Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Are you out of your mind?” Athos hisses.

Having been on the receiving end of enough of his personality to be unfazed, Ninon folds her hands together and arches an eyebrow. “You were supposed to chaperone the back-to-school dance and you convinced someone else to do it. When I asked you to be the faculty advisor for the Academic Olympics team, you said you had a family emergency, which turned out to be sitting at home with a bottle of red wine.”

“I am the only family I have, and if I’d left that bottle one more day, it would have gone to vinegar.”

“Athos, you even managed to get out of judging the science fair last year. It is now time for you to behave like an adult and do your part as a member of this faculty.”

Athos’ face is a study in horror. “But the Christmas bake-off?”

Her smile is serene. “It rather makes you wish you’d just judged the science fair when I asked, doesn’t it?” There’s a knock on the door, and she looks up. “Ah, Porthos. Just the man I was hoping to see.”

Porthos smiles at her until he catches sight of Athos out of the corner of his eye. HIs face drops to a scowl. “Fleur called and said you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, thank you. Please come in.”

Porthos comes into the office, closing the door behind him. He stands behind the other chair in the office, not moving; Ninon sighs.

“Sit down, please.” When Porthos is seated next to Athos, both of them leaning as far away from the other as they can while still remaining ramrod stiff, Ninon rubs her temple and says, “I need hardly say that the winter bake-off sales are a huge hit with the staff and parents alike, and that, if done well, the proceeds can be a great benefit to the winning department. As the competitors for the STEM team this year you two—“

“You gotta be joking!” Porthos’ indignant outburst has him sitting forward in his chair now, hands gripping the wooden arms.

Athos, meanwhile seems to have resigned himself to being a part of it, but has astutely seized on the collaboration grenade she just dropped on them, “Ninon, this is not a team sport! No!”

The burst of noise isn’t unexpected; Ninon sits back in her chair and lets them bluster until they both run out of steam. When they’re quiet again, Porthos’ chin jutting forward and Athos' forehead so furrowed his eyebrows actually meet in the middle; she continues. “As the competitors for your department this year you two can help us fine tune the new format. We’ve been looking for a way to put a new spin on it, and having department teams working together gives it a nice group effort feel.”

The men are both still looking into the distance when she leans forward, bracing herself on her elbows. “You are both grown men, and you will behave like grown men.” She passes them each a sheet of paper; they do their best to pretend they aren’t looking at it.

“This is the schedule. We’re starting the week before Thanksgiving; the last round is the day winter break starts. Five weeks. Porthos, if you can do basic training for the Army you can make it through five weeks of baking with Athos. And Athos, you survived the doctoral program at Princeton, you can survive this. Now, both of you get out of my office so I can pull out my emergency bottle of rum and drink my spiked coffee in peace.”

Porthos leaves first, stalking out if not storming. Athos turns back to Ninon but she stops him, “Before you consider taking this to your department head, you should know that while it was my idea to have you do this, it was Tréville’s idea to have you two do it together. So I’m not sure you’ll find much sympathy.” Her smile is diabolically sweet.

D’Artagnan catches up to Athos in the hallway.

“Athos! There you are, I was— Oh, you look grumpier than usual. What happened?”

“I’ve just come from speaking to our illustrious principal about this year’s winter bake-off.”

D’Artagnan’s grin is enormous. “I spoke to her about it earlier. Constance and I are going to be the team for the Language Arts departments. We’re already planning what we’ll make.”

“You’re partnered with Constance. Of course you are. Well bully for you and Constance."

“Yeah, I am. Why? Athos, who did you get paired with?”

Athos levels a stare at a point somewhere just to the left of d’Artagnan’s head and waits for his silence to speak for itself. If it had been Constance standing in front of him, she’d have laughed and teased him about it. Thankfully it’s d’Artagnan, who just looks at Athos with fathomless depths of sympathy and says, “Oh, no.”

“Oh, but yes.”

“Okay, Athos, I don’t really understand your problem with Porthos, but maybe this will be a good time to bury whatever hatchet you’ve got. I don’t know what caused these issues, but I’m sure you can get past them with some communication?”

Athos thinks about the last four years, of all the times he’s had to leave the room when Porthos came in, of how that combination of shame and anger always sits in his belly white hot. “The problem with Porthos, as you so succinctly put it is…” He’s at a loss for words, or at least at a loss for words he can say out loud to d’Artagnan in the school hallway. “My point is you think this could be some magical healing moment. I sincerely doubt it. Please excuse me, d’Artagnan. I have to get ready for tomorrow’s conferences.” and he turns on his heel and walks back to his classroom.

There’s a bouncing envelope at the bottom of his laptop screen telling Athos that he’s got new mail. It’s from Ninon, and Athos can hear her smug, quiet voice.

Athos and Porthos,
I realized after you’d both left that I neglected to remind you of something. This is a team effort. It is not a chance to spare yourself half the work by trading off the duties. I expect you to collaborate on not only the decision of what each week’s offering should be, but on their creation as well.

The first week’s selection is cookies.

-N
(Should you have any issues about this stipulation that you’d like to bring up please feel free to visit me during the hours listed below)

The space below that is blank. Athos is absolutely certain that’s not an accident. The worst part, he knows, is that if she’s sent this just now it means she’s still in her office, and he can’t sneak in and steal her emergency rum.

Two hallways over, well out of earshot, Porthos’ “Son of a bitch!” is loud enough to startle Constance as she’s coming through his door.

“Well, that answers my question of whether or not you’d spoken to Ninon.”

“Not only do I have to be partnered with his smugness, but now I have to cook with him. I just know if I try to fuck off the rules and go it alone-“

“Ninon will know.”

“Ninon will always know.” Porthos drops his head into his hands and groans.

He can feel Constance’s hand on his back, light but solid and warm. “Oh Porthos, don’t be upset. When you’re upset like this, I can’t enjoy my vicious glee at your suffering.”

Porthos turns his head to look up at her. “People think you’re sweet and mild-mannered.”

Constance beams her sunny smile. “People don’t know me as well as you do.”

Looking for something, anything, to get the conversation off of him and his unfortunate predicament Porthos says, “Does d’Artagnan know about this malicious streak of yours?"

“Oh, not yet. But perhaps if he’s a very good boy this year and asks Santa very nicely, I’ll let him in on it a bit."

“Constance, you know I love you, but can we talk about this later?” Like never. Never would be good. “I’ve got Thursday’s conferences to get ready for and then I have to go home and drown myself in the kitchen sink."

She smiles and pats him on the shoulder again. “Before you do that, write down the recipe for those salted caramel cupcakes. It would be a shame to take those into the afterlife with you."

Once she’s gone, Porthos has to admit that Constance has a point, those cupcakes are too good to be lost to the world. He’ll make sure they’re his team’s entry for the cupcake week. It’s only fair, then, that Athos get to pick the first week. Porthos thinks back on half a decade of watching Athos bring in microwave meals or take-out leftovers for every lunch and realizes that it’s entirely possible that Athos has never once actually baked. In an effort to meet halfway, he’ll take some of the pressure off.

Porthos bangs his head against the edge of his desk once, twice more and then takes his life into his own hands by sending an email to a man he hasn’t willingly spoken to in four years.

Athos,
According to Ninon’s schedule, week two is cupcakes. I believe I have a suitable recipe for that if you would like to propose an idea for the first week. I am comfortable finding something as well if you would prefer to simply let me know a preference.

With the sale being Tuesday afternoon, Monday would seem to be the best day to do the baking itself. The toaster oven I use for class demonstrations will not be large enough; we will need to decide where to do the actual preparation. I leave that to you.

-P

Athos somehow gets all the way home before he sees the note come in. It’s a good thing, too, because it sends him so spitting mad that were he in the same building as Porthos still there would be fisticuffs in the main hall.

Those fucking demonstrations. It seems like every two weeks all year long Athos has to listen to one of his students tell him about how amazing Mr. D’s demonstrations were. How Athos’ Algebra classes would be so much more fun if they did stuff like Mr. D did.

Whenever it happens, it is all Athos can do to rein himself in, to not yell at them for twenty minutes about the joy of pure science and the importance of integrity of purpose in research. How, how, HOW does Porthos expect to properly express the gravitas of science if he’s using an E-Z Bake Oven?

And the implication that he can’t come up with an idea on his own makes Athos bristle even further. Perhaps he doesn’t have years and years of pointless edible class experiments under his belt, but he can fucking well manage a cookie recipe.

Predictably, Athos spends the evening drinking whiskey, neat, and trolling the internet for ideas because in fact he can not fucking well manage a cookie recipe without outside help. There's a moment spared for deep self-loathing over the fact that somehow, through a convoluted series of links, he has found himself on fucking Pinterest, but he finally settles on a recipe that will, if done correctly, knock whatever Constance and d’Artagnan manage on its ass. He is inordinately pleased with himself over this.

He’s probably had too much to drink by the time he fires off the reply to Porthos’ email, but he’s blithely typing away anyway.

DuVallon,
I am not entirely sure why you think I wouldn’t have a suitable recipe to hand. Rest assured I have the perfect thing, my mother used to make them for my brother and myself on winter days. Assuming they meet with your approval, we should probably do the preparation in your kitchen as mine is undergoing some slight renovations.

-Athos

This is, almost entirely, made of lies.

Athos has no doubt at all why Porthos thought he wouldn’t have a suitable recipe to hand. Porthos cannot have failed to notice that not a single thing about Athos indicates he is a homebody. Porthos is right about this. Athos lives on take-out and freezer meals and the occasional invitation to d’Artagnan’s for a cookout in warmer weather.

Athos’ mother wouldn’t have known the inside of the kitchen any more than he would, that’s what servants were for. Even if you expanded the definition of “my mother used to make them” to include “my mother told the cook to make them,” there were still never cookies on winter days. There were two boys sitting with their noses pressed to the windows wishing they’d been allowed to go on holiday with their parents and occasionally getting lucky enough to sneak an extra helping of bread with dinner.

The only “renovations” Athos’ kitchen is about to undergo will be the sudden influx of baking supplies. Right now he’s fairly certain all he has is the battered sheet pan he puts under those pre-made meals which, inexplicably and unacceptably, can not go in the microwave, and he’ll be damned if he admits that to Porthos.

Even with the terrifying failure of personal integrity this note represents, he pastes the ingredients and steps for the recipe into the end of the email and hits send.

Porthos is surprised by the nearly chatty tone of Athos’ reply, as well as by the 2:30am timestamp, but any contemplation of it, or the included recipe, is lost in the preparation for parent-teacher conferences.

Like every year, the parents who really need to see him about their kids won’t come, the helicopter parents will come and badger him about why their little darlings don’t have a better grade, and there will be one or two bright moments of shared joy with a parent over their child’s progress. Porthos lives for that last one.

Athos lives for the day after parent/teacher conferences. He’s only got eight scheduled this year, which is about average for him. He spends the last hours before they show up scribbling down various moderately polite ways to say, ‘Your child is not special. He is not very smart or very dumb. Just like you. Stop asking if he can do extra-credit work, I don’t want anything more to grade.'

