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rainjoyswritingCradle to the Grave, a men in hats short set in the stupid exorcist AU. I know I owe comment replies, I'm really sorry, and an end to the sodding affinityverse on top of it all; heavy workload right now, which means I'm in quite a lot of pain, and I really am just sulking with fic -_- (Plus, Hallowe'en. When else am I going to update *this* fic?)
Rating: I'm gonna say very light R but disproportionately disturbing for that rating?
Disclaimer: Unless ownership of the characters is being handed for out for a trick or treat, I don't own them, no.
Warnings/spoilers: Always refer to part one, but this part has bad things happening to very young children in it and that is really super disturbing and I am very aware of that and really really don't read it if you don't want to read that really seriously okay thanks <3
Summary: "We're driving through a thousand corpses, with only time between us."
Note: wooo hallowe'en So I promised a recap of the last fic in case anyone just really didn't want to read all the blood, basically, d'Artagnan isn't a Catholic so there was a bit of confusion over how he'll channel his exorcisms, given that Aramis leans on his faith really heavily for that. In the end he picked runes (the Elder Futhark if anyone wants to study along with him), because it doesn't matter *what* you're using as long as you are using some sort of coherent system. Oh and also non-department exorcists are getting murdered as well as the department ones now, happy Hallowe'en! wooooooo
D'Artagnan prefers a day shift - his sleeping patterns can't quite get used to the long nights at the department - but often thinks of the work as more mundane during the days. People call on the night if it's an emergency, but they call during the day because there's ectoplasm coming out of the toilets (he thinks it cost Aramis a lot to forgive him for picking up that call, given that it forced them down the sewers), because a road rage incident involves a werewolf and the police would like appropriate back-up, because a body's been found though the obviously supernatural murderer is long gone, because of what seem like either pettier or certainly less urgent concerns, generally.
Generally. D'Artagnan is really very aware of what is meant by 'generally'.
They're called all the way out to Chatou, because building work in a house, knocking a wall through between the kitchen and dining room, has had to stall due to poltergeist activity. The builders shrug and say they'll come back tomorrow and they'll just have to charge for the extra day, and the owners of the house are furious and frustrated and frightened; they've lived there for years but only now have the taps burst off over the force of unnatural water pressure, all the cutlery is rattling in the drawers, the doors slam open and closed, every glass in the cupboards hums as if circled by an angry damp fingertip.
"They've disturbed something," Aramis says in the car, arms folded and chin tucked low - he yawns, and allows his eyes to close - beside d'Artagnan on the back seat. "Happens all the time. Whole world's lousy with death, we just don't notice it until we happen to nudge it."
D'Artagnan says, "It can't be too dangerous if all it's doing is banging about a bit. And what do you mean, the whole world? I can't hear any death right now."
"Not moving this fast, I shouldn't think you would." Aramis says. "Just do the maths. Humans have been living here in large numbers for - how long? And they've been dying at a very regular rate, throughout the centuries, everywhere, boom, boom, boom. Mostly they don't echo. But every death only needs the wrong poke to wake it right up again." His eyes fall that thoughtful, melancholy way to the view out of the window. "We're driving through a thousand corpses, with only time between us."
D'Artagnan follows his gaze with his spine gone a little cold, but Athos, who's driving, just says, "Must you be so dramatic about it to the boy."
"I'm getting scolded for drama by the brooding champion of France."
"I don't brood."
D'Artagnan mutters to the window, "And I'm not a boy."
Porthos says, "We c'n get coffee afterwards." seeming quite smug to have avoided the three-way sniping going on across the car.
It's a nice house, one of the row of nice townhouses; they're let in to a corridor with family pictures on the walls and a dust sheet covering its floor by a woman, as a man is gathering two small children in their coats to take them outside, both children staring up open-mouthed at the four of them turning up. "Are you a vampire?" the older boy says to Aramis, who grins, and crouches a little, and says, "No, I'm not, I just see ghosts."
