Lullaby
Title: Lullaby
Series: (BBC) The Musketeers
Characters: Porthos, Aramis, mentions of Isabelle and Queen Anne
Pairing: Aramis/Porthos (hints of Anne/Aramis & Isabelle/Aramis)
Rating: PG
Warning: None, really, beyond general hurt/comfort
Summary: "Do you think I'd be a good father?"
Notes: Writing through a writer's block, slowly.
“Do you think I’d be a good father?”
Porthos looks up from where he’s pouring himself some more wine, the wisps of a half-joke already on his tongue in response, when he stops - because Aramis is frowning down into his glass and not looking in his direction at all, which on its own is enough to cause worry, as wine is likely to make Aramis light up in his eyes a little, to tease and joke, or just stay quiet and lean against Porthos’ heavy shoulder. So it’s a serious question, one that Aramis is afraid to ask when sober. A question that Porthos has been trying to tease out of Aramis for weeks now, trying to shake his friend from the strange melancholy he’s fallen into. It isn’t so surprising that such a thought would be on his mind - and it is not the first time, truly, that Aramis has asked Porthos this question. Porthos’ thoughts retreat to the memory of Isabelle, a woman he never met but knows strictly through Aramis’ recollections of his past (and whom Porthos would never admit to hating, solely on the pain she’s caused Aramis). And he thinks that tonight the wine has gone to Aramis’ heart, straight and thorough.
Aramis is rubbing absently at the back of his neck, silent, an involuntary movement he does when his hat isn’t available to fiddle with. And then Aramis looks up from his glass and meets Porthos’ eyes, his hand dropping away.
Porthos nods and shrugs. “Yeah.”
“You answer too freely,” Aramis says quietly, voice brittle and paper-thin. He drains his cup and sets it down on the little table beside the bed and turns, lying on his side and looking up at Porthos, hair unkempt and falling in his eyes, which stare up at Porthos as if waiting for his damnation. Porthos always despises that look, in the rare instances when he sees it.
Porthos shakes his head, a jerky, abortive movement. He knows his voice has gone a bit gravely with his own drink, and his voice is low as he says, “I don’t. I already know.” He sets down the bottle of wine and turns onto his side, too, to face Aramis, who looks at him as if he is drowning, eyes wide and watery. Porthos manages a small smile. “For all your flaws, vain and impulsive,” he pauses to allow Aramis his brief, protesting sound in the back of his throat, “You’re kind and attentive. Soothing. And gentle to those who need it. Any child would be lucky to know you as their father.”
Aramis closes his eyes when Porthos speaks, and doesn’t say a word in response - although Porthos knows he’s listening, can see it in the tilt of his head, the tension of his shoulders. He stays totally still, just breathing out. For half a moment, Porthos thinks that perhaps Aramis is falling asleep. But then Aramis shifts closer, curling his arms around Porthos’ abdomen and presses his face against the juncture of neck and shoulder, holding tight to him and just breathing out - shaky and unsteady.
“Don’t tell me you’re crying,” Porthos murmurs, surprising himself with how rough his voice comes out - partly because he isn’t sure if he can handle Aramis crying and partly from sheer disbelief that he would at all.
Aramis breathes out, pained and taut, and shakes his head. “No,” he whispers, voice far away and, for half a moment, vacant, “I’m not.”
Porthos sighs out, and curls his arms around him in turn. He holds him close and waits for his breathing to even out. It stays unsettled and uncertain, fluttering against his neck as Aramis clings to him, lips pressed against the slope of his skin. Porthos doesn’t interrupt him, and though it’s true he can’t feel any wetness from potential tears, the unsteadiness of his breath suggests at least a sort of hitching reluctance to cry. Porthos rubs his back, awkwardly gentle (never unsure just how gentle to be, never fully sure if he can even be gentle), trying to be comforting even while he remains completely unable to process just what’s gotten into Aramis - just what it is that’s upset him so terribly, in the end. Clearly something. That much is obvious. But it’s difficult to guess with Aramis, sometimes, despite his years of knowing him - simply only that Aramis was always a loner, always internalizing.