The first three conferences are with various frazzled parents coming straight from work; they will take his feedback and continue doing the same thing they always have. The fourth is with his least favorite kind of parent, pushy power parents. He gives them one of his moderately polite alternative answers and when they ask again if Junior can have extra credit he shakes out his best death-glare and tries it on for a while.

When they leave, it’s time for Julia Garnier’s parents. In a job where he’s not supposed to have preferences or like one student more than any other, Julia is one of Athos’ favorites. She does problems just for the joy of the solution and when it came time to explain quadrants and axes, he’d only had to tell her the difference once. Athos is looking forward to her conference if only because he won’t have to lie.

There’s a knock at the door and Athos look up, expecting the petite blonde who has come in to drop Julia off on previous occasions. Instead, standing in the doorway, is a man with dark eyes and wild, brown hair. He’s unwinding a scarf from around his neck and Athos is willing to say he is quite handsome until the man hangs up his scarf and jacket and turns to smile and hold his hand out to Athos.

“I’m Aramis, Julia’s father. Go easy on me, please, it’s my first time."

If Aramis says anything else, Athos doesn’t hear it. There’s a feeling of his heart racing and a voice in his head that Athos supposes is his own saying, 'Oh, no. How terribly inconvenient.' He reaches out to shake Aramis’ hand and introduces himself. Aramis flubs Athos’ last name once, then a second time in a somehow more egregious fashion. “Athos is fine."

They talk for the allotted fifteen minutes, and Athos is happy to spend most of that time enthusing about what a joy Julia is to teach, how nice it is to have her in class. Aramis is clearly besotted with his daughter and unabashedly agrees with Athos’ assessment that she is bright and delightful.

The only problem is that every time Athos gets on a roll, he looks up to see Aramis staring at him, mouth slightly open and eyes wide, and he loses his train of thought. Worse, Aramis responds by being even friendlier, more charming. The friendliness only serves to make Athos flustered. He’s probably trying to put me at ease, Athos thinks. It’s backfiring horribly because now Athos is spending most of his time trying not to stare at Aramis’ mouth and getting more and more flustered.

They seem to be stuck in some kind of flustered-friendly-flustered feedback loop and Athos just wants to put his face in his hands until the time is up.

When he’s not staring at Aramis’ mouth, he’s trying not to fixate on his hair. Or his hands. God those fingers, those long, slim fingers and the way they’re wrapped around his pen and oh, no no no, please don’t put that pen in your— Aramis starts nibbling on the end of his pen and Athos trails off mid-sentence.

Aramis checks the clock on the back wall, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how much time I was taking up. I know you have other appointments. Thanks again, it’s always nice to hear good things about Jules."

It would be nice, years from now, if Athos could look back and say that he was charming and said just the right thing as Aramis was taking his scarf and coat down from the hook, but he’ll never remember. He’ll only remember that Aramis says, “I have to get over to 214 to see her Science teacher, anyway. Thanks again!” At which point Athos remembers that 214 is Porthos’ room, and before he can stop himself he thinks, Of course, you’ll like him better. Everyone always likes him better.

He’s sure he says something, probably something formal and polite, then the door swings shut and Athos is standing next to his desk reminding himself that he doesn’t give two damns if the parents and students like Porthos better. This isn’t a popularity contest, it’s his career and he has more important things to focus on.

Athos smoothes the front of his shirt, runs his fingers through his hair, and sits down to get ready for Michael Ryan’s parents and their endless litany of complaints.

Porthos is standing at the whiteboard doing some drawings in advance of the lessons he’s due to teach the next day when Aramis walks in. 

“I’m sorry Mr…” looking down, Aramis checks the name, “DuVallon? Am I in the right room?"

It would be a disservice to make too much of how Porthos turns on his best smile. He’s not even conscious of how much of his face is now covered in a toothy grin and perilously deep dimples. It’s just the face he makes when he’s happy, and the fact that he gets to spend fifteen minutes talking to this gorgeous man is making him very happy.

“That’s me! You must be Julia’s father?"

“I am, yes.” Aramis introduces himself and then apologizes for the delay, saying that he’d just come from Athos’ room.

Porthos grins. “Well, hopefully, this will be less grumpy."

The look on Aramis’ face is confused at best. “He didn’t seem grumpy to me."

“You just came from 246? And he wasn’t grumpy?"

“Right,” Aramis says, “that’s the one. When he wasn't strangely flustered, he was quite charming and friendly."

Porthos just stares for a second and then tries to dig himself out of this. He’d just been trying to find common ground with this gorgeous man and now he’s come off as mean. “I’m glad to hear that. He’s serious about his subject matter and that can sometimes make him very serious in conversation."

Aramis smiles again. “Not this time, and I’m glad of it. That was my first conference; I don’t know that I would have been able to make it through if I’d been sitting across from a grumpy mathematician. No, he raved about Jules and explained the coursework and I was on my way."

“And now you’re here,” Porthos says, broad smile back in place. “Where I’m going rave about Julia some more, because she’s a great kid."

“She’s a big fan of yours as well. Last weekend I was treated to a reenactment of your investigation of the interactions of acids and bases.” He’s rocking the chair back on to two legs and gesturing wildly with his hands and Porthos is momentarily entranced by the movements before he responds.

“How did it turn out?” he asks, cocking his head slightly.

“Best muffins I’ve ever had,” Aramis says and laughs.

Porthos shrugs and puts his hands out, palms up. “I believe in the real-world applications of science.” He laughs again, can’t help himself really, and then gestures for Aramis to have a seat in the visitor’s chair next to his desk and moves to sit in his own chair again. “That’s actually why I love this job, why I love teaching kids Julia’s age. That kind of practical evidence really helps kids grasp the concepts and recognize that science happens all around them."

They spend the next ten minutes talking about the upcoming units and ways to continue challenging Julia at home so that she’s not getting bored by the standard coursework. Aramis promises to take that up with Julia’s mother and then takes a minute to look over some of her lab reports and boast about how accurate her drawings look. Porthos is just staring at this man staring at an awkward drawing of a meniscus and thinking that it’s not fair to make a person this beautiful who is also charming and in love with his kid.

As they’re wrapping up, Porthos says, “So, you said Math was your first conference this year, how was your second?"

Aramis smiles, taking his scarf down from the hook. “Oh no, not my first this year, my first ever."

Porthos is intrigued. “How did you manage to get out of going to them so far?"

There’s an awkward shrug from Aramis and a lopsided smile. “I wasn’t a big part of her life for a long time. Between being in the Army and with one thing and another. Still, we’re changing that now."

“And it’s not all softball games and band concerts and ice cream after school,” Porthos says.

“That’s almost exactly what Isabelle said,” Aramis laughs. “So I said to give me one of the down and dirty jobs and,” he shrugs and gestures around him, “here I am."

“Well, I’m glad I could help break you in.” As soon as he says it Porthos wants to reel it back in because that just came out so much filthier than he’d intended. It’s exactly as filthy as every thought he’s had since Aramis came through the door, but it wasn’t meant to be out loud like that.

Aramis barks a laugh but before he can say anything Porthos says, with every ounce of professionalism he can manage, “It was a pleasure to meet you, my information is on the evaluation form so please feel free to contact me if you have any questions about Julia’s coursework or how she’s doing.” He holds out his hand and Aramis shakes it, still smiling.

“Thank you again for being so good with Julia. She’s lucky to have teachers like you and Mr. de la Fère."

Porthos keeps smiling, but he’s blinking furiously as Aramis drops his hand and walks out, waving as he goes. He's trying to take in the fact that he’s just been grouped in with Athos in a way that was clearly meant as a compliment. This did not go how he’d intended. Not at all.

While he’s not a consummate flirt, Porthos isn’t accustomed to falling flat on his face when trying to make a good impression, and it feels like he’s done just that. With the added fact that Aramis described Athos as charming and friendly, Porthos feels like the whole evening has been a bit of a funhouse mirror.

Checking his schedule, Porthos realizes that Aramis was his last scheduled conference. Wanting nothing more than a quiet evening at home and to start Friday with the world back on an even keel, he stuffs his papers into his bag, cutting the lights and locking the classroom door behind him.

Athos wakes Saturday with an extravagant stretch and the realization that he’s somehow managed to get a good night’s sleep despite having worried that he’d just lay awake all night remembering Aramis’ mouth chewing on that pen. The clock says it’s half-past ten and, deciding to continue his self-indulgent streak, he puts on a worn pair of jeans and a faded but familiar flannel shirt, and heads to the coffee shop with his newspaper under his arm.

He’s been sitting at a corner table for almost an hour, letting the weak sunlight warm his face and gradually waking up to the point where he can enjoy beating the crossword into submission, when he hears the chirruping happy voice of a child calling his name. Athos deliberately picked a neighborhood out of his school’s geographic range so that he wouldn’t run into his students in public, but it still happens. He stifles a sigh and looks up, smiling.

Julia Garnier smiles back at him, bright and sunny, and Athos thanks god that if he had to run into one of his kids it’s one that he genuinely likes. His heart stutters a bit when he realizes that her father is right behind her. Athos smiles at him as well and says hello, asks how they are, tries to pretend he’s not imagining those lips doing obscene things.

Aramis seems content to stand there chatting amiably, but Julia, with the lack of concern for social graces common in thirteen-year-olds the world over, pulls a chair over to Athos’ table and sits down. Oh god, he’s going to have to do this, it would be unbelievably rude to leave Aramis standing while they’re both sitting, and that means he’s gong to have to be composed and social and… “Oh, where are my manners, pull up a chair and join me, please."

With a sheepish smile, Aramis does just that. Athos is worried the conversation will be awkward, but Julia fills in all the empty spaces with her own curiosity. She asks questions bout math and science and travel, she knows that Athos studied in Europe for a while and she asks questions about his travel. Before he realizes it, Athos is giving away a surprising amount about himself.

Normally he’d worry that he was boring them but from their faces it seems they’re both still interested and engaged. Julia continues to pepper him with questions and Athos decides the best defense against being tongue-tied in front of Aramis is to just pretend he’s not there. For almost an hour Julia and Athos swap questions and answers, Aramis chiming in from time to time, and the next time Athos looks up he sees that Aramis is watching them with an irresistably fond and warm expression. Athos smiles back at him and hopes that it looks like ‘your kid is amazing’ (which he absolutely feels) rather than ‘I’m wondering what your hair would feel like under my fingers’ (which he also feels, sadly).

Eventually, Aramis checks his watch and says, “Okay, kid. I promised your mother I’d have you home by three and we still have to stop and get a few things.” When she protests he stands firm for all of three seconds before saying, “Fine, you can keep talking while I go get a refill, but then we have to go.” Her smile is like sunshine.

She turns back to Athos, “He’s still nervous he’s going to say the wrong thing and I’m going to say I don’t want to see him anymore. Mom told him I did that with her last boyfriend.” She shrugs a little. “But that was just some guy, this is my dad. I’m always going to want to hang out with him."

Athos isn’t sure what to say to that. He’s saved by the return of Aramis, who puts a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Right, excellent work exploiting my part-time parent guilt for a few extra minutes, but we really do have to go, Jules.” He’s grinning down at her and when she smiles back Athos can’t help but notice that they look heart-stoppingly alike. “Thank you for letting us invade your quiet morning,” he says, smiling at Athos.

“Not at all, anytime; I enjoyed it."

