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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"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.

Aramis sighs and pushes her cheek against his curls, but it's a sensible enough request. It's only, she wants children now, and eighteen months after the wedding is twenty months away, and Aramis has never been much good at resisting anything she wants.

"I suppose a house first is a good plan," she concedes, frowning deeply into his hair. "With a room ready for a baby."

"And if we happen upon a child before then, I don't see why we couldn't bring them in," he adds, because that's something he wants to talk about, too. "You are okay with that, aren't you? Only, I know we talk about it, but sometimes I feel like I'm the one who always talks about that and you agree for my sake. You're okay to have both children of our blood and those not?"

"Of course," says Aramis. "I admit, I'm not certain it would have occurred to me without your influence, at least not so soon, but if there is a child like you out there that needs and deserves more, I believe we are the ones to help."

She leans back, tracing her fingers over his heart. "There are wounds here, yet," Aramis murmurs. "These orphaned children may heal them."

He's relieved to hear it, given how much he's come to enjoy the idea. It maybe does exactly what Aramis says. It goes back into his past and it undoes a lot of the pain he'd suffered as a child when he'd been unwanted, unloved, and so cold and hungry and poor. Sometimes, he knows it's a miracle he survived, but then he remembers the things he'd had to do and knows that miracles have nothing to do with it. Just stubborn sheer will.

"You've already starting mending them up. I'm not surprised, though," he murmurs with a sleepy smile. "You patch me up, always."

Again, Aramis traces her fingertips along his scar, feeling for the moment almost unbearably tender. "I hope that is true," she murmurs, her voice thick, and catches his face between her hands. He is as dear as ever, all the moreso for being rumpled with sleep. "Are you tired, my love?"

His eyes shut at the touch, that breathy little sigh tinged with a moan back for it. "It is the middle of the night," he admits, but now that he's awake, he wants to make sure they do all the talking on this subject before it falls away. "Is there anything we've forgotten to say?" he asks, trying to clear himself of weariness. "Names? Home? Rules? Anything else about children or our situation we should put in the air while we're talking?"

"I want to see ours to this life," says Aramis, because for her, it has always been a desire as simple as it is grand. "After that, I only want them to be safe and happy. I was given the run of the land as a child," she notes, "And I turned out well. We will name our first daughter Ana Lucia. That is my only rule."

His smile is lazy and fond as he closes his eyes and leans in to press a kiss to her lips, smudging at the corner so he can speak. "Say the full name," he insists. "Say all of it." He wants to hear it, even if the tones and the timbre is different. He wants to hear Aramis say their daughter's name, even if she doesn't exist. Sleepy as he is, he thinks maybe he could reverse one of his earlier rules.

It can't hurt to have a little unprotected sex, can it? It's not like anything could carry over.

"Ana Lucia d'Herblay du Vallon," says Aramis, grinning broadly, gloriously happy when she laughs, "Or is it Ana Lucia du Vallon d'Herblay?" Leaning in, she presses her mouth to his ear to whisper, "They both sound like heaven to me."

"Ana Lucia d'Herblay du Vallon," he recites, because it's been the way he's been arranging his own name since he first thought of them marrying. "We should probably send out invitations for our wedding, you know," he says, since that's coming up. And until then, he thinks there are more pressing matters to tend to. Collecting Aramis up in his arms in a princess and protective carry, he slowly ambles them back towards the bedroom.

"First, though, let's make sure you don't have any more nightmares."

Aramis throws her arms around his neck with a cry, surprised but pleased, and tucks her lips in against the smooth skin beneath his ear. "And how will we accomplish that, cariño?" she asks, reveling as she always does in the way he can move her about with ease.