Chapter Text
OPERATION: GET TREVILLE LAID.
“We’re not calling it that,” Porthos says flatly, trying to coax the hot water heater into behaving.
“Why not?” Aramis says. He wraps an elastic band around the last bundle of light blue envelopes and snaps it in a triumphant manner. “I like it.”
“You like anything that makes Treville burst a blood vessel, your taste is…”
“Shite,” Athos offers up. “Don’t give Treville a heart attack. Louis can’t claim enough wine for me to do his job.”
“Operation… Relaxation?”
“Operation nothing. Remind me never to allow you to write a headline. Ever. Which, admittedly, is a shame, as this,” Athos motions to the blank piece of paper in front of him, “Is infuriating.”
“Free kittens if you vote for Louis!”
It’s a good thing that no one else is left in the office, because the pen that was formerly in Athos’ hand goes flying and clatters against the glass wall of the printing room (Aramis is good at ducking). They’ve had a ‘no projectiles’ rule since Aramis threw a stapler at Porthos and accidentally knocked over his cup of coffee. He’d had to buy the office a new barcode reader, and personally dry all of the canvassing sheets he’d ruined.
In the kitchenette, the ancient heater makes a grumbling noise. Porthos narrowly restrains himself from whooping with joy (not actively banned, but frowned upon), and starts heaping spoonfuls of coffee into four mismatched mugs.
D’Artagnan may have been silent throughout the brief spat, but Porthos is under no illusions about his innocence. He’s only been here a few weeks, and Aramis and he are worryingly close. They’ve got about the same mental age, by which he means ‘that of a five year old.’
As if he sensed where Porthos’ mind was going, the envelope stuffing machine that d’Artagnan has been watching closely clatters to a halt. D’Artagnan grabs a handful of the freshly stuffed envelopes and hands them to Aramis, who stops his ‘helpful’ suggestions to start addressing them again.
The room falls into silence, interspersed only with the scratching of Aramis’ calligraphy, the gentle hum of the envelope stuffing machine, and the muttered swears of Athos.
It is oddly relaxing. Or, as relaxing as working for Louis Bourbon’s constituency team can be.
“Coffee,” Porthos places the mug just out of reach of Athos’ head, which is resting on the blank paper. “And maybe take a break? You won’t come up with a good headline if you’re panicking.”
“Not panicking,” Athos looks up. “How does ‘you can trust the quiet man’ sound?”
Porthos wrinkles his nose.
“You’re right,” his friend cups his hands around the mug of coffee and nods in thanks. “I’ll have a think about it.”
“Louis also… isn’t quiet. ‘You can trust the squeaky man’ doesn’t work so well.” Porthos continues on his coffee round, and then takes the seat opposite from Aramis to liberate him of some of the pile of envelopes. His handwriting isn’t a patch on Aramis’, but at least (unlike some people) it’s actually legible.
Athos huffs and knocks back half of his coffee in one gulp, before pushing the blank paper out of the way with a snort of derision. He gestures towards d’Artagnan, who’s rescuing another pile of envelopes from the machine, and receives said pile as his reward. With the three of them on addressing duty, it should go much quicker.
They’re almost done with the pile (d’Artagnan is on ‘move things to other places’ duty, since his handwriting is appalling) when they hear footsteps up the path.
“This job would be much easier if I didn’t have to answer questions,” Louis huffs, holding open the door for Anne. “Or at least, not stupid questions.”
“That’s… part of the job,” his wife says with a straight face, her education portfolio under her arm.
Treville pinches the bridge of his nose, and Porthos is reminded of their prior conversation. Their boss – well, ok, technically Louis is in charge, but everyone (including Louis) knows who really runs the office – is looking tired and stressed all the time now. And not in that ‘I’m-having-shedloads-of-great-sex’ way, either. It’s more of an ‘I’m-working-myself-to-an-early-grave-and-eating-ready-meals’ sort of tired.
Dammit, Porthos hates it when Aramis is right.
“There’s wine in the fridge,” Treville says. “Assuming Athos hasn’t drunk it all.”
His second-in-command doesn’t look up from the envelopes he’s addressing, but he raises his middle finger.
“I could kiss you, Treville!” Louis collapses onto the battered old sofa of their office with his typical dramatic air. Well, they always say that politics is acting for ugly people, Porthos supposes. Not that Louis is ugly – he’s a damn sight more attractive than most of the politicians Porthos comes across in his day to day life, but that’s… a rather small sample pool.
He’s so caught up in his mental gymnastics that he almost misses the look that passes between Aramis and d’Artagnan.