Julia is wrapping her scarf around her neck as she says, “We come here sometimes on the weekends, maybe we’ll see you again!” Athos thinks that yes, given the cruelty of the gods, he probably will continue to encounter this gorgeous man while he’s dressed in his slobby best and barely coherent.

Aramis gives him a friendly and oddly shy wave and Athos smiles and waves back as they leave. The fact that he’s sitting next to the window is the only thing keeping him from dropping his head to the table and groaning. So inconvenient.

Sunday is a blur of productivity for Porthos. He gets his initial flurry of holiday shopping done, volunteers for a storytelling shift at the library, takes his dog to the park, and enjoys a well-deserved afternoon nap in his favorite chair, with a good book flopped face-down on his chest. Still, he spends all day thinking he’s forgotten something, no matter how often he checks his list.

He’s halfway through dinner before it hits him. If today is Sunday then tomorrow is Monday. What Porthos has forgotten, what was nudging at him earlier, is that instead of relaxing and catching up on his DVR and remembering how nice Aramis looked in those jeans, Porthos is going to be spending his Monday evening baking fucking cookies. With Athos.

“Well, shit."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Porthos spends his Thanksgiving with a circle of close friends from college, all of them alone for the holiday. He tries making the cookies again to bring as his offering, but they don’t turn out quite right, even when he follows Athos’ notes. In the end, he stops at the store for a pie and hopes one makes up for the other. The dinner is fine, but what he's looking forward to most is stopping in at Constance’s on the way home.

Athos starts his Thanksgiving with black coffee and the certainty that he’d rather do just about anything other than have dinner with his parents. He knows; he knows how the rest of the faculty views him. He’s posh and superior and disconnected from real people, they think, but that’s because they haven’t met his parents.

He wears his breeding and upbringing like a cloak, he’s not happy wrapped in it, but it certainly helps blunt the effects of everyone else’s judgment. In that cocoon, he can keep his reactions flat and hide any real emotions. It’s not nice, but it’s safe.

His parents, on the other hand, are the actual people Athos is only pretending to be. Five years ago their butler took over the job of making sure the cars are filled with gas. This has had two practical results. First, Athos’ father has stopped ruining the engines of high-performance automobiles by just randomly filling them from whichever pump handle looked the cleanest. Second, instead of euphemistically being referred to as ‘the kind of people who don’t know how much gas costs’ they now actually do not know how much gas costs.

The butler doesn’t do the actual fueling, he gets one of the apprentice groundskeepers to do it because even Athos’ parents’ servants are snobs.

His mother had informed him that cook would have dinner ready at noon, so Athos arrives at 11:45. He grits his teeth and tries to remember why he ever thought this life was one he would aspire to. Everything is pristine and the meal is perfect, if stiflingly boring. The boring meal means he’s free to focus on the passive aggressive badminton game his parents have going on over his head. They’re seated at opposite ends of the table and he’s safe until after the soup, when they turn their gazes on him.

“We’re so sorry Tommy couldn’t make it,” his mother says.

‘Tommy' is a grown man, Athos thinks. And if he were here he’d be pitching a toddler-level fit about how his name is Thomas and even that would be more interesting than whatever your cook has done to these vegetables.

“He was so hoping to be here,” she continues. “Unfortunately he’s presenting a paper in Geneva and they just could not reschedule him. As a keynote speaker apparently his timing is fairly locked-down.” She heaves a sad little sigh and then looks up at Athos. He can almost hear the targeting lasers locking on. “Oh, Olivier, I almost forgot to ask. How is your job hunt going?"

Athos counts to five and finishes chewing his food. Both of those things keep him from snapping at his mother, a move that will only make the day worse.

“I am not returning to academia, Mother.”

His mother just stares at him. His father looks confused and says, “I don’t understand; are you saying that you intend to stay at this level of teaching?"

Athos thinks about all the things he could say. That without good and dedicated teachers future generations will never understand how numbers can be magical. How he’d never expected to but he’s come to find that on some days he doesn’t actually hate teaching the way he did with college students. How rewarding it can be on a day when the kids are paying attention and he somehow manages to communicate a concept successfully. How the clawing fight for funding for research always forced him to be more competitive, more pandering and insincere than he ever wanted to be again. That after finding his girlfriend fucking his department head on Athos’ desk he’d been put off the idea of sucking up to the powers that be ever again.

Instead, he just cuts another piece of turkey and says, “Yes.” Unable to combat that, Athos’ father makes a look like his dog has just solved for Fermat’s last theorem incorrectly and drinks some more of his wine.

With the utter failure of her last salvo, it takes Athos’ mother a few minutes of silent chewing to come up with her next attack. He’s watching as her eyes glitter slightly and he wonders what’s coming.

"We got a lovely Christmas card from Jessica yesterday. You know she’s still single."

Athos has been cutting another piece off his turkey and at the mention of his college girlfriend’s name the knife goes straight through the meat and makes a horrid scraping screech against the plate. He can’t help but notice that ordinary dinnerware can’t quite reach the quality of blood-curdling noise that you can get from generations-old silver on bone china.

“Mother, I’m absolutely certain that if Jessica wanted to be dating someone, she would be.” He doesn’t mention that he and Jessica had spent three years trying to figure out why their relationship only “sort of” worked only for her to realize that a lack of romantic feelings didn’t make her “broken” and wasn’t something she should “work harder to fix” around the same time that he stopped pretending he wasn’t watching his Philosophy TA’s ass every time the guy bent to pick something up off the floor.

It had been an utterly amicable break up and she remained a dear friend. Athos has it on good authority (Jessica’s) that while she is not romantically involved in ways her mother might like, she’s leading a life so fulfilling to her it makes Athos jealous even to think about it.

Because he doesn’t say any of this out loud, his mother doesn’t stop her relentless advance. “Of course it can’t be easy for her to be thinking about dating while she’s working so hard. Then again, perhaps she’s working so hard because she’s trying to take her mind off of it."

Athos groans. “She’s the head of pediatrics at Children’s Hospital, Mother. I’m absolutely positive that’s not a role you take on just to forget about that you’re making dinner reservations for one."

“Still, it will be nice when she can settle a bit and focus on her own children."

One. Two. Three. Athos is still counting in his head as he drains his wineglass when his father says, “You should call her. I know you probably ended things with Jessica because you didn’t want to jump into marriage too early, but I think we all know how your ‘wild oats’ phase turned out for you."

“And for everyone else involved,” his mother finishes. “Goodness, Olivier. I know you liked that woman but…"

Yes. That’s one way to put it. Heart-rendingly in love and slavishly devoted would also suit. The wine is turning to vinegar in his mouth and if he doesn’t stop drinking now, he’ll be forced to stay here longer while he sobers up enough to drive away.

“Honestly, we’ve been members of that club for four generations, and your father can’t even show his face in the dining room anymore. He’s only just started playing the course again in the last month. Perhaps next time you’ll check with me on who might be a suitable partner, now that we know how it turns out if you trust your own judgment."

Unbidden, Athos flashes back to that night at dinner with Porthos, how excited he’d been for that date and how much he’d been looking forward to the evening. Yes, Mother, clearly.

It’s just past 2pm when he leaves, only passingly apologetic about having to go before dessert. “Some friends have invited me,” he says, a special dig on ‘friends’ as he knows it will gall his mother to think he has social circles she doesn’t know about, didn’t approve of in advance.

He makes a left at the end of the long driveway and heads up the street half a mile until he’s sure he’s out of sight, then pulls over. The radio is on the local classical station and Athos sits with his forehead against the steering wheel until the mournful cello solo finishes and most of the tension has drained out of his finger tips. He wants his bed and a book and to forget this day ever happened, but he’d promised Constance he’d stop by to see her.

The drive between his parents’ neighborhood and Constance’s funky little farmhouse is blissfully easy and Athos tries to use the time to remind himself why his life is better than his parents fear. Mostly he tries to remind himself that it is his life, the choices and consequences are his. It hurts more because he agrees with so much of what they say. He would have loved a life in academia, would have loved to be that crotchety absent-minded professor who closets himself away for years working on answering a problem that no one else can solve. On his worst days, he still dreams of it. He wouldn’t have been jet-setting and doing speaking engagements like Thomas, he doesn’t think, but the choice would have been his.

By the time he pulls up in front of Constance’s house he’s gone from a kind of angry energy, to just a bone-deep weariness. Grabbing the wine he’s brought; he makes his way to the front door. He’ll put in his appearance and get out as soon as he can; if he plays his cards right, he could be in his apartment by sundown.

He might have been, but he failed to account for Constance. D’Artagnan answers his knock and yells, “It’s Athos!” into the kitchen.

Over the din of the rest of the company Athos can hear Constance shout, “Athos, thank fuck; get in here!"

The distress call turns out to be in regards to the fact that Constance is trying to do everything herself. The thing Constance knows that no one else knows is that Athos can cook. He’s actually very good at it, but cooking for only himself just reminds him that he’s alone, so he’s long since fallen out of practice. All it takes is one glimpse of her, elbow-deep in the oven and desperately trying to keep the potatoes from boiling over, and it all comes back to him.

“Move,” he says. “And open the wine."

Constance pours them both a glass and hands him his as he tells her what to do with the pan of sausage that’s browning on the back burner. Ten minutes later, when they’re moving in a complicated dance around the tiny kitchen, she buries her face in the back of his shoulder and says, “Well, that settles it, you have to stay now.”

Four glasses later, dinner is on the table and everyone is seated. It’s d’Artagnan, Constance, Athos, and her sister on one side of the table and all four of her brothers on the other side. The meal is loud and raucous and only half of the dishes match. It couldn’t be more different from the dinner at Athos’ parents. Athos still wants to leave, to go home and hide in his DVR backlog until the weekend is over, but at least here he can relax into the conversation at little.
After half an hour, he finds that his natural dry sense of humor has gotten louder and that normally sotto voce asides are loud enough for others to hear. Constance’s brothers think he’s hilarious. They keep pointing him at each other like a loaded weapon and then collapsing into piles of laughter when he launches into
the new target.

By 8pm, Athos is on the back deck with d’Artagnan and Constance’s oldest brother, Mark. Athos and Mark are watching a tipsy d’Artagnan hold forth about the genius of James Joyce in the way that only idealistic new literature teachers can. Even the barbs Athos is throwing his way about books that only make sense when you’re drunk aren’t popping his enthusiastic little bubble. Mark, on the other hand, is holding on to the porch railing and wiping away tears of laughter. Athos isn’t used to being the funniest person in the room; it’s slightly unsettling, but he likes it.

It’s during a moment like that when the back door opens, and Porthos comes out to join them.

Athos hadn’t been expecting to see him; Constance hadn’t said a word, but between the icy civility of his parents’ house and the crush of people and noise here, he finds that this added stressor is barely a drop in the bucket. After several glasses of wine and keeping up with the conversations all day, he just doesn’t have the energy left to raise all of the defenses he normally has in place for Porthos.

Looking at d’Artagnan, Porthos says, “Constance says to tell you there’s pie, and if you don’t hurry she and Lila are going to eat it all."

Mark jumps up and races for the house. D’Artagnan trips him and goes barreling through the door first.