Eventually, the silence stretches on and Aramis slowly starts to sink against him, slowly starts to relax. At least enough that his breathing doesn’t sound like a stuttered mess. Aramis pulls back a little, glances up at him, his eyes glinting for half a moment when he catches Porthos’ eye, and then he manages a small, heeding smile, lifting up a hand to trace at the scar over Porthos’ eye.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he finally asks when Aramis sighs out, shaky still, but breathing more regularly. His eyes are fixed on the scar, rather than on Porthos’ eyes. Porthos figures it’s just as well, since Aramis tenses up a little, his hand stilling upon his brow. He ignores the way Porthos tilts his head, trying to catch his eye.
He’s about to ask again, when Aramis lowers his eyes and slumps his shoulders, curling into himself. “I can’t.”
Porthos stays quiet, lips pressing together in a grim line, his brow furrowing. Aramis doesn’t look at him, but his hand smoothes out, thumb tracing along the worry lines that form between Porthos’ knit eyebrows. It’s a fluttering movement, nervous, as Aramis will whip his hand back at any moment.
“You can’t?” he parrots. “Or you won’t?” Here, Aramis flinches and Porthos feels guilty. “Hey… You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to…”
“I do want to,” Aramis says voice quiet and strained, miserable. He’s used to his voice bright and incandescent. Instead, there’s hardly anything there at all. He looks at Porthos now, shifts his hands to cup his face. “I do want to. But please… don’t ask me, Porthos.”
Porthos is quiet, and he frowns. “If you’re in trouble-”
“It’s not that,” Aramis interrupts quickly, stroking his thumbs along Porthos’ cheeks. “I’d tell you if it was.”
“You want to tell me, though?” Porthos says, frowning.
“Yes,” Aramis admits, after a small pause. “Even if you’d probably not forgive me for it.”
Porthos sighs out and closes his eyes to Aramis’ touch. “So then you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
Aramis actually laughs at that, brittle, but at least he leans in and presses his forehead to Porthos’, and Porthos can almost sense the slightest curve of his smile when he speaks.
“Stubborn man,” he says lightly.
“Speak for yourself,” Porthos mutters back. “You don’t have to look like I’m going to kick you. I’m not going to pry.”
It lingers on the edge - the idea that Porthos could just think about it, and realize what it is that Aramis is hiding, realize that Aramis never really can hide. The clues are all there. But Aramis doesn’t want him to know. Not yet.
But Porthos knows he’ll figure it out eventually, or Aramis will tell him himself (either voluntarily or otherwise). So he accepts that. And tightens his hold around Aramis’ shoulders, pulling him down flush against his chest.
“Sorry,” Aramis says quietly.
“Shut up,” he answers and holds him.
They stay like that, for a long time, and don’t say anything more. Porthos is reluctant to let go of Aramis, but he eyes the wine bottle on the table with a kind of absent longing, feeling far too sober for that conversation. Regardless, it seems that silence would be the means for them to pass into the late evening.
But then Aramis says, very quietly, “Do you ever think about it?”
“About what?” Porthos sighs.
“Being a father,” Aramis says, and Porthos very purposefully stops wondering why Aramis keeps asking these kinds of questions.
“Fuck, no.” The words flow out of him in his surprise, however, barking out a kind of stilted laugh. “What kind of father would I be?”
Aramis pulls back sharply, frowning as he looks at him. “A wonderful one,” he says, blunt, insistent. Then he adds, quieter, and apologetic, “Far better than I.”
Porthos snorts. “Bullshit.”
“I mean it.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about it,” Porthos says softly, and looks away. It isn’t so much that it hurts, or even stings, but it’s an aching, old wound. He has no particular longing, not after all these years, and yet he’s surprised by how soft his voice sounds when he speaks the words.
Aramis freezes up, eyes widening, and goes very still for a moment as the words settle between them. “I - damn it, Porthos, I’m sorry.”
Porthos shakes his head quickly before Aramis can feel worse about himself, turning his head again to look up at him, sighing out. “I’ve made my peace with it. Never knew him and barely remember her. It’s fine.”
“That doesn’t make it better.” Aramis slumps again, tugging at his own hair in agitation, mushing it up further. “I spoke without thinking. I only… That really doesn’t make it better.”