"What kind of ghosts?"
"All kinds of ghosts. People ghosts and cat ghosts and dog ghosts and spider ghosts. Just a moment," He flicks at the boy's shoulder as if dislodging some dust. "You have a little something there."
The boy stares at him and then explodes into giggles, his younger brother crowing, "You had a ghost on you, you, you had a spider ghost on you -" and the man, looking harassed, gets both children out by using his outspread arms like shepherds' crooks. The four of them have to press awkwardly to the walls to let them past, and d'Artagnan knows there's something wrong in this house, he just has this feeling. It's not in him but in the air, so hard to explain, the feeling that something is screaming to breathe but silently, because there is nothing to breathe. The endless sucking for no air, forever.
The woman folds her arms and looks them up and down, then nods at the door at the far end of the corridor, beyond the staircase. "It's in the kitchen. It keeps-"
There are three great shattering bangs, like something enormous is striking a drumstick the size of a telegraph pole off the roof. Porthos jumps, Athos flicks his glance to the kitchen door, Aramis gives no indication of even having heard them; the woman just throws her hands up, says, "As if it's not enough that the builders track all that dirt and dust through -"
"We won't trouble you much longer, madame." Aramis says, smiling for her - a little tightly, d'Artagnan knows how to note - and he walks down the corridor, and opens the door.
They follow him in. It's a big enough kitchen, four times the size of theirs, but it'll be huge when the wall has been knocked through. A little work has started, they can see through the tiles and plaster to a hole in the wood, everything dust sheets and dust chaos. And that feeling d'Artagnan had in the hallway -
His own lungs clench dry, like something is trying to breathe through him, and that thing can't breathe.
Aramis crosses himself almost absently, and his eyes have already focused on a certain spot on the wall. D'Artagnan forces himself to swallow, to remember the techniques Aramis has taught him to keep control of his own body in situations like this; he flicks the inside of his wrist to divert his attention back to his own very human body, and does it a few more times when it doesn't work enough at first.
Behind his shoulder, trying not to look miserable - Porthos hates ghosts, it's his least favourite part of the job - Porthos says, "C'n you get rid of it?"
Aramis looks at some of the heavier workmen's tools they must have left for tomorrow, on the sheet-covered sideboard. Athos, at his side, clearly leery to not be close even in the face of danger Athos could do little about, says, "Aramis?"
Aramis looks back at d'Artagnan, says, "What can you feel?"
D'Artagnan tries to articulate it, is aware that his mouth is moving without knowing what to say for some time. He eventually manages, "It can't breathe."
Aramis nods, slowly, almost thoughtfully, says, "Where? Don't go looking if it feels dangerous to open yourself to it."
D'Artagnan stares at him, then breathes out through his nose, and closes his eyes, and traces on his own left palm, over and over, the shape of Algiz, for protection. And he draws his breath in, and feels -
He jolts back with a snort of sickness, the great open chasm before him a howl of incomprehending no, and Porthos steadies him from behind. "Don't try again." Aramis says softly. "I only wanted to . . . I'll explain it later. I would appreciate - for this -" He looks at Porthos, at Athos - "if you would wait outside, for this. All of you. Please."
"Aramis," Athos says, in the first and lowest grade of his warning voice.
"I'm in no danger." Aramis says. "This will just be easier, alone. Please. Take the boy out, I won't be long."
D'Artagnan can tell from the feel of Porthos' hands on his shoulders that he's happy to leave, and d'Artagnan himself is beginning to feel a placeless panic at being in this room, the failure to breathe that the air itself is, it's enough to make him too entirely uneasy to even think to state that he is not a boy. It's Athos who says again, a hesitant tone suggesting that the second grade of his warning voice may be utilised soon, "Aramis . . ."
"You will know if anything happens to me," Aramis says, taking and pressing Athos' hand; 'you will know', of course Athos will. "Take d'Artagnan out, please, this isn't - he's not ready for this yet."
