(no subject)

Sleep has always come easily to Aramis. A soldier finds it when he can, and barring times of great distress, Aramis has never had trouble finding rest, all the moreso now that he can sleep wrapped around his husband.

Yet the last few nights have been fitful, and as Aramis twitches against the sheets, this night proves to be even worse. He wakes gasping, his thoughts a tangled blur he can barely understand, but his heart seems to. There is love for a child in it, but not the child he has come to hope for. The infant is a boy, with blue eyes and fair hair, and even as the dream begins to fade, Aramis knows he will not forget this longing, so visceral he spreads fingers against his heart to test for blood.

Shaking his head, Aramis looks down, fighting off another half-remembered dream of a face he hasn't seen in years, nor has he wanted to, and slips from bed before he can disturb Porthos with thoughts of Rochefort. His feet carry him into the living room, but their normal nimble step has abandoned him as surely as sleep, for he knocks against the coffee table with his knees and goes down with a startled groan.