Porthos is watching Athos, seeing the almost relaxed set of his shoulders and how instead of looking coldly at Porthos, he just quirks one side of his mouth up as he watches d’Artagnan and Mark run into the kitchen and then turns his face back out to the trees. He reminds himself that he’d planned to be civil to Athos, to be polite. Tonight, though, full of friendship and good food and Constance’s stories of Athos getting potatoes in his eyelashes as he took over the mashing duties, Porthos ventures a smile. He holds up the wine bottle he’s brought with him. “Top you off?"

With an appreciative hum, Athos holds his glass out. “Thanks, I’ve had nearly enough to dull the memory of dinner with my parents and the pending beatification of my brother."

There will never be a good enough explanation for why Porthos says what he says next, never a reason that quite accounts for it, but it’s the moment everything shifts.

“Could be worse, they could have lectured you about the importance of academia and pure science and made you feel shitty for leaving it. Maybe insinuated that teaching is only for people who can’t hack it doing research."

Porthos trails off, embarrassed and completely shocked at himself. He’d had a glass or two in the kitchen with Constance while arguing with her about how she should be the one to come out here and announce dessert, but he never would have thought it was enough to loosen his tongue quite this much.

Athos’ eyes are wide; his mouth is open and the color has drained out of his face and is now rushing back in mostly at his cheeks and ears. When he can make words again, the first one he says is, “Fuck."

“Athos, I-"

“No. No, you’re exactly right.”

It’s Porthos’ turn to look poleaxed.

“That must have been exactly what I sounded like. I…” He can remember sitting at that table, in a quiet little restaurant Porthos had picked, and talking about how important academia was to him, the joy of research for research sake. He’d talked about how much he looked forward to getting back into the college environment, how teaching at this level wasn’t for him, wasn’t challenging and how frustrating it was to have to explain basic concepts to kids who would never learn to love numbers.

It had been a surprise, how angry Porthos had seemed. When he’d said, “I don’t know, I like science best when it’s doing something practical,” and then gotten more and more wound up talking about showing kids the science under ordinary things and giving them a reason why science should be important in their lives.

Athos remembers gesturing wildly with his fork, hearing his parents’ voices in his head talking about how sorry they were that his funding had fallen through, that they were sure he’d find another position if he just tried hard enough. He hears himself turning down their offers of inside connections and vowing to do it alone only to find that funding for his research was practically nonexistent.

All of that had been running through his head when he’d said, “That’s what’s making problems for people like me. Kids come out of classes like yours thinking that science has to do something. Then they grow up to run university departments and grant foundations, and they still think science has to do something. They’re all too busy thinking about patents and productization to remember that DNA and MRIs are both the result of basic research!"

He hadn’t been watching Porthos’ fingers get tighter and tighter around his fork, had missed the way his eyes were narrowing. Athos had been so wrapped up in his own arguments that it cut like a knife to hear Porthos say, “Well if you’re so dead set on higher research, what are you doing teaching seventh-grade math?"

Athos remembers hearing a ringing in his ears, the voices of his parents, of Anne, telling him that no researcher worth his degree does actual teaching. He barely remembers asking “I beg your pardon?"

He remembers exactly Porthos saying, “All you’ve talked about is how amazing it is at that level, but you’re not there right now. I guess they must not want you there anymore, and now you’re stuck slumming here with the rest of us.”

When the ringing finally cleared from Athos’ ears he’d been standing. He’d dropped his napkin on his plate saying, “I think we’re finished here,” and walked out of the restaurant. He’d never looked back.

Now, here, on Constance’s deck, he can hear all of it in his head again, and though they’re in his voice, they’re his mother’s words. They’re Anne’s words and Thomas’ words, and he’d slung them at Porthos. He wonders if it had made Porthos feel as bad as Athos had earlier this evening. All of this spins in his head like a dust devil and when it settles there is only one thing left to say.

“I’m sorry."

Porthos, having turned to look back out into the trees during Athos’ crisis moment, says, “What?"

“I’m sorry. You love what you do; you love how you do it, everything I said must have sounded like an attack on that. It certainly felt like an attack when I heard it said to me earlier tonight."

“I… okay.”

Athos nods just once and looks back down at his glass, swirling it and watching the liquid cling to the sides.

“Athos? I… there’s more to say, and tonight’s not the time to do it, but… I would very much like if we could have a fresh start."

The softness around Athos’ eyes makes something warm settle in Porthos’ chest, makes him know he said the right thing. “I’d like that.”

It’s Porthos’ turn to nod and then turn to go inside. Athos hears the screen door squeak closed behind Porthos and maybe, just maybe; this evening was worth everything he had to go through to get to it.

By the time Athos makes it inside, Porthos has left for the night. Constance hands Athos a slice of pie and a fresh glass of wine and sends him into the living room. He finds a section on the couch that’s unclaimed by any of the brothers and lets the sound of their bickering wash over him. The pie settles in his belly, and he grows sleepy and warm. He closes his eyes and watches the light from the fireplace dance on the inside of his lids and the next thing he knows it’s morning.

No one else is awake, so Athos folds his blanket, starts the coffee maker and leaves quietly. He’s halfway home before he realizes that he’s smiling for no good reason.

It’s Saturday afternoon before either of them reaches out again. It’s a simple email from Porthos.

Dear Athos,

This week is cupcakes, and I mentioned I had the perfect recipe for it. Will my place suit again or would you rather bake at yours?

Just let me know,
Porthos

Athos sends a reply back saying that meeting at Porthos’ is fine, that the same time as last week works and that he’s looking forward to the recipe. He is, really. He’d always been able to cook, but baking is a science, and so he’s curious what Porthos has in store.

Monday is as rough as the first day back from a holiday usually is. The kids are bored, and Athos doesn’t have the energy to fight for their attention. Instead, he sits them down and has them do cubic inches measurements on various objects in the room and try to guess ahead of time which has greater volume. He spares a second to think about how five years ago he would have balked at the very idea of practical application busy work, but today it’s just the perfect speed for him and the kids.

Julia stops in on her way to lunch to ask how his Thanksgiving was. Athos thinks about drinking wine on Constance’s porch, staring out into the trees and hearing Porthos say they could use a new start. “It was good,” he says.

Shortly before the last period he sends a quick note to Porthos asking what he can bring that evening. The reply is fast and says it’s Athos’ turn to supply the wine. Whatever goes well with caramel.

At five minutes after, seven Athos is standing at Porthos’ door with a bottle of Malbec, under the assumption that fucking everything goes with caramel. Porthos takes it from him and ushers him into the kitchen. He gestures to the counter where Athos is surprised to see, in and among the basic baking ingredients, four boxes of boxed vanilla cake mix.

He turns to Porthos, “Is that allowed? Strictly speaking?"

One side of Porthos’ mouth curls up in a half-grin. “Trust me, no one’s gonna care. The cupcakes are just a delivery system for the frosting. Anyway, I thought, if you were up for it, I could leave the cupcakes to you and I could do the rest since it’s not really a two person job except for about thirty seconds in the middle?"

Athos nods. “Of course, that’s fine.” Porthos hands him the same apron as last week, white with blue ticking, and opens the wine. He checks the label and turns to Athos.

“Red?"

“You said-"

“I know. Don’t know what I was thinking, really. Fucking everything goes with caramel.” He gives that half-smile again, and Athos gives a startled blink.

“My thoughts precisely."

As with the week before, Porthos has laid out a mise en place for Athos so he sets to work mixing the boxed cake mixes one at a time. On a hunch, he adds some extra vanilla and another dash of salt. To Athos the silence in the kitchen isn’t a problem, it’s mostly companionable and Porthos has music playing again. Athos recognizes it this time; it’s Stevie Wonder, and it’s perfect music for baking.

On the other side of the kitchen, it looks as though Porthos is just staring into a pot of sugar. Every minute or so he pokes at it with a silicone spatula. There’s a furrow between his eyebrows that’s growing deeper.

“Just let me know when it’s the thirty seconds in the middle,” Athos says.

“Mm,” Porthos says. “It’ll be just a bit. I always forget how long it takes for dry method caramel to get going."

Nodding, Athos goes back to filling paper cupcake liners and sliding the first two trays into the oven.

After another few minutes, Porthos clears his throat, and it’s clear that he hasn’t just been staring into the pot all this time.

“Look, about what I said-“ he stops and rearranges his thoughts. “That wasn’t the right way to go about that. I shouldn’t have-"

“It’s probably the only way you could have,” Athos says. “And probably the only time, as well. Any other week, even a few hours later on that day, and I’d have been too far away from it, I wouldn’t have had their words so fresh."

“Still…"

“Porthos, please. If I walked into that dinner four years ago sounding anything like my parents did Thursday afternoon, then everything you said to me was perfectly justified. I’m only surprised you didn’t toss your drink in my face as well.” He takes a drink of his wine; it goes perfectly with vanilla cake batter.

“Did you throw your drink at them at Thanksgiving dinner?” Porthos asks.

Athos’ response is too fast for him to have thought it through for appropriateness. “No. They’ve still got a few years left in them, and if I’m civil, and Thomas gets hit by a bus, there might be an inheritance for me after all."

There’s a great bark of laughter from Porthos as he pokes at the sugar some more. With his first batch of cupcakes in the oven, Athos goes over to lean against the counter next to the stove. He can see that the sugar on the bottom of the pan has started melting; it’s already a gorgeous amber, and Porthos is folding unmelted sugar down to the lower layers.

“I always forget you’re funny,” Porthos says. There’s a quiet sigh from him and then, “That’s who I was expecting at dinner that night. That guy."

“And instead you got a man who had come straight from an afternoon at his parents’ house listening to a litany of his flaws and faults.” As he’s taking another drink, Athos thinks about the hours of discussion with them about how teaching was just another poor choice in a long line of poor choices. How he was in this position because of Anne, another terrible choice. They'd known he gambled and lost; he’d threatened to leave if the funding for his research wasn’t returned and the department head had thanked him for his time with them and accepted his resignation.

Athos couldn’t tell them that Michaels had been so eager to turn him down because he’d been sleeping with Athos’ fianceé for a year. He’d had confirmed that with his own eyes while coming in to pack up his office one afternoon. Eventually, and Athos hadn’t even had it in him to be surprised at that point, the funding had gone to her. He’d been so brittle, and every crack had been filled with the disapproving voices of his family.

"The— I won’t go into details but, I wasn’t in a fit state for company that night and you were on the receiving end of that. Then every time I saw you after that it all came back and I just had to leave."

Porthos folds the sugar again; it’s almost all liquid now and he takes a minute to slice the softened butter on the counter into chunks and pre-measure out the cream, stirring the vanilla into it. “You weren’t the only one not in a fit state for company,” he says, mostly to the pot.

“I’m sorry?"

“No, I am. I had my own reasons for not being in the best place that night. I… yeah, we don’t need to go into details, but it was the wrong night for me to be listening to someone talk about the amazing world of academia and getting lots of advanced degrees. It all felt like a punch, and I didn’t even stop to think that maybe you weren’t belittling me, that maybe there was something else going on. I just took it out on you. That night with words and every time after when I thought you were getting up and leaving so I wouldn’t get your poshness all dirty."

Porthos turns to look at Athos and for a minute they’re just staring at each other and then Porthos’ eyes fly wide, “Shit! It’s time. Now’s when I need you."

