justastormie:hippity-hoppity-brigade:fieldmarshalhawk:Source: x#awwww #papa treville and his ca
justastormie:hippity-hoppity-brigade:fieldmarshalhawk:Source: x#awwww #papa treville and his camera (via my-whortleberry-friend) now i have a whole headcanon of papa treville (adopted or pretty-much-adopted-even-though-it’s-not-technically-legal) being that parent who scoffs at technology but slowly becomes suckered in and at some point knows more about tech than his kids. like, aramis gets a camera. aramis is really into cameras, really into photography – he and porthos regularly have arguments about phone cameras versus point-and-shoot cameras versus heavy-uty photographers’ cameras. papa treville is all like “ugh, why do you need that heavy expensive thing; in my day we had the same polaroid camera for forty years! i still have that camera!” then he’s like in the first picture – peering over at what his kids are doing, seeing how aramis changes filters and settings. (”there’s a setting for on-stage lighting?” “yeah, look, you can see d’artagnan clear as day with this filter.”) (”what do you mean, there’s a setting for dogs?” “they bounce. they need a steadying application.” “a what?”) he starts playing around with aramis’ camera (while aramis hovers nervously at his shoulder, wincing as treville’s rough, worn fingers fumble with the buttons). he has a half-smile on his face every time, like he’s trying to appear cool and unaffected. “oh, haha, just messing around with my son’s camera. not serious about this at all.” then treville starts looking into cameras. looking them up online, buying the consumer magazines, comparing one model to another to another to another. he learns all the terms and the jargon; he knows which kinds use which filters and which are cheap knockoffs of the better stuff. he learns which models are the best for their price, and which are way overpriced. his conversations with aramis quickly exceed the knowledge that aramis has of cameras. treville turns into a forum board junkie, swapping tips with professional photographers. his kids get him his very own camera for his birthday. he’s gentle with it at first, but then it becomes like an extra limb. it goes everywhere with him. he buys one, then two, then five extra memory cards for all the photos he’s taking. constance frames some of his best ones for his next birthday: all photos of his kids, caught in the moments when they’ve become so used to the camera that they don’t notice it. there’s d’artagnan and athos sleeping on the couch, and constance and aramis playing table tennis ferociously, and porthos and milady covered in the ruins of the cake they were baking.*kicks down door* YOU ARE BEING TOO FUCKING CUTE *viciously adds more to various adoptive aus* and you know who becomes a scrapbook fucking terror: Richelieu. It starts with Porthos, Porthos who wants to hold on to these pictures and memories. Porthos wants everything framed (Constance can choose, porthos is FRAME EVERYTHING) Constance talks him down to some nice photoalbums. And then he starts writing notes with them and Richelieu is ‘…that isn’t a terrible idea’.It’s one of the things Armand and Porthos bond over. (The other being the genealogy project they have going that started when they adopted/’adopted’ Porthos. It started as weekend curiosity about who Porthos’ grandfather was and where he came from and bloomed to eat an entire room of the house, three years of summer courses and family trips to central africa, south africa, spain, egypt, italy and turkey. porthos and armand are very proud of the fact they have everyone in the family mapped back to at least ten generations. The room they’ve overtaken is still a disaster area. There are maps and shit everywhere. Porthos has learned how to function in three separate languages and five dialects. Peeking into that room you will mostly likely find father and son bent over a skype connection while furiously scribbling notes and checking maps and deeping expressions of confusion because you call this place what again? But I thought that was over there?? Wait if you’re from there then wtf is this???)MY ORIGINAL POINT BEING: Armand and Porthos bond over weird sentimental organization projects. Enter scrapbooking. Porthos starts recording stories (you cannot tell me he doesn’t love preserving oral histories. especially papa treville’s funny stories). Armand is ‘this could look better’. Kits are bought. Kits are deemed insufficient and computer programs are bought. Computer programs are glared into submission. Porthos decides that while these albums are nice they need a more personal touch, learns leather working and Armand puts an ancient class in library science to work binding some pages and they make their own album/scrapbook unholy fusion. They are fancy as shit with burnt coding on the spines. There are flaps for mementos and correlation numbers that match to computer documents of saved journal entries and story recordings (done by Porthos). And that’s just the physical scrapbooks. Porthos and Armand don’t so much send out a family christmas card as an extensive family brag-and-debrief. They have both looked at every single picture Treville has taken. (Treville knows this and will write little notes to both of them and take pictures so they can find them later.) Porthos also prevents the pictures of Armand fallen asleep with a cat on his face from disappearing. Armand likewise rescues the pictures of Porthos laying in melon wreckage and passed out. They both give Milady a special album every year on the sly, of pictures of her with all her strange extended family. They never mention it to anyone else and she treasures both their gift and silences, and the albums make every single move with her. Lastly, Richelieu makes a game out of stealing Trev’s camera whenever possible and taking pictures of him. This has netted hundreds of pictures of Trev with food half in his mouth and caught mid-glare as he realized what his arch-nemisis is fucking up to. Also conclusive proof that half the reason Trev likes his favorite chair is that it’s comfortable to sleep in, and that no he was not watching that he was clearly snoring. With accompanying cat on his chest because Armand does not understand the concept of “enough cats”. Random headcanon side note: Treville has a long suffering beagle named Duke who has just resigned himself to being swarmed by cats whenever he sits still. At least there’s a warm cuddle pile. He is a total traitor and his favorite spot is curled around Armand’s cold ass toes. -- source link
#brb swooning