afineseamstress | (no subject)

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porthos

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It's an old nightmare, and if the reversal of roles is new, Aramis has no knowledge of it. In her dreams her belly swells, her parents rage, but in the end, Aramis feels happiness bloom within her, and in time, she sees it in the features of her husband to be. But the dream turns as it always does, from hope and to despair. She reaches for him with hands only freshly washed of blood, but Étienne still turns from her.

It's an old dream, an awful dream, but bearable for the long years of its endurance. Aramis believes that, right until Étienne turns for one last look, and his face becomes Porthos'.

Aramis wakes with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed with tears still streaming down her face. With a soft curse, she lifts her hands and wipes them away, crawling as carefully as she can out of bed and towards the kitchen.

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Porthos turns in the middle of the night to search for Aramis, bringing him into his arms. Belatedly, and in the midst of waking, he remembers that it's a her, but more worrisome is that Aramis is nowhere to be found. He shifts, staring through the bedroom and doesn't see her, but there's movement in the kitchen. Porthos shifts and rubs his fingers through his hair, sliding on his slippers as he trudges out, draping his robe over himself.

"Aramis?" he sleepily murmurs. "What is it? Is something the matter?"

Only just managing not to stiffen where she stands by the sink, Aramis keeps her gaze on the open window, hoping that the cold night air will cool her too hot cheeks. "Of course not," she calls evenly back. "I'm only thirsty, go back to bed."

Awake, a touch chilled, and utterly unable to not attend to her, he wanders behind Aramis and bows his head down to rest his chin on her shoulder, wrapping his arms and the houserobe around the both of them as he wills his body heat to contribute. "Not until you're coming with me," he murmurs, words still a bit slow.

"It's not like you to wake up like this," he observes cautiously.

Porthos' heat makes Aramis shiver all the more, as if her body is only just now remembering what it is to feel safe and warm. It brings a fresh heat to rest behind her eyes, and she knows it is no use prevaricating. "I was dreaming," she says, "Waking was a mercy, believe me."

She closes her eyes, making every effort to believe that Porthos will always be with her. "What if I cannot give you children, Porthos?"

The question is sudden and hits him hard, lancing him in a way he isn't sure he knows how to deal with. This isn't a conversation they've ever had to have and he knows he can't tell the truth. He can't. It means he has to buckle down, chin up, and face this thing that scares him for her sake. He tightens his embrace, reaching past to close the window before they both catch a cold, and bows his forehead lower. "Don't be silly," he murmurs. "Why wouldn't you give me children?"

"Even if they're not ours by blood, they'll still be ours." He ignores the panic, ignores the guilt, and dives into this strange fake, pretend, and mad world. "Unless you think I'm incapable of getting you pregnant?"

"That is not my worry," says Aramis, still fearing to turn around. Her eyes are puffy and heaven only knows what the state of her nose must be, and part of her still desperately wishes he had stayed asleep. "Not for a second, Porthos. But I have already lost one child. Suppose I cannot have them at all?"

He curls her in closer, hand drifting lower to rest just over her stomach, as if offering some kind of warmth and reassurance. "Okay, I think we need a little something to drink. Hot tea, maybe something to spike it?" he suggests, rubbing his hands over hers. "And we should talk."

They probably should have talked about this months ago and while this won't be the last one they have, it might at least solve some of their issues. "We should have talked about all of this a while ago."

Aramis makes a soft sound for the touch to her belly, but she nods, dragging a last hand beneath her eyes as she turns, expecting that they will go to the table. "I was wrong to avoid it for so long," she admits, but the topic fills her with so much dread. "I know it is better to be brave, forgive me."

"I'm equally at fault," he replies softly, because he knows that he's more at fault when he's honest. When things are normal, when they're regular, he's the one dragging his heels. "No," he says, because he wants to be honest. "You know, we both know, that I'm more at fault." He uses the collar of his robe to wipe away at the tears and escorts her to a chair to sit before turning on the kettle on the stove, dragging out the brandy to help.

"I'm the one who's been more fearful. You've been pushing me along, thankfully," he murmurs gratefully.

Aramis shakes her head, stretching to retrieve the blanket from the chaise to wrap around herself. "Perhaps you are right to be fearful," she says. "I am still a soldier. Étienne knew it, even before I did. How can I long to be both that and a mother? To take lives, and then to make them? It makes no sense."

He plucks it out of her hands, wrapping it around her shoulders and giving them a rub that he hopes is comforting, a tender look on his face. "Because you're the nurturer. Because you're still a soldier and a good mother, because you take care of us, of me," he says emphatically. "Not just stitching, but making sure we're careful and minded after. Maybe it's not nurturing. You're our protector, and that's what a mother should be, isn't it?"

"Protector," Aramis murmurs, drawing in a deep breath. "I never thought of it like that." But it's true - it might be a love of daring and adventure that led Aramis to the Musketeers, but it's the good she was able to do that made her stay. That, and the man before her now.

"That is selfish," she says, but it is only a tease. "I could not bear to lose you to poorly tended cuts and scrapes, who could blame me?"

"Is that what my scars are?" he asks with general bemusement, a twinkle in his eye as he stares at her. "This one, here?" he says, for the one on his face. "This is a cut?" He leans in for a kiss to dissuade her from worry, not wanting her to think he's being cruel.

"You are fierce and valiant and strong and a protector. You'll nurture and be warm and soft," he insists. "And I...I am scared, too."