“Maybe not,” Porthos murmurs, turning his head to nose against Aramis’ jaw, nuzzling slightly, sliding his hand over his back - trying to soothe him again. “It’s alright. I have my brothers and that’s more than enough - more than I could ever want.”
Aramis blinks rapidly and then nods. “Yes, and you always will.” He sighs out quietly. “I wouldn’t know anything about it, either. Fatherhood.”
He’s thinking of Isabelle, again, and the lost baby. That much is clear, Porthos thinks, and the only explanation for the sudden sadness. Although it does catch Porthos by surprise, ultimately, if only because the encounter at the nunnery was months ago. The sadness comes to Aramis in waves, he knows, sneaking up on him when he least suspects it - but he wonders what it is, now, that’s caused him to linger for so long on it. Or to admit that he is.
Aramis is quiet, eyes lowered, and he burrows into Porthos’ shoulder, staying still and trying to even his breathing. Porthos sighs out, tucking him in close and curling his fingers through his hair, petting through it absently.
“It’s alright.”
“It’s not,” Aramis says quietly, and sighs out, closing his eyes as he presses closer to Porthos, slinging one leg over his hip to press closer to him - not necessarily in any way other than to leech off of Porthos’ body warmth. He melts into him and Porthos is there to hold him. Porthos accepts this, just anchoring him.
He stays still for a long moment, just focusing on Aramis’ breathing - searching for any signs that he might actually cry. None are forthcoming, but Aramis’ hold on him doesn’t lessen.
“I think about it sometimes,” Porthos finally admits when the silence stretches on far too long between them. “Never seriously. I don’t know. Sometimes I think about it.” He shifts a little, suddenly feeling too awkward.
“I think about it all the time,” Aramis admits, too, voice distant and unsure.
He turns his head into Porthos’ shoulder, glancing up at him briefly before shaking his head and closing his eyes.
“Sometimes, it’s all I want.” He laughs. Self-deprecating and odd-sounding, coming from Aramis. “Can you imagine me as a father, though?”
“Yeah,” Porthos says, with no hesitation. “I can. Easily.”
Aramis blinks rapidly a few times, and Porthos brushes his thumb across his cheek.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, and neither of them say anything more.
Series: (BBC) The Musketeers
Characters: Porthos, Aramis, mentions of Isabelle and Queen Anne
Pairing: Aramis/Porthos (hints of Anne/Aramis & Isabelle/Aramis)
Rating: PG
Warning: None, really, beyond general hurt/comfort
Summary: "Do you think I'd be a good father?"
Notes: Writing through a writer's block, slowly.
“Do you think I’d be a good father?”
Porthos looks up from where he’s pouring himself some more wine, the wisps of a half-joke already on his tongue in response, when he stops - because Aramis is frowning down into his glass and not looking in his direction at all, which on its own is enough to cause worry, as wine is likely to make Aramis light up in his eyes a little, to tease and joke, or just stay quiet and lean against Porthos’ heavy shoulder. So it’s a serious question, one that Aramis is afraid to ask when sober. A question that Porthos has been trying to tease out of Aramis for weeks now, trying to shake his friend from the strange melancholy he’s fallen into. It isn’t so surprising that such a thought would be on his mind - and it is not the first time, truly, that Aramis has asked Porthos this question. Porthos’ thoughts retreat to the memory of Isabelle, a woman he never met but knows strictly through Aramis’ recollections of his past (and whom Porthos would never admit to hating, solely on the pain she’s caused Aramis). And he thinks that tonight the wine has gone to Aramis’ heart, straight and thorough.
Aramis is rubbing absently at the back of his neck, silent, an involuntary movement he does when his hat isn’t available to fiddle with. And then Aramis looks up from his glass and meets Porthos’ eyes, his hand dropping away.
Porthos nods and shrugs. “Yeah.”
“You answer too freely,” Aramis says quietly, voice brittle and paper-thin. He drains his cup and sets it down on the little table beside the bed and turns, lying on his side and looking up at Porthos, hair unkempt and falling in his eyes, which stare up at Porthos as if waiting for his damnation. Porthos always despises that look, in the rare instances when he sees it.
