Chapter Text
Although the location varied, poker night was a time-honored tradition among the musketeers of the Garrison. Held every third Saturday of the month on a rotating basis between the four different homes of the members, poker often lasted well into the morning hours. As the Inseparables lived together in the city home belonging to the Delafere family trust, the game was held there every other month. That was just fine with the executor of the trust, Athos Delefere.
Athos was a homebody by nature perfectly happy to come home to his quiet house, sip a good port, and read an actual book. At least that was all he used to want to do until he met Aramis and two years later Porthos. Now, Athos smiled in anticipation as he unlocked the front door to the Brooklyn Heights brownstone. Stepping into the foyer, he could smell the rich tomato sauce Porthos was cooking, and he could hear Porthos singing what he thought was opera at the top of his lungs. Porthos always insisted that good food was created with love—and good love was loud.
The three men who lived in the brownstone took turns rotating the jobs of hosting poker night. Porthos insisted on cooking something messy and heavy when he was chef. So, tonight they were having spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread and Caesar salad. Athos walked down the hallway and to the left gently setting two pink cardboard boxes tied up with a string onto the marble breakfast bar glad he picked up tiramisu instead of a soufflé that would surely have fallen in response to the kitchen cacophony.
Athos kissed his lover and looked around for his husband. Noticing the lack of wine and beer on the counter he turned down the lively Brindisi of La Traviata; allowing him to hear Porthos’ off-key rendition full voice come to a halting stop. “Where’s Aramis? He left work before we did.”
“Dunno. Did he leave a message? I left my phone in the living room when I was settin’ up the card table. I couldn’t find the chips, by the way. I’ve no idea where Aramis put them last.”
Athos sighed in fond exasperation. He loved his husband, but Aramis’ excellent French Foreign Legion sniper training did not offer Aramis the same naval ship-shape style that he and Porthos favored. The sound of keys jingling in the lock caught his attention. He turned back down the hallway toward the door as Porthos resumed practicing for his imagined debut at the Met.
“A little help, please,” Aramis called from behind the half-open door. Athos barely caught the bag of wine bottles as Aramis pushed through trailing his other hand that gripped a case of the hoppy beer Porthos, d’Artagnan, and Constance favored. “Honestly, the liquor mart was a zoo. You’d think it was the World Cup or something.” Aramis looked up into his husband’s raised eyebrows and grinned, “Amant. I’ve missed you.”
Athos practiced his poker face, replying, “We saw each other two hours ago at the Garrison. Was Adele working?”
Aramis set down the case of beer and dramatically clasped his chest, “You wound me, my love, and yes, she was.”
Athos made of show of frowning as he looked at Aramis’ black silicone wedding ring.
Suddenly worried, Aramis gripped Athos’ shoulders, “Amant, you know I would never …”
“Beautiful idiot.” Athos roughly pressed Aramis’ back into the wall and possessively kissed him. Athos gripped the sides of Aramis’ head pulling his hair but before pushing his tongue into Aramis’ welcoming mouth, he declared, “Mine.”
Aramis could barely nod against the force of Athos lips so he tightened his grip on Athos’ arms as a sign of agreement. Both men moaned when they felt a heavy hand on the back of their necks.
“Alright, you two. As much as I enjoy watching, and you know I do, if you keep this up, you’ll be so distracted Treville and I’ll win all your money.”
Athos reluctantly pulled away from Aramis with a few light kisses to ease the quick separation Aramis disliked so much.
Porthos kissed them both on the cheek following it up with his own welcome home kiss for Aramis. “How’s Adele?”
“She is happy now that Richelieu lost his appeal, and she can keep the family business.” Inhaling, Aramis smiled, “Ah, my favorite messy poker night dinner.”
“Yeah, well, you raved so much about the smoker ribs d’Artagnan made last month I had to get back into your good graces.” Porthos picked up the case of beer and headed back into the kitchen calling over his shoulder as he went, “Also, I can’t find the poker chips.”
Interlude—The Royal Couple
Milady artfully arranged the black scarf at the edge of the table as she sat in front of the head of Cardinal Security, Armand Richelieu. She smiled solicitously at the grey-haired old fox seated across from her. Milady picked up and shuffled a well-used deck of ordinary playing cards while voicing her question, “How will tonight’s plan go for us?”
Richelieu smirked, “Cartomancy, really? How very pedestrian. I would think you would at least have a hand-drawn tarot set blessed by your great-grandmother three times removed.”
Milady swallowed the first insult that came to mind that the Cardinal, as his critics called him, looked like her great grandmother three times removed. She laid the cards out in a simple five-card spread. Studying the results, all spades—king, queen, nine, seven, and six—her feline smile revealed the small gap between her alabaster front teeth. “We are all here. It appears we will be victorious.”