Athos ducks around to the other side, by the butter and the cream.

“I’m going to take this off the heat and keep stirring it and I need you to drop the butter in one chunk at a time.” Athos takes the pile of butter pats in his hand and every time Porthos says, “Now,” he drops one in. The sugar foams up, boiling in big frothy bubbles until the butter is all melted in.

“Now I’m going to keep stirring and you’re going to pour the cream in. Not too fast, but don’t stop.” Two minutes later Porthos is setting the pot on a trivet on the counter and pronouncing it caramel. He sprinkles some sea salt over the top and says it needs to cool before it’s good for the next bit. “I added warm caramel to buttercream once. Once was enough.”

The timer on the cupcakes dings and Athos takes them out and puts them on cooling racks. While he’s mixing the next batch, Porthos is creaming the butter in the mixer and talking about the difference between wet and dry method caramel. He talks about crystal formation and water’s effect on sugar and what purpose the butter serves.

As he’s putting the next batch of cupcakes into the oven, Athos talks about the geometric properties of crystals and how they were the first thing to make math seem real to him. He talks about watching snowflakes branch on a TV show and realizing that it was just the same pattern over and over. Porthos slowly incorporates the powdered sugar and milk and nods, agreeing in some places and says that as a kid he was always frustrated that he couldn’t prove that no two snowflakes are alike.

By the time the caramel has cooled enough to add it to the buttercream they’ve moved on to discussing the next project Porthos has planned out for his kids and Athos realizes that in addition to the practical demonstrations he’s always found frivolous, Porthos talks to them about the things in their lives that wouldn’t be possible without someone sitting around tinkering and thinking about things for no good reason.

Porthos takes a gallon zip-top bag and spoons the cooled buttercream into it, mushing it down into one corner and snipping the corner off. “I don’t care if they never want to think about science again after they leave my classroom, I’m going to make damn sure they know how much of their lives wouldn’t be possible without it. Do they think you can make sewers without science and math?"

He’s muttering under his breath as he pipes the frosting on to the cooled cupcakes. Athos comes along behind him, drizzling the remaining caramel sauce over the top of each mound of buttercream and sprinkling some sea salt over it, smiling all the while.

It’s close to midnight by the time they finish. Porthos lets him try one cupcake, and Athos is glad he didn’t get to them earlier, or they’d be missing an offering for this week’s sale. Catching the look on Athos’ face, Porthos says, “I told you.” Athos just nods.

Handing Athos is coat and scarf from the closet, Porthos says, “Listen, I know it’s too late to salvage that date, but I enjoyed finally seeing that funny guy again."

Athos wraps his scarf around his head to give himself an excuse to cover his cheeks for a minute. “And I enjoyed getting to spend some time with that interesting guy who’s curious about everything."

“We could both use a friend like those guys.” Porthos holds out his hand and Athos shakes it. “I’ll see you in the lobby tomorrow after school,” Porthos says.

Athos gives a cautious smile. “If not sooner.”

Chapter Text

Athos gets to school on Tuesday morning a few minutes early. He’s watching as Constance pulls up just after he does, parking next to him as he’s gathering his things from the back seat. Swinging her door shut and hitching her bag over her shoulder, she looks at his face and cocks her head. “Are you alright?"

“Of course,” he says. “Why?"

“Nothing. You just seem… something’s different."

Athos wraps his scarf around his neck and hooks his satchel over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’re imagining things, Constance. Come on, or we’ll both be late.” She drops it with a roll of her eyes, but the entire walk into the building she keeps shooting sidelong looks at him. Athos doesn’t say anything about his evening, about the thawing of relations with Porthos, she’ll figure it out for herself this afternoon and he isn’t in the mood to discuss it right now.

They keep up a conversation about their offerings for this week’s sale until she breaks off to head down the hall to her room. She gives him another curious smile and he just smiles in return. Eventually, she just waves and goes on her way. He’s still smiling when he walks past the media center and sees Porthos coming out with a pile of copies in one hand.

Seeing Athos, Porthos fumbles his papers just a bit but manages to hold on to them as they continue walking. This is the first time they’ve done this in years, the first time they’ve actually met in the halls and not just given each other a chilly look and kept walking. It’s a little unusual, but it doesn’t feel wrong. Porthos smiles. “Morning."

“It is.” There’s a tiny pause that could grow awkward and spiral out, but Athos saves himself by saying, “Constance is convinced she has us beat for this afternoon. She offered a wager."

Porthos raises his eyebrows and Athos continues, “I didn’t take her up on it. I’m confident in our offering, of course, but I’ve read enough Greek poetry to know better."

Laughing, Porthos says, “I wouldn’t have reckoned you for a man who thinks the fates have any say in his life."

Athos just smiles, something tugging at his mind, “I would have either, but I’m learning not to second-guess the universe."

Porthos turns to go down the hallway to his room. “I’ll see you this afternoon,” he says, and waves as he walks into his room.

Athos nods back and when he turns to keep walking down the main hall he sees d’Artagnan standing at a bulletin board, stapler in one hand and flyers in the other. He’s staring at Athos and his mouth is hanging open. The tiniest beginnings of a sly smile start creeping in around d’Artagnan’s eyes. Athos cuts him off. “Not one word. And close your mouth; you look simple."

He makes the rest of the walk to his room with his smile buried in his scarf.

The rest of the day feels like so many others. There’s the slow, creeping erosion of focus that always happens in the weeks between Thanksgiving and the winter break, but that’s something he’s grown used to over the years. He uses the enthusiasm of his brightest kids to try and rouse the others, that should work for another few days. Next week he’ll think of something else.

Athos’ final block is his planning period so he has the freedom to duck out a few minutes before the last bell to grab his phone charger from the car. On his way back in he hears someone calling his name and turns to see Aramis standing in front of the school, waving and smiling. At Athos. He can’t help but grin in return. Aramis still makes him feel nervous, but since that morning of coffee and conversation with him and Julia, Athos hopes he won’t be quite so tongue tied.

There’s a second where Athos isn’t quite sure how to greet him. By last name? As Julia’s father? Unbidden, the image of him chewing on the pen leaps to mind, and it’s almost a sigh when Athos says, “Aramis."

“I thought you’d be inside getting ready for the sale. It’s Tuesday, right? What’s on the table this week?"

Athos rakes his fingernails through his beard and says, “Cupcakes this week. Mr. Du Vallon’s recipe this time and let me assure you, it is worth coming into the lobby for, if you weren’t already planning on it. I was only allowed one, but I dreamed of it later."

The words coming out of his mouth are almost smooth, and Athos is surprised to hear them. Then again, if he can shake hands and smile with Porthos, anything is possible.

“Sounds great.” Aramis rakes his hand through his hair. “We’ve been by the coffee shop a few times while we were out on errands, I think Julia keeps hoping to see you. She loved getting to see you out in the ‘real world.’” Aramis’ eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles, and Athos feels his heart stutter.

“I enjoyed seeing her as well. Tell her that once the holidays are over I’ll be back in there more regularly. I find that between personal obligations and trying to prepare for the semester end, I don’t get down there as often as I like. And she’ll still see me every day in school.”

Aramis looks almost disappointed. “Ah, but I won’t.” Athos hopes to god he isn’t actually blushing like he thinks he is. “I suppose I’ll just have to make my own opportunities, then."

“Oh?” Athos wants to kick himself. He’d been doing so well with sounding like an adult with a reasonable vocabulary and the ability to put together sentences.

Aramis puts his hands in the pockets of his wool overcoat and smiles, cocking his head slightly and looking at Athos from under a few messy curls. “I would like to get to know you better, Athos. Would you let me buy you lunch?"

Athos gets two fists around his self-control and manages to not stand there blinking in amazement. Instead, he says, “I would like that very much."

Part of him wonders what this means for Porthos’ dinner with Aramis, but he reminds himself that it’s just a date, nothing serious, and oh, he wants this date so much.

Aramis grins and pats his shoulder. “It’s Julia’s weekend with her mother but I’m covering a shift for a friend on Saturday. Sunday afternoon?"

“Yes, that would be perfect.” Athos smiles.

Aramis hands his phone to Athos. “Send yourself a text so I have your number. We’ll figure out when and where to meet.” As Athos is handing the phone back a moment later Aramis says, “I’m looking forward to it, Athos."

The sound of his own name shouldn’t make Athos feel like this, but something about how Aramis says it makes Athos’ belly hot and tight. He’s saved from embarrassing himself by the ringing of the final bell and, a few seconds later, the first of the students coming out through the front doors.

“I have to-"

“You have to go sell cupcakes. Jules and I will come see you.” He smiles again, and Athos hopes his smile in return says ‘I’m looking forward to getting to know you better’ and not ‘have you been struck on the head by something heavy?'

The lobby is full of students and Porthos is already doing brisk business in cupcakes. Athos doesn’t miss that there are several of them sitting in a box behind d’Artagnan and Constance’s table. “I’m sorry I’m late. How can I help?"

Porthos spends a few seconds giving Athos the rundown on where he’s put the change, his price points for one, three, and five cupcakes, and his assurance that while Louis and Anne have brought chocolate with raspberry filling, he and Athos still have this in the bag. The next ten minutes go by in a blur of money changing hands, excited students and the somehow seamless dance of the two of them interacting with each other.

Julia’s voice is cheery and bright over the rest of the crowd. “Hi!” Porthos gives her a huge smile; she’s a great kid.

“Heya, Jules. Did you come by for a caramel fix?” Porthos grins at her and then looks past her to smile at Aramis. “And heya to you, too. Get my text about dinner?"

Aramis smiles back, and Porthos can see in Julia’s smile hints of those same curling lips and high cheekbones. “I did, yes. Friday sounds great, and I love a good steak. When should I meet you?"

“Reservation is for eight, if that works?” At Aramis’ surprised laugh, Porthos shrugs. “I decided I’d think positive and make the reservation just in case."

Aramis picks up two cupcakes and passes the cash over to Porthos. “Eight is perfect; I’ll meet you there."

Porthos grins and takes the money. “The school thanks you for your support. And I thank you, too. I haven’t looked forward to a Friday night this much in a long time.”

Handing one of the cupcakes to Julia, Aramis laughs. “You are far too charming. Come on, Jules. Let’s let these good men get back to their cupcake peddling.” Julia waves over her shoulder as they walk away and both Porthos and Athos wave back.

Athos listens to them plan their date and thinks about his own plans with Aramis. He supposes some people would call this a competition; they might suggest that he has to start thinking about how to win out over Porthos. All Athos can think is that he’s had his fate changed by behind-the-scenes machinations, had his choices and plans manipulated by people who only had their own agendas in mind, and he’d rather die that do that himself. Aramis has his own agency, his own plans and ideas. Athos is just going to enjoy his lunch date and hope for more. This isn’t his choice. He hopes Porthos knows it isn’t his either.

Porthos watches something pass over Athos’ face and for a second he’s worried that his dating Aramis (and oh, he hopes it’s more than one date) will undo all the progress he and Athos have made in the last week. He’s relieved when instead of an icy look of disapproval, Athos just smiles at them and says, “Julia’s a wonderful student. I’m going to miss her next year."