"I think I've seen enough to be ready for most things." d'Artagnan says, and Aramis says, "Not this. I'll explain later."
Athos says, "We would all really rather that you explain now." and a kitchen drawer shoots open, slams closed again, and Porthos' back jolts straight, and the lance of it stabs right behind d'Artagnan's left eyebrow. He rubs at his forehead, grimacing, and Aramis looks half impatient, half despairing.
"And while I explain there's all this, will you just - how many years have you known me do this for, Athos, do you think I don't know what I'm doing?"
It's not that, d'Artagnan knows, trying to force himself to breathe steady, flicking and flicking at the inside of his wrist to not get carried away in the panic of someone else's lack of breath. It's that anything, in their line of work, could be the last thing; the most mundane task in the world, to an exorcist in Paris, could be the last thing they ever get to do. But Athos must be able to feel Aramis feeling all this, or something like it, some echo of the way d'Artagnan (flick) is telling himself (flick) to breathe - (flick) - breathe - (flick) - don't get distracted, breathe -
"Fine." Athos says shortly, as one of the ceiling lights overhead begins to swing in no obvious wind, and Porthos opens the door to leave again immediately. D'Artagnan says, "I could just watch -"
"No," Aramis says, his eyes on his - hard to read, so complicatedly, strangely sad. "I promise I will explain afterwards. But for this I really would appreciate the privacy, d'Artagnan, and -" he gives d'Artagnan a hearty pat to the centre of the chest and d'Artagnan sucks a breath in, having forgotten for a moment to do so - "I can't remind you to breathe, concentrating on this." He looks at Athos. "Don't come in unless you feel that I need you to, whatever you hear. I promise you I have it under control unless you know I don't."
D'Artagnan looks into his eyes for a long moment, and then Athos takes his arm in a cool hand, says, "Give him his space." and d'Artagnan can only, hesitantly, follow him out of the room. They close the door behind themselves.
D'Artagnan says, "What do you think it is?"
Porthos folds his arms and shrugs, not caring so long as it's taken care of quickly. Athos says, "I felt nothing infernal in there, so I presume only a ghost. Are you alright?"
"Of course I am."
"You look pale."
"Pot." d'Artagnan says flatly. "Kettle."
"Vampire," Athos says indifferently, as if he was only being polite in asking anyway, looking as if depressed by it at a painting on the wall.
Behind the kitchen door there have been a couple of odd sounds; now there's a - a wrenching sort of bang, and another, and then a straining, snapping -
Athos puts a hand on d'Artagnan's chest when he tries to turn and get past him for the door. "He asked for privacy." Athos says.
"What the hell was-"
"Aramis." Athos says. "I assume he knows what he's doing."
"Putting their new kitchen in for them by the sounds of it," Porthos says, aiming for levity, rubbing his arms.
Some more twisted snapping noises, and something again bangs the air itself like a giant's spade being hammered off the roof of the house, but the kitchen's gone almost quiet again. D'Artagnan wishes Athos weren't between him and the door, he could at least listen, then; the lack of breath is still in the air, straining with no rhythm (without breath there can be no rhythm) for oxygen. But there's something else now. Something as yet muted behind the lack of air, there'd be another feeling if something other than suffocation could be felt . . .
He flicks his wrist, draws Algiz, and Algiz again because he's uneasy; then, tentatively, Ansuz.
It doesn't help. He can hear, very muted, the sound of Aramis' voice behind the door, oddly musical. He draws Algiz, Algiz, Ansuz; still when he tries to feel out, all he feels is that something can't breathe.
If you protect yourself too much, he thinks, wetting his lips, nothing can get through.
He draws Ansuz, Mannaz, Ansuz . . .
He can't hear Aramis any better. But he can hear something else, some odd strange high noise, not rhythmic, long then stuttered short then long. Odd. Like a kitten crying.
