René d'Herblay, alias Aramis (
afineseamstress) wrote2014-12-11 03:30 pm
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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.
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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"Aramis?" he sleepily murmurs. "What is it? Is something the matter?"
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"It's not like you to wake up like this," he observes cautiously.
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She closes her eyes, making every effort to believe that Porthos will always be with her. "What if I cannot give you children, Porthos?"
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"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?"
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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."
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"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.
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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?"
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"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?"
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"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."
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"What happens if I'm not a great father and you get tired of me? If you want someone else?"
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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.
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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."
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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."
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"I trust we'll make a family, chou," he assures, giving her a worried look. "Can I ask what brought this on?"
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"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."
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"And maybe we should talk about timing," he adds, since they're getting everything out there.
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She draws a breath. "I would like them soon," she admits. "As soon as we have room for them. And you?"
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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?"
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Of course, he's probably wrong, but he has no experience in this.
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