“Me too, and not just because it would be nice to see her dad at conference night.” He grins and Athos gives him a quiet smile in return.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about."

Porthos laughs loud enough for it to bounce around the lobby walls and the teachers sitting at every other table just stare at the two of them. Looking out through the windowed door of the principal’s office, Ninon wonders if she knew quite what she was getting into when she assigned the two of them to work together. This could backfire horribly if the two of them become a united front.

She sips at her coffee and wonders if that’s better or worse than the chilly stare-downs at staff meetings. Better, she thinks, watching the two of them grin at each other. Definitely better.

Friday night finds Porthos staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, straightening his tie and being more nervous than he’d expected. He’s meeting Aramis at his favorite restaurant, a little family place that does amazing simple food. He’s confident about the food, the place; he’s just nervous about the date part of this. Since the disaster with Athos four years ago Porthos has only been out on a handful of dates and while they all went fine, one or two even successful enough to warrant a second date, none of them went well enough for a third.

Screwing up his courage, Porthos stuffs a brightly colored hanky in his jacket pocket and heads out.

Aramis is waiting for him when he walks through the door of the restaurant and Porthos stops dead as it hits him all over again how beautiful this man is. He’s wearing a deep purple v-necked pullover, thin enough to cling to the shape of his body, but warm enough that he’s not wearing anything else under it. Porthos suspects it’s cashmere, but he wants to bury his nose in Aramis' neck and rub his face against the fabric to find out for sure.

When Aramis stands to greet him, Porthos watches his trousers stretch and pull against the muscles of his thighs and hs to work to maintain eye contact. The hostess has been waiting for Porthos, apparently because as soon as she sees that Aramis’ date is here she escorts them to their table. Aramis falls into step beside him, and Porthos’ brain is trying to get past his sheer physical presence but all he can think is that Aramis smells fucking fantastic.

The hostess leaves them with menus and the wine list, and as soon as she’s gone Aramis leans across the table to put his hand over Porthos’. “I’m really glad you asked me to come, thank you.” His eyes sweep over Porthos’ body, “And given that she’s nicely left us with menus I’ll refrain from saying that you look good enough to eat.” Aramis glances down at the menu but flicks an amused glance back up at Porthos and one side of his mouth quirks up.

Porthos laughs, and most of the tension drains out of him. They order their meals, Aramis nodding in approval as Porthos asks for his steak as rare as they can make, and given that they both have to drive they get a glass of wine each but elect not to split a bottle. The talk is small at first, how their days were and what work was like. Porthos talks about trying to keep the kids minds off their upcoming vacation but all the while he’s watching Aramis toying with the fork and thinking about those beautiful long fingers curled over his shoulders.

He shakes his head just a fraction of an inch and comes back to the conversation. “What about you? Do you find that fixing people up is more or less rewarding if no one’s actually trying to shoot at you at the same time?”

Aramis laughs. “Well, to be honest, no one was shooting at me much then, either. The field hospitals are out of active combat zones. I do have a few memories of chopper evacs that might still give me nightmares from time to time.” He grows quiet and spins his knife on its tip as he continues. “I thought that the work at home would be easier somehow, but it’s not. It’s almost harder. Out in the field at least people think they’re there for a purpose; back here it’s so much… stupidity. Accidents and drunk teenagers and naked malice.” He shakes it off as much as he can. “I find my chess skills come in just as handy, though,” Aramis says with a bright smile.

Porthos wants to tell him that everything he wants to share is fine. He wants to say that- he just gives up and says it. “Hey, I was there, I know the kinds of things you saw and I know what stupid drunk teenagers can do to each other.” He puts his hand around Aramis’ where it’s still gripping the knife handle. Porthos rubs his thumb over Aramis’ knuckles. “Never feel like you have to hold anything back.” When Aramis gives him a grateful smile, Porthos says, “Chess, eh?”

“Yeah, chess. My best friend taught me while we were over there. Francisco is this great hulk of a man. You look at him, and you’d think ’This man still bangs rocks together to make fire,’ but he’s the smartest person I’ve ever met.” Aramis’ fingers are toying with the corner of his napkin, and that smile is back. Porthos finds he’s wondering what he has to do to get Aramis to smile that way about him.

The server brings their food and Aramis flashes her an enormous grin. “Thank you,” he says and she blinks a few times and stammers out a reply and flees to the kitchen.

Porthos grins at him. “That smile should be classified as a weapon. Could bring down whole armies.”

Aramis focuses his gaze on Porthos and it’s like being under a targeting scope. “Ah, but can it bring down you?"

“Not before I finish my steak,” Porthos lies.

Aramis’ chuckle is fond and dirty, “Noted. What was I… Oh, chess. We’d have these times of intense activity that would just wipe us out completely, but in between there were long stretches where we’d have organized everything and labeled everything and if we didn’t keep busy we’d have gone mad. Francisco and I had gotten to know each other early on and we decided to take those times as lesson periods. Of a sort."

Spearing his greens, Porthos says, “Trading information?"

“Yes,” Aramis says. “Exactly. He taught me chess and military history and philosophy; I gave him lessons in reading music, some computer coding, and basic anatomy."

Porthos swallows the steak he’s chewing and asks, “He wasn’t a medic, too?"

“Nope, chopper pilot. To round everything out I’d break out my liberal Catholic school training, and he’d bring out his college theology classes and we’d have great, loud debates about comparative religion.” Aramis drinks some of his wine and smiles. "If we weren’t careful we’d bring unsuspecting bystanders along for the ride. At one point, Francisco got someone to mail him an e-book of The Iliad. He forwarded it around, and we had a book club, all of us huddled over our phones reading. I know it’s not considered the done thing to say this about an active war zone, but we had some great times."

“I know exactly what you mean,” Porthos says. “You’re not supposed to say that you laughed over there. That you made friends or had good days. It’s supposed to all be awful. What people don’t know is that the laughs and the friends and the good days are what makes it so we can get through the awful."

Aramis drops his forearms to the table, his fork and knife still, and leans forward. “That’s it exactly. I’ve never had anyone understand it before, and I’ve certainly never had anyone say it back to me in a way that didn’t make me feel terrible. Thank you, Porthos."

Porthos raises his glass to Aramis. “All part of the service.” He grins.

“I shall remember to tip well,” Aramis says. “Okay, enough talk about war zones, book clubs or not."

“Julia said you guys had an interesting Thanksgiving,” Porthos says. “Something about a gravy fire?"

Aramis rolls his eyes. “The official position is that it was a grease fire. Which got started while her mother was making the gravy. It was not a gravy fire."

“It was a gravy fire."

Aramis smirks. “It was a little gravy fire.” He laughs. “For all her wonderful qualities, Isabel is a terrible cook. The difficulty is that she knows she’s a terrible cook but she keeps thinking this time will be different. It’s like Einstein’s definition of insanity."

Porthos swallows and when he speaks his voice is lower than he intends it to be. “Careful, it’s not nice to dangle Einstein references in front of the science teacher when he has to behave himself."

Aramis’ answering smile is slow and wicked. “Noted.” He finishes his steak, washing it down with the last of his wine. “In the end it was a very boring fire. Paul put it out and consoled Isabel, and I didn’t even get to bandage anyone up. I did, however, get to cook the gravy and listen to Paul make really terrible smoke and fire puns all night long. So it wasn’t a total loss."

“Given the fire and puns are you sure you don’t want to rethink saying you wouldn’t object to part of that relationship?” Porthos asks, smiling.

“Oh, I’d do it specifically for the fire and puns,” Aramis says in a conspiratorial whisper.

Porthos can only laugh at the lewd eyebrow wiggle that accompanies the whisper. When the laughing stops he says, “I”m not sure which is most impressive, that you’d be willing to be in a relationship with your ex, or that you’d be willing to be in a relationship with your ex and her boyfriend."

“Ah, well I’ve done both before.” At Porthos’ look he says, “Well not exactly. But I’ve certainly been in relationships with people I’ve broken up with once before. Or twice before. Sometimes I’m slow to learn.” He grins. “And in a couple of special circumstances I’ve been in relationships with more than one person. Sure, the logistics are more difficult but-"

“But I find that the additional snuggling more than makes up for it,” Porthos says.

“Absolutely.” Aramis’ eyes are bright in the candlelight and Porthos can’t stop staring at him. His hair keeps picking up the light in little glints of gold and that sweater still looks so deliciously warm and soft.

The server comes back and asks if they want dessert and they both decline. Aramis can’t linger, he’s got an early shift in the morning, and having a fair number of the leftover cupcakes, Porthos never wants to see another dessert for as long as he lives. Instead, they spend another half an hour talking about all manner of things. Aramis talks about what he’s planning to get Julia for Christmas and Porthos talks about how he first got the idea to do baking demonstrations as part of a chemistry class and the conversation is just so easy.

Porthos feels ridiculous for having been nervous at all until Aramis says he has to get home and Porthos offers to walk him to his car and suddenly the nerves are back.

As they’re walking through the cold, dark parking lot, Aramis hooks his arm through Porthos’. “I have to tell you something, just because I want to be completely up front. I have a lunch date with Athos on Sunday."

Porthos pats Aramis on the arm. “This is our first date, Aramis. And that’s the point of dating, to get to know someone else. An exclusive relationship might be in our future, but it isn’t here yet. Still, I appreciate you telling me.” They’re standing next to Aramis’ car now, and Porthos can see their breath in the winter air. “I do have one question, though."

Aramis cocks his head. “What’s that?"

“Does that mean I can’t kiss you goodnight?"

Aramis grins and snakes his arms up around Porthos’ neck. “I would be heartbroken if you didn’t.” Porthos settles his hands on Aramis’ hips and leans in to kiss him.

HIs lips are warm, but his nose is a spot of bright cold on Porthos’ cheek. Porthos smiles into the kiss and brings his hands up to cradle Aramis’ head in his palms. He winds his fingers into Aramis’ hair and feels Aramis lick out, testing Porthos’ mouth only to feel it open under his. The kiss grows deep and hot, but Porthos pulls back before it can get properly filthy. They’re standing in the freezing air and his ears are going numb and Aramis has to be at work in the morning.

Repeating those facts is the only thing that makes it possible for him to put a kiss on Aramis’ nose and say, “Can we do this again?"

“Please,” Aramis breathes against his mouth. “I’ll text you when I have my schedule for next week?"

Porthos presses another kiss to his mouth and says, “I’ll be on the lookout for it."

As he’s pulling into his driveway, Porthos feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He cuts off the motor and checks the screen.

I had a great time, thank you.

He types back, Thank you for accepting. Can’t wait to do it again.

It’s a date. Only next time let’s start the kissing earlier.

When Porthos falls asleep he’s still smiling.

On Saturday morning, Athos is elbow-deep in his crossword when he gets a message from Aramis. It’s just a little note asking if they’re still on for the next day for lunch and suggesting a time and place to meet. Athos, still slightly boggled that Aramis has asked him out in the first place, agrees to both and says he’s looking forward to it. He quickly looks up the website for the restaurant just to get a sense of the dress code and then vows not to spend the rest of the day fretting about the upcoming date. He’s never been so glad to have a difficult crossword to work.

