets even bigger.  Aramis is watching as both dimples carve through Porthos’ cheeks and his arms spread wide.  “Hey you,” he says.  “Been dying for a hug." 

Fatima doesn’t bother walking around like a civilized person, she climbs straight over the back of the sofa, landing safely in Porthos’ hug.  “Oh, it’s good to see you.”

“How was your flight?” Porthos asks.  “Did this one let you get a shower and some rest or did he latch on and not let go until he made you see stars like I said he would?" 

Both of them are completely ignoring Aramis' pole-axed expression.  “He was a perfect gentleman,”  Fatima says, kissing Porthos on the cheek. “He put me straight into the shower and then we both took a nap.  I’m afraid the latching on that happened after that nap was entirely my fault." 

For the first time since he’d put his arms around Fatima, Porthos turns to look at Aramis. “He doesn’t look like he’s broken-hearted over it.”  Porthos’ smile is wicked and bright. 

“No,” Aramis says, drawing the word out.  “He looks like he might have missed something.” 

Porthos lowers Fatima to her feet and bends to kiss Aramis, sweet and soft and a little sloppy.  “You knew I had her email, you just thought I’d only use it for emergencies.  Aramis, we’re in touch at least a couple of times a month." 

Fatima runs her hands over Aramis’ shoulders, bending to kiss his cheek. “It helps, sometimes, to have someone else who loves you that I can reach out to.  When I talk to him, I know someone is giving you all the love you deserve, and he knows that he can talk about you to someone who also appreciates you." 

Porthos grins. “It’s nice to be able to complain about how many times you leave wet towels on the bed to someone who understands why I can’t ever be really mad about it. And now you can stop fretting that we’re not going to like each other." 

Aramis tries to protest that he wasn’t worried, but he gives up in the face of Porthos’ disbelieving eyebrow. Some part of him should be upset, should be irritated that neither of them thought to tell him.  If he were a jealous man he would see this as ‘sneaking around’ or ‘behind his back’, but he’s Aramis, and these are the loves of his life and they adore each other.  He doesn’t feel jealous, he feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

Rising from the sofa, Aramis goes to Porthos, wrapping his lover in his arms and kissing him until they are both breathless with it. “I will love you all my life,” he says.  "Even though I know you planned this so you could see my face when I found out, and as such you are both clearly terrible wretches." 

Porthos rubs his nose against Aramis’, beaming at him. “Good thing you can’t resist me then, eh?”  He reaches down to palm Aramis’ ass and gets a surprised but happy grunt in reply. 

“My darlings, as lovely as it is to watch you both be besotted, I had some peanut butter crackers and something resembling oatmeal at seven this morning and nothing since.  I’m starving.” 

“I think we can feed you,” Porthos says to Fatima.  “Help me get the groceries into the kitchen.”   It’s early yet, and dinner will take a bit of time to prepare so Porthos puts out some cheese, some crusty bread, and the last of the season’s really fine raspberries.  Fatima falls on them like she hasn’t seen food for weeks, pausing only long enough to graciously accept the glass of wine Porthos hands her.  Her smile is dazzling, and Porthos turns to Aramis only to see Aramis staring at Fatima.  His expression says the sun has risen behind her eyes, and he is basking in its warmth. 

When Fatima pops the last raspberry in her mouth and sighs, a happy grin on her face, she settles onto the stool at the counter and for the next two hours they talk like they’ve been friends for decades and never apart.  While Porthos chops bright, sweet grape tomatoes and fresh basil, Fatima talks about the conference she’s attending and the talks and panels she’ll be participating in.  She talks about the personalities involved and all the nicknames she’s given them that she’d never tell anyone else. 

Aramis watches Porthos roast red peppers under the broiler and chop them and asks about his day.  Tales of Athos’ poker face in the presence of Louis’ idiocy keep company with the rhythmic chop of the knife through shallots and the scrape against the cutting board as he slides them into the saute pan. 

Porthos adds the tomatoes, basil, and peppers to the shallots and puts a lid on the pan.  All the while he talks about his plans for his shift at the youth center the next afternoon, how he’s letting the kids pick things they want to learn about.  “I can’t know what’s important to them,” he says. “Only they can.  But I can help them learn about whatever it is.”  Fatima meets Aramis’ eyes and gives him an enormous grin.  Yes, their eyes say to each other, he is perfect. 

It isn’t until Porthos brings out the large marble pestle and starts to flatten cuts of beef that Aramis realizes what’s on the menu for the night.  “Porthos?  Are you making milanesas?” 

Porthos looks up to see Aramis’ face and cocks his head with a little “Hmm?” noise. 

“You’re making my mother’s milanesas, aren’t you?”  Aramis is not, is not going to cry. 

“I might be.  I might have asked her for a few more recipes we could try at home. I might have promised her a picture of your face when you tried mine, and also said that they’d never be as good as hers.” 

Aramis uses the lower rung of the stool he’s on to stand up and stretch across the counter top.  He grabs the front of Porthos’ shirt in one hand and pulls him forward for a fierce, smacking kiss. 

Porthos lets Fatima flatten some of the beef, claiming it’s a perfect catharsis at the end of a long day and by the end of her third steak she’s grinning from ear to ear.  She helps him dip them in bread crumbs and cook them in the cast iron skillet and Aramis watches how beautifully they move together.  Dinner is, to no one’s surprise, fucking amazing.  They pair the beef with the chunky tomato sauce and some melted cheese and Aramis opens the bottle of wine they’ve been saving for a special occasion. The three of them are pleasantly loose and the conversation never stops.

The only pauses in the evening come when Fatima notices Aramis’ face glazing over.  His eyes are wide and his breath a little shallow and it takes a sharp nudge from her toe to bring him back to the moment.  Each time he gives her a questioning look and then a sheepish grin in response to her arched eyebrow.  Aramis is eternally grateful that Porthos seems to miss it every time. 

Aramis and Fatima send Porthos off to get out of his work clothes while they clear the table and do the dishes. “I’m not sure how,” she says, “but somehow you made it through the entire dinner without him once asking why you were staring at his mouth and breathing strangely." 

His hands are under water and she can’t see them as they clench with the effort not to let his mind wander again.  “What?" 

“Oh, Aramis.”  Fatima rests her hip against the counter and dries the plates as he hands them to her.  “You spent that entire meal picturing it, didn’t you?”  She leans in to say right into his ear, “Picturing us in that lovely big guest bed?”  Aramis drops the plate he’s holding back into the sink and the water splashes up and hits his face. 

Fatima laughs and Aramis stops trying to pretend.  He shrugs and says, “You certainly can’t blame me, it’s a compelling image." 

“It is,” she says, drying the last of the plates.  “Aramis?”  Her voice is soft and a little careful. “Would you like it to not be an image?  Or at least not just an image?" 

Aramis' mouth goes dry at the idea. He stops washing and turns to her, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in his jeans. “As much as I love your adorable crafty grin, I want to make sure I am clear on this.  What are you suggesting?"