That feeling like something can't breathe is fading back. The walls give a single almost uncertain bang, and Porthos looks at them warily, but d'Artagnan thinks it's the dying throes of it because there is something like peace, now. He closes his eyes, feels out, feels something like curiosity, and a lollingness, no desire for anything in particular, mere existence, and he draws his runes, draws his runes, and listens; gradually he feels a contentment so passionate it's like no emotion d'Artagnan could have named, a sort of furious, joyful satisfaction in a mere current state, no conception even to desire more than this; then nothing . . .
They wait. Athos looks at d'Artagnan, and d'Artagnan shrugs. It's done.
Athos puts his hand to the door handle, then pauses, and knocks instead of turning it. There's a pause then before Aramis' voice calls, with a quick clearing of the throat, "Alright."
Athos opens the door, and his step in stops, so d'Artagnan bumps his back and Porthos leans to see over them both. Aramis - he's sitting, d'Artagnan can see that, on one of the kitchen chairs, and he's got something on his lap. "There's a blanket, in the boot of the car." Aramis says. "If someone could fetch it. It's cleaner than this thing. Poor thing," added so very softly, as Porthos hesitantly moves away, back down the corridor for the front door, and Athos drops the door handle, and walks slowly towards his exorcist.
Aramis is looking at the thing on his lap, wrapped in one of the dust sheets from the sideboard. It's - d'Artagnan's instinct is to recoil and he fights it only because the counter-instinct snaps in just as hard, the instinct to not cause upset to what he now knows caused all of that chaos: Aramis is holding the desiccated body of a baby in that sheet, some tiny thing brown with age and shrivelled, bird-like bones and parchment skin. He's holding it, tucked in his arms, as tenderly as if it's new born, but there's a tension to his back, and Athos puts a hand on his shoulder.
D'Artagnan looks around mostly to stop himself from staring at that baby's body. The wall the builders were working on has a large, messier hole in it, Aramis himself must have attacked it, knowing exactly where he needed to. He found the body in there, took it out, and - and spirits leave, d'Artagnan knows, when they get what they want; and he remembers that odd edge of Aramis' voice they could catch from outside. It sounded like he was singing.
The corridor outside creaks with Porthos' return, and he holds the blanket out to Aramis, a little uncertain of the body he's holding. "Here," he says.
"Thank you," Aramis says, catching the body's weight back in his arm, gently unfolding the wrap of the sheet. "Something softer for you, little one." he promises quietly. "Something kinder."
"We'll have to contact the police." Athos says.
"That thing's ancient," d'Artagnan says. "Whoever killed it's long dead themselves."
"Still." Athos says. "Protocol."
Aramis wraps the baby, gentle as if handling dandelion clocks, in its new blankets; still he leaves the face showing, as if it's a living child, and d'Artagnan is partly repulsed but does understand the necessity, before they remove it from this place where it's so close to its own death that its spirit's angry resurrection could be jolted on by any careless action. "The police," Aramis says, softly. "And Treville. And if it's all the same to him, I would like an early end to the shift, if no-one else objects."
*
The room the three of them usually sleep in is officially Porthos' room, originally Porthos' room, and so Athos tends to knock, tends not to enter it if Aramis isn't already in it or inviting him into it; that afternoon he walks in with Porthos, because they know they'll need to have this talk away from the boy, once Aramis has finished his lesson in what used to be his own room. Something needs to be said. They saw Aramis' face, in that kitchen. Athos felt it.
Porthos sits in the desk chair and rubs angrily at the back of his hair, says, "He upset or angry or what?"
"He'll tell us himself," Athos says mildly, and has no intention of handing Aramis' feelings away as public property if the man himself doesn't offer them; everyone else has the right of internal privacy, the blood between them never gave everyone else entitlement to the insides of Aramis' heart.