When Sunday comes, Athos stands and stares at his closet in absolute despair. He finally gives up and sends a note to Constance. She calls back and says, “Try that dark green button-down and those really dark rinse jeans."

“The really dark rinse jeans? As opposed to?"

“Athos, you own jeans in at least four rinses, don’t act like an ass.” There’s a long pause and Constance gives a sigh that falls between fond and disgusted. “The ones that look not quite black but darker than navy."

Athos says “Ah,” and plucks them from the hanger. “And why am I wearing these?"

“They make your legs look very nice. And the green shirt sets off your eyes and makes your freckles stand out.” There’s another long pause and Constance says, “I’m dating someone else, Athos, I’m not blind."

“You’re a wonder, Constance. How can I thank you?"

“Be happy, Athos. Have a good time.”

Athos smiles, he’ll try to do both if for no other reason than because he promised Constance.

He gets to the restaurant a few minutes before Aramis and gets them a table by the window. It’s a perfect late fall day, crisp and bright, and from inside they can enjoy the sight of the harbor, of the boats sitting at their docks, without having to let the cold sting their cheeks.

The server brings him some water and Athos orders coffee as well. He pulls his book from his pocket and sinks into its pages.

Aramis comes breezing up to the table a handful of minutes later in a flurry of dark curls and flowing scarf. He’s in a dark blue henley that’s pulling across his chest and hugging his arms and Athos has to work not to stare. Aramis’ jeans are clearly old favorites, and with good reason. They’re molded to his legs and ass and the sliver of skin that shows at his waist as he unwinds his scarf is sinful.

Athos stands to greet him and Aramis leans in, pressing his cold cheek to Athos’ warm one. “I’m so sorry I’m late, the parking was a bit harder than I expected.” He’s pulling away as he finishes talking but Athos can still feel Aramis’ breath against his ear and the spark of his skin against Athos’ own.

“Not at all,” Athos says, “I never go anywhere without a book, so I was well settled."

“A man after my own heart,” Aramis grins as he drapes his scarf and coat over the chair to his left. “What are you reading?”

Athos holds up his book, Thomas Merton’s The Seven Storey Mountain, and Aramis smiles, hand over his heart. "We have what we seek, it is there all the time, and if we give it time, it will make itself known to us."

Blinking, Athos cocks his head. Aramis smiles. “That’s a quote from him. I’m afraid you’ve accidentally managed to bring one of my favorite books."

Having just started it, Athos doesn’t have much of an opinion. That doesn’t stop Aramis from engaging him in a fascinating discussion of asceticism and the role of the community of faith in the modern world. Athos finds himself pulled in, he has always been unable to resist well-informed passion.

When the server comes back to drop off menus Aramis’ hands are flying as he discusses Merton’s objective investigation of other faiths and its role in his own developing ideology. Five minutes later the server comes back only to find the two of them in the midst of a quietly intense exchange about non-violent protest and the position of the community of faith in civil rights movements.

They take a break to put in their order and Athos asks, “I grabbed this on a whim in a used book store, how did you happen upon it?” It seems that spirited conversation has given Athos the footing he needs to overcome any lingering nerves and get past the last of his tendency to be tongue-tied around Aramis.

“Catholic school, believe it or not. My theological literature teacher was a big fan of his, though she had definite opinions about his nosing around Buddhism before he died."

“Well, if you ever tire of your current career you have a bright future ahead of you as a literature teacher. Not every student can be won over by enthusiasm, but it gets more than you might expect.” He smiles and hopes his face shows how much he’s enjoying this day.

Their food comes, Athos has chosen a tomato bisque and toast points with melted gruyere while Aramis is happily staring at an enormous reuben with a sharp pickle on the side. Aramis thanks the server, his grin is flirty but sincere, and the young man smiles back and nearly trips over a nearby chair.

He turns to see Athos staring at him with an eyebrow arched. “That’s hardly fair now, is it?” Aramis only grins harder.

“So tell me, do you always have a treatise on faith tucked into your pocket when you go out?"

Athos smiles. “No, but I finished the crossword last night."

“That’s a shame,” Aramis says. “I adore a good puzzle.” He takes an enormous bite of his sandwich and closes his eyes in pleasure. “This is fantastic. Exactly what I wanted.”

Athos dips his toast point into his soup and asks, “Did you study theology?"

“Not formally, it’s a strictly recreational pursuit. No, I studied nursing while I was in the Army."

“Is that what you’re doing now?” Athos asks, spooning up some more of the soup and trying not to roll his eyes in bliss. It really is fantastic food.

“Not quite, I’m an EMT.” At Athos’ expression, Aramis says, “I could have come back and had a nice quiet nursing career. I might still. But I’ve spent years being the kind of person who can help under the worst kinds of situations. If there’s still a place for me to put that experience to use I’d rather do that. I sat on too many helicopters taking wounded out of the field to not use what I’ve learned. If I can.” He trails off and Athos thinks he sees a blush pinking the tips of Aramis’ ears.

“I seem to have found another passion of yours.”

“Sorry, I get carried away sometimes."

“Not at all,” Athos says, swiping at his mouth with the linen cloth. “The world needs more people who have something they feel that fiercely about.” He stops for a second and a wistful smile creeps in around the corners of his eyes. “When I was still on a university faculty I’d get lost in a problem for days. I would eventually look up to realize that I was starving and that I’d been subsisting on coffee and protein bars that my gir— research assistant would leave for me.” He shakes his head to clear it a bit. “I understand and appreciate that kind of reaction, never apologize for it. Not to me."

Aramis swallows a bite of his sandwich and smiles. “So I’m not the only one who likes a good puzzle."

Athos smiles. “No, not at all. It’s the thing I miss most about academia, the freedom to just sink into a problem. To solve something just for the joy of it. Julia does that, by the way. She digs into problems just because she likes them, not just because the solution will be practically useful. I imagine, now that I know you better, that she learned that from you."

Aramis coughs a bit. “That’s unlikely, but it would be an interesting argument for heredity over environment.” When Athos looks confused, Aramis goes on. “I wasn’t around while Julia was growing up. Not much, anyway.” He sighs, wistful himself, now. “Isabel, her mother, and I were high school sweethearts. We had a… well friendly is the wrong word, but we had as nice a breakup as is possible, just before I left for basic training.”

Twisting his spoon in his soup, Athos asks, “And Julia?"

Aramis shrugs one shoulder. “Isabel didn’t find out she was pregnant until after I’d left, and by then it was too late for me to leave and come back. I’m not sure she would have let me. I sent money, I sent letters, but I was a selfish adventure-seeker at that point. Isabel would have been right to not let me come back. We’d both have been miserable and Julia would have grown up in that.”

Around a mouthful of his sandwich, he says, “When I got closer to my discharge date I wrote saying that I like to get to know Julia better, to know her beyond pictures and cards. I’d always sent letters to her at her parents’ house, I didn’t even know where they were living.”

His little laugh is broken and rueful and Athos smiles at him. “She told me to call when I could and we’d discuss it. That call was… obstacle courses in the mud are easier than that call. Isabel is a consummate mama bear, it’s amazing. Jules is so lucky. She made sure I knew what I’d be getting into, that there would be commitments and time involved, that I’d have to do the hard work and not just be a dad who takes his kid to the arcade and brings them back home all sugared up. She did her very best to scare the pants off me. Then, for the final coup de grâce, she told me where they were living. It’s hundreds of miles from our families, from anything I’m familiar with. Then she left me to think about it for a week, wouldn’t actually let me answer on that call."

Aramis wipes his mouth and smiles. “When I said I was still interested she said we’d give it a shot and. Yeah. It’s been an adjustment and it hasn’t always been easy but god, she’s such a great kid. Now that I’m here, now that I get to see her as often as I do, I can’t imagine any other life.” Athos almost thinks that he can’t imagine uprooting his life like that, but of course, he can. After he’d left the university he’d had to move, to start a new career, to build his life over again.

Aramis takes a sip of his water and a clever smile plays at the edges of his mouth. “Even the dreaded parent-teacher conferences have had unexpected benefits."

Athos hopes he isn’t actually blushing, he hopes it just feels like his face is growing hot.

“It seems like things are working out for the best, then,” Athos says.

“Mm, yes.” Aramis chews and swallows. “Isabel and her boyfriend have even taken me in under their wing a bit; I spent Thanksgiving there. Paul could easily resent me but instead he does his best to work with me. I joked with Porthos that I’d get in on that relationship if I thought Isabel would give me half a chance."

He’s still laughing as Athos chokes on his soup a bit. He’s not sure which boggles him more, the idea of dating an already existing couple or dating your ex again. He asks, “You wouldn’t though?"

“Oh no. Isabel wouldn’t have me and I’m fairly sure that Paul doesn’t kiss anyone capable of growing a beard.” Aramis’ eyes are twinkling and Athos is utterly charmed. Why would anyone not want to kiss this man? “Is that a problem you have?"

Athos isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to being flirted with by someone this beautiful. “It is not,” he says, and it sounds so formal but Aramis is laughing so it must be okay.

“Good, because I’m hoping to get one before the afternoon is over."

The server clears their plates and the two of them settle back in their chairs. Savoring their drinks and their conversation. They talk about Julia and all the plans Aramis has for Christmas with her. Athos loves hearing Aramis talk about his family, how proud he is of his daughter and how he calls home to tell his mother all about it.

Aramis talks about work and the best and worst calls; he listens while Athos talks about the papers he wants to write and they discuss the various tropical diseases Athos could pretend to have to get out of Christmas dinner with his parents. Aramis drove while Athos walked, so after they pay the bill and leave, they end up standing next to Aramis’ car and talking for almost another half hour. It’s so easy and Athos is starting to not be surprised by that. Eventually, Aramis leans closer, Athos can see his chin brushing against his scarf as he talks.

“I have to go, but... I had a wonderful time, Athos."

“So did I,” Athos says because it’s the truth. He can’t remember a meal he’s enjoyed this much in years.

“I’d like to do this again."

Athos swallows. “As would I."

Aramis leans closer and Athos just lets his eyes fall shut and waits. The first brush of Aramis’ mouth over his own is soft and dry, and for a few moments, it stays that way. Just a back and forth stroke of Aramis’ lips against Athos’ and a soft hum in Aramis’ throat. When Athos sighs out a breath, Aramis seems to take it as a sign. Athos can feel Aramis’ mouth soften, his jaw loosen, and Athos strokes his hands up over the front of Aramis’ coat.

Mouth falling open, Aramis moans softly and the kiss gets dirty fast. The sun is beating on the back of Athos’ head but everywhere his body is touching Aramis’ is hotter. Aramis gets two fistfuls of Athos’ coat and tugs him closer. Athos sighs again, pure pleasure, and feels Aramis’ teeth dig into his lower lip, tugging slightly before he pulls back, breaking the kiss.

“I really do have to go."

“I know."

“Next Sunday?"

“Yes.” Yes, Athos thinks. So many Sundays, please.

Porthos and Athos have been sending emails back and forth, Porthos even poked his head into Athos’ room to confirm, so when Monday night rolls around they already have a recipe lined up (Athos’ choice again) and most of the supplies laid in. They’re at Athos’ house this week; he’s managed to stock up on the things they’ve used at Porthos’ house and he’s ready for company. It’ll be the most his kitchen has been used since he moved in. He finds he’s looking forward to it.