Porthos shakes his head, a jerky, abortive movement. He knows his voice has gone a bit gravely with his own drink, and his voice is low as he says, “I don’t. I already know.” He sets down the bottle of wine and turns onto his side, too, to face Aramis, who looks at him as if he is drowning, eyes wide and watery. Porthos manages a small smile. “For all your flaws, vain and impulsive,” he pauses to allow Aramis his brief, protesting sound in the back of his throat, “You’re kind and attentive. Soothing. And gentle to those who need it. Any child would be lucky to know you as their father.”
Aramis closes his eyes when Porthos speaks, and doesn’t say a word in response - although Porthos knows he’s listening, can see it in the tilt of his head, the tension of his shoulders. He stays totally still, just breathing out. For half a moment, Porthos thinks that perhaps Aramis is falling asleep. But then Aramis shifts closer, curling his arms around Porthos’ abdomen and presses his face against the juncture of neck and shoulder, holding tight to him and just breathing out - shaky and unsteady.
“Don’t tell me you’re crying,” Porthos murmurs, surprising himself with how rough his voice comes out - partly because he isn’t sure if he can handle Aramis crying and partly from sheer disbelief that he would at all.
Aramis breathes out, pained and taut, and shakes his head. “No,” he whispers, voice far away and, for half a moment, vacant, “I’m not.”
Porthos sighs out, and curls his arms around him in turn. He holds him close and waits for his breathing to even out. It stays unsettled and uncertain, fluttering against his neck as Aramis clings to him, lips pressed against the slope of his skin. Porthos doesn’t interrupt him, and though it’s true he can’t feel any wetness from potential tears, the unsteadiness of his breath suggests at least a sort of hitching reluctance to cry. Porthos rubs his back, awkwardly gentle (never unsure just how gentle to be, never fully sure if he can even be gentle), trying to be comforting even while he remains completely unable to process just what’s gotten into Aramis - just what it is that’s upset him so terribly, in the end. Clearly something. That much is obvious. But it’s difficult to guess with Aramis, sometimes, despite his years of knowing him - simply only that Aramis was always a loner, always internalizing.
Eventually, the silence stretches on and Aramis slowly starts to sink against him, slowly starts to relax. At least enough that his breathing doesn’t sound like a stuttered mess. Aramis pulls back a little, glances up at him, his eyes glinting for half a moment when he catches Porthos’ eye, and then he manages a small, heeding smile, lifting up a hand to trace at the scar over Porthos’ eye.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he finally asks when Aramis sighs out, shaky still, but breathing more regularly. His eyes are fixed on the scar, rather than on Porthos’ eyes. Porthos figures it’s just as well, since Aramis tenses up a little, his hand stilling upon his brow. He ignores the way Porthos tilts his head, trying to catch his eye.
He’s about to ask again, when Aramis lowers his eyes and slumps his shoulders, curling into himself. “I can’t.”
Porthos stays quiet, lips pressing together in a grim line, his brow furrowing. Aramis doesn’t look at him, but his hand smoothes out, thumb tracing along the worry lines that form between Porthos’ knit eyebrows. It’s a fluttering movement, nervous, as Aramis will whip his hand back at any moment.
“You can’t?” he parrots. “Or you won’t?” Here, Aramis flinches and Porthos feels guilty. “Hey… You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to…”
“I do want to,” Aramis says voice quiet and strained, miserable. He’s used to his voice bright and incandescent. Instead, there’s hardly anything there at all. He looks at Porthos now, shifts his hands to cup his face. “I do want to. But please… don’t ask me, Porthos.”
Porthos is quiet, and he frowns. “If you’re in trouble-”
“It’s not that,” Aramis interrupts quickly, stroking his thumbs along Porthos’ cheeks. “I’d tell you if it was.”
“You want to tell me, though?” Porthos says, frowning.
“Yes,” Aramis admits, after a small pause. “Even if you’d probably not forgive me for it.”
Porthos sighs out and closes his eyes to Aramis’ touch. “So then you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
Aramis actually laughs at that, brittle, but at least he leans in and presses his forehead to Porthos’, and Porthos can almost sense the slightest curve of his smile when he speaks.
“Stubborn man,” he says lightly.
“Speak for yourself,” Porthos mutters back. “You don’t have to look like I’m going to kick you. I’m not going to pry.”
