Porthos had missed Paris. He'd missed the random combinations of old and new architecture; he'd missed the smell of coffee and fresh bread that followed him around the city. He'd even missed the look of disdain that the Parisians were so good at. But most of all he'd missed the rain. It was an odd thing to miss, he knew, but after eight years in a dessert where you're sweating seconds after you step out of the shower because it's just so unbearably hot- he felt like he could justify it.
His headphones drowned out almost everything- he could hardly hear the rumble of traffic over Bach as he strolled by with no particular destination- but it didn't drown out the high-pitched screech that made him whip his head around so fast that he was surprised he didn't get whiplash. At first, he couldn't see what- or rather who- had made the noise. An elderly woman looked down with such a look of disgust it was as if she'd stepped in a pile of excrement- Porthos followed her line of sight. She had not stepped in excrement, but was stepping around a child in a bright yellow raincoat, who had fallen- face down- into a puddle.
Immediately he ran to the crying bundle of yellow, who was too focused on screaming at the top of their lungs to even try and get up. He bent over and lifted the child, setting her firmly on her feet, but keeping a firm grip around her waist so she didn't trip and fall again. She must have only been about three- maybe four. Her blonde curls, now covered in the sludge that coated the streets of Paris, clung to her face. Her cheeks and nose were bright red, probably from screaming so loudly, and there was a tiny cut on her forehead. She'd stopped yelling in favour of staring at Porthos- shocked that this stranger had helped her instead of one of her parents. He pulled off his headphones and smiled warmly at her.
"You okay?"
Her momentary shock was gone, and her lips formed the saddest little frown Porthos had ever seen. She sorrowfully looked down at her knees- her white tights were now an ugly brown- the lady birds printed on them no longer a bright red- and there was a rip on the knee. She'd only grazed the skin, luckily- Porthos was sure there would have been more screaming had she cut it.
"Where is your Mamon?" Porthos asks, and she looks up at him again, the confusion evident on her face.
"Papa?" He asks instead, and she turns around, looking back the way she came. At that moment, a large pair of hands lifts her from Porthos' grasp.
"Nannette! What have we said about running ahead?" Porthos hears her father say, and he's sure he recognises the voice. He stands and watches as Nannette pitifully holds her hands out in front of her father's face.
"Desolé, Papa," she sniffs as he coos and kisses her hands, telling her that as long as she is okay, he is okay. The man still hasn't noticed Porthos, but Porthos is staring at him, dumbstruck. He knows him.
"Now what do we say, Nannette?" He asks, finally turning to Porthos. His grateful smile drops and his mouth falls open slightly.
"Merci, Monsieur…" Nannette says to him, her voice trailing off as she realises she doesn't know his name.
"Porthos," her father supplies, and then his grin returns- "This is Porthos."
"Aramis," Porthos dead pans, and the other man's smile drops slightly. Nannette does not seem concerned by the fact that her stranger saviour is in fact not a stranger at all.
"It's been years-" Aramis starts, but Porthos cuts him off.
"Four."
"Four," Aramis nods. He has the decency to look guilty. Nannette holds out three fingers in front of Porthos' face.
"I am four!" she announces proudly, and Porthos holds his hand in front of her, with four fingers up. She focuses on her own hand and lifts a fourth finger with a considerable amount of effort. The smile Porthos gets when she finally achieves it is contagious, and he cannot help but smile back. Aramis smiles at the little exchange, and then looks up at the sky.
"We should be going or you're going to catch a cold," he says to Nannette, but his eyes keep flitting to look at Porthos. This Nannette notices.
"Monsieur Porthos will come too?" She looks between the two men. Porthos clears his throat.
"Merci, mademoiselle, but I'm not sure your father-"
Nannette grabs her father's face in that endearing way that only small children can so he's looking at her instead of Porthos.
"Papa," she says very seriously, and raises her eyebrows. It's funny seeing an expression usually reserved for parents on such a tiny child. He looks at her and sighs.
"If Monsieur Porthos would like to come with us, he has an invitation."
Nannette turns to her new friend with a winning smile that not even Mary Poppins could say no to.
"I would like that."
She grins and tugs at Aramis' collar.
"Let's go home."