Oh no.
---
“I’m telling you,” d’Artagnan says through a mouthful of peanuts, after having to show his ID to three separate bartenders. “You didn’t see the look Treville gave him.” He swallows noisily and slurps at his beer.
Porthos slaps the back of his head, “I grew up in foster homes and I’ve got better manners than you. And anyway, how do we know Treville likes men? Or – or anyone? There are people who don’t like anyone, it’s not just an excuse to get Aramis to leave them alone.”
“Today’s ‘let’s sort out our boss’ sex life’, not ‘let’s pick on Aramis day,’” Aramis retorts, leaning back in his chair until his head touches the wooden wall of the pub.
“He likes people,” Athos says casually, pouring himself a glass of wine. “Or – men, at least.”
All three of them turn as one to stare at him.
“What?”
“And you know this… how?” Aramis scoots forward. His chair makes a horrible squeaking sound as it drags across the wooden floor, and Porthos shudders.
Athos’ eyes dart around the room, as though he’s suddenly realised he’s cornered by a wild Aramis. With another terrible scraping sound, d’Artagnan drags his chair to block off Athos’ other exit route. Short of disappearing under the table – which Athos has done before, but he’s not drunk enough to start that yet – he is well and truly trapped.
“I slept with him,” Athos says to his bottle of wine.
“When?”
“After the by-election in August. Now,” he continues on without pausing for breath, “If we could –”
“Was he any good?”
“Aramis!” Porthos admonishes his friend, whilst d’Artagnan chokes on his beer and Athos attempts to drown himself in wine Duke of Clarence style. Judging by the sly grin on Aramis’ face, the telling-off is pretty futile.
“Well, was he?” Aramis scoots forward again, until he’s almost in Athos’ lap. “Because this is vital information.”
Athos surveys him over the top of his wine glass, but remains tight-lipped. Figuratively, of course, he’s still chugging back that wine like he’s a dehydrated man drinking water.
It takes a good three minutes of awkward silence before Aramis realises that he’s absolutely definitely not going to get an answer from Athos. He pouts rather heavily at the wooden ceiling, as though that’ll change anyone’s mind.
"Alright," Porthos sighs, when the atmosphere has got truly uncomfortable. He takes a mouthful of his ale as he thinks. "Well, why don't you sleep with him? Again?"
Athos looks murderous, "Because I don't do relationships, that's why."
"Because you're a sociopath!" D'Artagnan claps him on the back cheerily.
"Get your hand off me or I'll remove it."
"Y'know, that's really not helping your case," Aramis snickers, still uncomfortably close to Athos, as if he's hoping that he can absorb information about Treville's sex life via osmosis. "It's a shame you don't, you two could get married and have little grumpy babies."
Porthos has only seen Athos show paternal feelings to his cat, a ginger hellbeast who pretends to be all cute and cuddly and then claws at Porthos' shins when no one is looking. He's not wholly sure that Athos can have affection for anything that doesn't have four legs and rabies.
“It is a shame,” Athos agrees. “I’d look wonderful barefoot and pregnant.”
D’Artagnan chokes on his mouthful of piss-weak beer, spraying it all over the table in surprise. Being as Athos is still penned in by d’Artagnan and Aramis – double trouble, the terrible twosome, the demon children, Porthos needs to come up with a good shorthand for them – he bears the brunt of d’Artagnan’s sudden spit-take. He turns to look at d’Artagnan with the disgusted, haughty look that only Athos can pull off.
Porthos sighs. Why does politics attract such weirdoes?
“Next time, don’t say something like that when I’ve got a fucking drink!” d’Artagnan protests, cupping his hands around the mostly empty bottle as though Athos might be tempted to throw it. Which, actually… Porthos wouldn’t put it past him. “Um – anyway! Back on track. Isn't the whole... marriage thing, a bit of a problem? With Louis, I mean?"
"Open relationship," Aramis says immediately, finishing off his beer and jumping to his feet to get a new pint.
"You better bloody hope so," Athos mutters.
"Aramis slept with Anne," Porthos explains to a confused looking d'Artagnan. "Because apparently we like keeping it in the family here. But, yeah. We don't actually know if Louis knows it's an open relationship. Or if he likes men, actually. We're all still reeling from the fact he knows what sex is."
"Right then," Aramis sets three pints and a fresh bottle of wine on the table. He sits down and pulls out his phone. "Do we have an action plan?"
"We need an action plan?"
"My dear, we're politicians. We have an action plan for everything."