"A fleshwound," Aramis murmurs, but her smile fades, the worry that she is the reason Porthos is scared still present, despite all his kind words. "Why, my love?" she asks, tracing her fingertips along his scar. "Please tell me."

He closes his eyes at the touch, that intoxicating thing that always bespells him so easily. "Because I know we're in this, you and I, together. I just worry that we're going to get there and be parents and you might realize that I'm not as quick a learner in this as I want to be," he admits, his fears coming out in the dead of night.

"What happens if I'm not a great father and you get tired of me? If you want someone else?"

"I know you will be a good father," says Aramis, her conviction as present as ever, if more gently rendered this time. "I would pledge my life, my soul, every scrap of honor I have on it, and if somehow you are not, I know that you will learn. I will never tire of you, Porthos, and..."

Aramis pauses, waiting out the growing lump in her throat. "I could live without you, but it would only ever be a shade of life, I could never be truly happy again, I know that. That is what I fear most - that I will fail to give you family, and you will leave." It would not be the first time in her life, and Aramis does not know how to endure that again, especially when the man to be lost is Porthos.

It's a bit different than usual, obviously, but Porthos can't help but wonder if his Aramis thinks that deep down, if they can't manage children properly, that he'll grow tired and leave. It's an awful thing to worry about and he shifts so that he can pick Aramis up with ease, forcibly curling them together until the tea water boils. "I would never leave you," he vows, so sure of that, so sure of this one thing. "I don't fall out of love lightly, Aramis. People usually leave me and I still keep loving them, quietly and firmly. I've picked you, you've picked me, and that's that."

It's as simple as that. His loyalty and his love are settled. He wraps his arms tightly around her waist and buries his face in the tattoo on her neck. "Besides," he mumbles, muffled. "What you're saying is impossible. We'll have a family, no matter what."

The words are what she's longed for, wants so desperately to believe are true, and the way they are spoken, Aramis can't help but to have faith. Porthos still loved Flea and Charon despite the years without them - he is a loyal man and always has been, both in mind and in heart.

Aramis closes her eyes, grateful for the way he's gathered her up, and rests her cheek against his curls. "I want that so much for you," she murmurs. "You who had none growing up. That lack is doubly so a crime, for there is no one more deserving of a family, Porthos."

"But don't you see? It's because of that childhood that I know we'll be fine," he insists, his eyes clear and true as he wraps himself fully around her, refusing to balk for a single second. "I know how much those children need love, just as I know what I yearned for. So I know we can both have children and take them in and both or neither would be fine," he vows. "Because even if it's just you and me and Athos, that's family, isn't it? And Allison?" he reminds her.

"I trust we'll make a family, chou," he assures, giving her a worried look. "Can I ask what brought this on?"

"I don't know," says Aramis, but it's not entirely true. Her joy grows each day they move closer to the wedding, but so too do her fears - it was only a matter of time before the dreams began. "I have prided myself in being what you need, be it a healer or a soldier or a friend. I want to be a good wife to you, in all the ways that means." She kisses the tip of his ear, the closest strip of flesh to her mouth as she burrows into his embrace.

"I have pushed you for so much. So much now that I am afraid of what will happen if I cannot give it to you. But I do hear you, Porthos." Aramis finds his hand in the tangle of their limbs, lifting it to curl their fingers together. "If you believe we will be fine, then I will, too."

Porthos takes the time to curl in and kiss each knuckle, paying slow and soft attention to them as they're due. He wonders if Aramis had been scared like this before, if Isabelle would make him worry when he's normal, but he feels he needs to soothe this ache. "I do think you'll have no trouble giving us children," he says. "I'm still scared about how good a father I'll be, but that's just me. I've never really been the one to be a father figure," he points out. "You and Athos, you're both better at that. I'm a good older brother, but I need the both of you to show me how to be responsible and strict."

"And maybe we should talk about timing," he adds, since they're getting everything out there.

"You are wonderful with d'Artagnan," says Aramis, and though he's hardly a young boy, he is still very much in need of guidance. "I have seen you look out for him, temper him more than once. Besides, I do not know how strict I will be." Children should be joyful, after all, allowed their freedoms until they come near to harm.

She draws a breath. "I would like them soon," she admits. "As soon as we have room for them. And you?"

"I want some time after we get married to figure out who we are as a couple, then," Porthos says, which is good to get out in the open. They really probably ought to have had this talk a long time ago, because it's clearing the air. "Plus, there are things I'd like in place before we start. The house in the country, even if it's only the shell," he offers as example.

He shrugs, idly braiding some of the strands of Aramis' hair before him, his fingers soothed by the constant motion. "A year? Maybe eighteen months after we get married?"

"Eighteen months," Aramis groans before she can help herself. "So long, Porthos." So terribly long, when she's been dreaming of this since they finally pledged themselves to one another, but Aramis makes herself draw a deep breath. "Twelve months?"

He strokes her hair, wondering if this is what Aramis wants, really, or if this is just because in this state, Aramis thinks she can carry the children. "Eighteen months, the baby is in our lives," he clarifies. "Which means pregnant at nine months from the wedding. Is that really so long? I feel as if it will take us at least that long just to find the right house." For Porthos, who's never owned property (and couldn't, legally), the idea of a house is daunting and has a great number of things to do.

Of course, he's probably wrong, but he has no experience in this.