The doorbell rings as Athos is setting the ingredients for their recipe out on the worktop. He opens the door to find Porthos standing there, bundled in a dark peacoat and red scarf, and holding a paper bag. Athos takes the bag and ushers him in. “I have everything we’ll need,” he says.

“I know,” Porthos says, unbuttoning his coat and unwinding his scarf, "but I figured if I’m not hosting I should bring the drinks. No wine tonight, it was a beer kind of day.” Athos points to an open coat hook for Porthos to hang his things. He’s still wearing the dark trousers and wine-colored sweater he’d worn to work. The sweater is clings to him a bit at his shoulders and around his biceps as Porthos drapes his scarf over the wrought iron hook.

As they into the kitchen, Athos opens the top of the bag and pokes his nose in. Porthos said ‘beer’ but what he’s actually brought is a couple of growlers of oatmeal stout from the local brewpub. It’s a heavy beer, but it’s perfect for cold, windy nights like this one. “Thank you,” Athos says, “this will be perfect."

He puts the beer out on the counter and pulls two pint glasses from the cupboard. “I’ll let you pour while I pull out the rest of tonight’s ingredients.” Athos reaches into the pantry and to get the flour and sugar. There is already a pile of lemons on the counter.

“So,” Porthos says, “pound cake."

“Mm. Lemon pound cake,” Athos says.

“Another of your mother’s recipes?” Porthos asks, and if he’s laughing at Athos it barely shows around his eyes.

Athos doesn’t laugh, but he returns the same barely amused look Porthos has. “Sadly, no. This one comes from the café I go to for coffee on the weekends. They have a lemon pound cake that’s never dry. I asked how they managed that and they explained the secret."

Porthos waits a second and asks, “And are you going to explain it?"

“Patience,” Athos says. “Patience."

Rolling his eyes, Porthos smiles and pops the gasket on one of the growlers. He pours them each a pint of the stout and hands Athos his. After a deep pull at his beer, Athos waves towards the speaker dock in the corner of the kitchen. “As always, you are in charge of the music."

Porthos smiles and while Athos is getting his tablet set up with the recipe, he queues up some Otis Redding and pushes the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows.

Athos hands him a bowl of lemons and a microplane zester. "Please render those into zest and juice,” and turns back to the counter.

As Athos is picking up a stick of butter to peel off the wrapper, Porthos says, “Right, I’m yours to command, then,” and chuckles warmly.

Athos hears the words jerks his head up, Porthos isn’t even looking at him, just smiling and running a lemon over the zester, but the room has gone slightly off-kilter for Athos. He’s watching Porthos’ arms and shoulders move and listening to him hum along to the music and something, something is very different.

He tears the wrappers from the rest of the butter and puts it in the mixer, feeling his jaw clenching and wondering what on earth just happened. While the mixer is running Athos pours in the sugar, leaving them to cream together while he combines dry ingredients.

Across the kitchen, Porthos looks up from squeezing the juice of one of the lemons into a bowl and sees Athos, focused and intent, weighing flour on a scale. He can’t help but smile, of course Athos is using a scale. When they couldn’t agree on anything else, they agreed that flour gets weighed.

Athos, too, is still wearing the shirt he wore to work, the tie is gone, though, the collar open and just a sliver of white t-shirt showing. Porthos wonders if, like him, Athos always takes his tie off first thing when he gets home. The cuffs on his navy blue button-down are rolled up to his elbows and his forearms are flexing as he sifts the flour together with the rest of the dry ingredients. Porthos can see the muscles moving under the skin and finds he can’t actually tear his gaze away. He’s saved only by the fact that he manages to squeeze the lemon hard enough that one of the seeds shoots out and bounces off the bowl, hitting Porthos in the face.

Porthos shakes his head, resettling his thoughts. The music seeps back in again and he finds that soon he’s humming along to the song and listening to Athos mutter under his breath and just quietly enjoying the evening. Wonders never cease, I guess, he thinks.

When the batter is finished and the pound cakes are in the oven, the two of them set about cleaning up the first round of dishes.

“Now you know why my experiments aren’t as great as they sound,” Porthos says. “I make the kids do the dishes. I’m lucky they don’t riot the minute I suggest we’re doing one."

Athos hands him the bowl and paddle attachment for the mixer. His voice is utterly deadpan when he says, “Yes, no doubt, and it’s exactly that level of discontent that has gotten you voted Teacher of the Year for three years running.” He rolls his eyes spectacularly.

Porthos shrugs one shoulder as he wipes the bowl out. “If I’m honest, that probably means more to me than it should."

His brow furrows as Athos runs a damp rag over the mixer. “I don’t follow."

Somehow the mundane task of washing the dishes gives Porthos the freedom to let his thoughts wander and put into words something he’s never been truly able to express before. It does not escape his notice that he’s about to say all of this to Athos, of all people.

“When I first started, I felt so… I came to this the hard way, see? Got my GED instead of my diploma, spent years as a grunt humping a pack from one side of Afghanistan to another. After I got out, all the guys I’d served with had gone back over there in these megabucks private security jobs while I sat around being the oldest person in most of my college classes."

Porthos wipes the last of the dishes clean and runs the rag around the inside of the sink.
“I kept wondering why I was bothering but I knew I wanted something different. When I got to the school I spent my first six months thinking that any second Ninon was going to come into my room and tell me that they’d realized I couldn’t do this and send me packing. I looked around and everyone had a style that worked for them, and the only thing I knew for sure was that science made things work. That was the only hook I had and I wasn’t even sure the kids would go for it."

He rinses it and drapes it over the faucet and then pours them each a refill on their beers. “So to get evaluations saying they liked my style, that they learned something, to have them vote me Teacher of the Year even though it’s just a piece of paper, it really gave me something to hold on to when I was just feeling so insecure.”

Athos takes a drink and looks at the man in front of him, a mix of broad shoulders and clever hands with a personality like a force of nature. “I find it utterly incomprehensible that you would be insecure.”

Porthos nods and sucks the foam from his upper lip. “Absolutely, and defensive. ’S why I was so unbearable at the end of that night. There you were, everything I knew I wasn’t, could never be. Doctor Athos with his published papers and his research, and I could only get kids to pay attention to me if I was making things explode.” Athos opens his mouth to say something, but Porthos waves him down. “I know that’s not true. I know better now, but it’s how I felt at the time. I was already sure I was going to spend that whole date proving myself, so to hear you talk about how amazing your old life was, to hear you talk about how much you loved all those things I’d never be, fuck, I just took it so personally."

Picking at the edge of the granite worktop, Athos says, “You couldn’t have known, of course, how unsure of myself I felt around you. Your students love you and I still felt so out of my element. I’d have given anything to be back writing papers again. Not just because I loved it, but because it was something I felt sure of, something I knew how to do. I had no idea how to relate to seventh graders, I still don’t. When you said what you did, I just had this flash of how I’d never be in that environment again, that I’d spend the rest of my career trying desperately to fake it for fourteen-year-olds, and the thought that you’d look at me and see how badly I’d ruined my life… I left. I just left."

Athos takes another long pull at his beer. “If it had happened at school, if there had been that buffer of professionalism, I might not have felt it as hard—“

“But it was a date,” Porthos says.

“It was a date. I hoped we could get past it, that I could apologize for leaving, but you came into that faculty meeting and I felt embarrassed all over again. For what I thought you saw in me, for what I said, for how I left. I kept staring at you trying to find some words and all that I found was shame. Then you left.” Athos looks up to find Porthos staring at him. “You just got up and left."

Porthos drops his head, shaking it, and there is the tiniest sad smile at the corners of his mouth. “Someday someone should take a picture of your embarrassed face so you can see what it looks like.” At Athos’ confused look, he says, “Because it looks almost exactly like your disgusted and pissed off face. That’s why I left. I was still so embarrassed myself, for having lashed out and said such shit things to you. I wanted to say something after the meeting, to see if we could salvage that date, but the way your face looked? I just felt like dirt all over again. So, yeah, I left.” He’s circling his pint glass on the counter top, watching the patterns the reflections of the granite are making on the glass.

Athos says, “Every time you came into a room I felt ashamed again, and I got that look."

“And every time you looked at me like that I got embarrassed and left."

“Porthos, in all the time I’ve known you, even when I was thinking the worst, I’ve always believed you to be an engaged and charismatic teacher with a brilliant mind."

Porthos just stares at him, mouth hanging slightly open. He wants to say that Athos reminds him of the beauty of numbers, that when he’s passionately explaining a subject it’s impossible not to become enmeshed in it, but just as he’s forming the words the timer goes off.

“Can you grab the trivets from that drawer,” Athos points to the drawer just to the right of the sink, “and put them out?"

Porthos does as he’s asked and when Athos gets the cooling rack out they work together to invert all the cakes and tap them loose from their pans.

“Now,” Athos says, “it’s time for the secret.” He hands Porthos a bowl of lemon juice and a bowl of sugar, together with a spoon. “Stir those together until the sugar dissolves.” Porthos shoots him an amused smirk. “Please,” Athos smiles.

While Porthos is stirring, Athos pulls a toothpick from a drawer and starts putting tiny, deep holes all along the bottoms of each loaf of bread. Porthos hands him the bowl of lemon syrup and Athos pours some over the bread, watching as it soaks into the holes.

“Now we let them finish cooling and glaze them.” Athos takes the rest of the lemon juice and pours it into a bowl of powdered sugar. As he’s whisking the two together with a fork he looks up at the clock. “Shit, I had no idea how late it was, my apologies.” He rubs at his forehead with the back of his wrist and says, “Let’s get you on the road, I’ll glaze them in the morning. It’s just dumping this over the top. I can do that even before coffee."

Porthos is smiling at him, watching his bright eyes and listening to “The Dock of the Bay” coming out of the speakers. Athos has managed to rub powdered sugar into his hair and before he can stop himself Porthos says, “You’ve got something right…” and reaches out to brush at Athos’ hair.

Athos sucks in a startled breath and freezes, feeling Porthos’ fingers brush against his temple and smelling him, warm and spicy and so close.

“There,” Porthos says, looking straight into Athos’ eyes and for a moment not talking about the sugar or his hair at all. “That’s got it."

The song finishes and Athos blinks and the moment is over. Porthos gathers his things and puts on his scarf and coat while Athos holds the door open for him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Athos asks.

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “‘Course.” He smiles and sketches a quick wave before heading down the front walk. A few feet from the door, Porthos stops and turns back. “Goodnight. Athos,” he says, then he turns again and walks away.

Athos closes the door and puts his hot forehead against the cool glass. Hearing Porthos say his name like that is like a velvet-gloved hand stroking his neck. He remembers it all so clearly, how Porthos had smiled when he’d invited Athos on that date, how incredible he’d looked at that moment, the delicious weight of all that potential on his heart. This feels like that all over again and Athos suddenly realizes that while that moment in the kitchen is over, the meat of his problem with Porthos is just beginning.

Chapter Text

It’s Constance who calls him on it. Of course, it’s Constance. 

Chapter Text

Athos hopes that Aramis doesn’t get any serious calls on Friday because if he’s anywhere close to as useless as Athos and Porthos, someone could get killed.