It lingers on the edge - the idea that Porthos could just think about it, and realize what it is that Aramis is hiding, realize that Aramis never really can hide. The clues are all there. But Aramis doesn’t want him to know. Not yet.
But Porthos knows he’ll figure it out eventually, or Aramis will tell him himself (either voluntarily or otherwise). So he accepts that. And tightens his hold around Aramis’ shoulders, pulling him down flush against his chest.
“Sorry,” Aramis says quietly.
“Shut up,” he answers and holds him.
They stay like that, for a long time, and don’t say anything more. Porthos is reluctant to let go of Aramis, but he eyes the wine bottle on the table with a kind of absent longing, feeling far too sober for that conversation. Regardless, it seems that silence would be the means for them to pass into the late evening.
But then Aramis says, very quietly, “Do you ever think about it?”
“About what?” Porthos sighs.
“Being a father,” Aramis says, and Porthos very purposefully stops wondering why Aramis keeps asking these kinds of questions.
“Fuck, no.” The words flow out of him in his surprise, however, barking out a kind of stilted laugh. “What kind of father would I be?”
Aramis pulls back sharply, frowning as he looks at him. “A wonderful one,” he says, blunt, insistent. Then he adds, quieter, and apologetic, “Far better than I.”
Porthos snorts. “Bullshit.”
“I mean it.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about it,” Porthos says softly, and looks away. It isn’t so much that it hurts, or even stings, but it’s an aching, old wound. He has no particular longing, not after all these years, and yet he’s surprised by how soft his voice sounds when he speaks the words.
Aramis freezes up, eyes widening, and goes very still for a moment as the words settle between them. “I - damn it, Porthos, I’m sorry.”
Porthos shakes his head quickly before Aramis can feel worse about himself, turning his head again to look up at him, sighing out. “I’ve made my peace with it. Never knew him and barely remember her. It’s fine.”
“That doesn’t make it better.” Aramis slumps again, tugging at his own hair in agitation, mushing it up further. “I spoke without thinking. I only… That really doesn’t make it better.”
“Maybe not,” Porthos murmurs, turning his head to nose against Aramis’ jaw, nuzzling slightly, sliding his hand over his back - trying to soothe him again. “It’s alright. I have my brothers and that’s more than enough - more than I could ever want.”
Aramis blinks rapidly and then nods. “Yes, and you always will.” He sighs out quietly. “I wouldn’t know anything about it, either. Fatherhood.”
He’s thinking of Isabelle, again, and the lost baby. That much is clear, Porthos thinks, and the only explanation for the sudden sadness. Although it does catch Porthos by surprise, ultimately, if only because the encounter at the nunnery was months ago. The sadness comes to Aramis in waves, he knows, sneaking up on him when he least suspects it - but he wonders what it is, now, that’s caused him to linger for so long on it. Or to admit that he is.
Aramis is quiet, eyes lowered, and he burrows into Porthos’ shoulder, staying still and trying to even his breathing. Porthos sighs out, tucking him in close and curling his fingers through his hair, petting through it absently.
“It’s alright.”
“It’s not,” Aramis says quietly, and sighs out, closing his eyes as he presses closer to Porthos, slinging one leg over his hip to press closer to him - not necessarily in any way other than to leech off of Porthos’ body warmth. He melts into him and Porthos is there to hold him. Porthos accepts this, just anchoring him.
He stays still for a long moment, just focusing on Aramis’ breathing - searching for any signs that he might actually cry. None are forthcoming, but Aramis’ hold on him doesn’t lessen.
“I think about it sometimes,” Porthos finally admits when the silence stretches on far too long between them. “Never seriously. I don’t know. Sometimes I think about it.” He shifts a little, suddenly feeling too awkward.
“I think about it all the time,” Aramis admits, too, voice distant and unsure.
He turns his head into Porthos’ shoulder, glancing up at him briefly before shaking his head and closing his eyes.
“Sometimes, it’s all I want.” He laughs. Self-deprecating and odd-sounding, coming from Aramis. “Can you imagine me as a father, though?”
“Yeah,” Porthos says, with no hesitation. “I can. Easily.”
Aramis blinks rapidly a few times, and Porthos brushes his thumb across his cheek.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, and neither of them say anything more.