What Aramis feels now, at this exact moment, is a tiredness sunk through the muscle into the marrow, a great overwhelming tiredness. He's showered - extensively - and then sat with the boy, to talk over the afternoon's events, while Athos and Porthos drew out a cafetière of coffee outside. Athos is patient as vampires are patient, but Porthos is rather strained by all this, hates dealing with ghosts to begin with and neither of them were prepared to walk in on Aramis cradling a baby's corpse. "Sit down," Porthos says gruffly, gesturing at the bed, every movement a little too sharp with impatience.
"I don't need to sit," Athos points out, "but thank you."
Dead muscles don't get tired. Porthos just gives him a long look, and folds his arms, and Athos sits on the edge of the bed and looks past him, out of the window. He knows it's a strange situation, the two of them waiting for their lover to come in to talk to them, the two of them waiting for the exorcist they share. They like each other well enough in their way, Athos and Porthos, but occasionally they strain on the different things they want for Aramis. Probably it looks unfair, to Porthos. Athos knows that Aramis is just so, so tired, the tiredness that only comes through a surfeit of sadness, and all Porthos knows is that he's seemed quiet and gloomy since they handed the child's body over to the police - since Aramis did it, very defensively. The police officer was annoyed at the blankets, at the disturbance of the scene, the contamination of forensic evidence; Aramis stood, holding the body as if it were still a breathing baby in his arms, and made clear with his voice low and his eyes fierce black that if the child were not treated as a child, as it never was in life, there would be hell to pay. And people tend to hesitate, when an exorcist uses a word like 'hell'.
Probably Porthos thinks it's unfair, that Athos has access to what Aramis is feeling and he doesn't. Athos thinks it's unfair as well, given that he and Aramis hardly set out to put themselves into this situation. He does the best he can with it, respects what he can of Aramis' privacy, tries not to overload Aramis with his own emotions. He knows they have an imperfect solution to their problem, but that's only because there is no perfect solution. Fucking feelings are too messy to ever admit of that even under optimum circumstances.
Athos feels for him now, his exorcist. He feels the tension, the avoidance of embarrassment, of his having to explain something he doesn't want to explain without giving too much of himself away with it; it's a subtle emotion but one Athos knows quite well, he feels similar in Aramis whenever d'Artagnan asks him an indelicate question about vampires in front of Athos, or they have to talk about the matter of blood in public. Usually, it's Athos' sense of privacy Aramis is awkwardly trying to defend. Aramis himself, Athos had always thought, was rather an open book. And he is, to Athos, in terms of his emotional life at least, though he frequently does feel things that Athos doesn't understand. His affection for children is one thing Athos has never understood, he would really rather an unpredictable, sticky little creature was kept away from him until old enough for reasonable conversation but Aramis seems to take such delight in them, sticky little hands and all. And yes, sometimes Aramis is sad, he has a streak of melancholy in him that Athos had merely thought was something everyone felt sometimes, especially people believing themselves possessed of a poetic soul as Aramis clearly does. He feels a distant sort of sadness himself, when he thinks back to long ago. Athos has always accepted that things have happened to Aramis, before they even met, that made him sometimes sad.
He looks at the photograph of dead exorcists Aramis keeps like a shrine on Porthos' wall, the cold candles beneath it on one of Porthos' speakers, the rosaries he hangs from its corners. Yes. Aramis has reasons to be sad sometimes.
Sad like this . . . ?
Porthos follows his gaze to the photograph, then looks away again. "Dunno why he keeps that thing out like that," he mutters. "I'm not sayin' I'd get rid of it but I'd stick it in a drawer or something."
"He's a Catholic," Athos says. "He understands martyrdom."
"Dead is dead." Porthos says. "Martyrs, hell. S'not like the poor bastards asked for it."
They hear a door handle outside, look at one another and then away again, affecting the poses of men who haven't just been talking about Aramis as he opens the door, looks in on them, closes the door behind himself. He stands there waiting for them to say something for a moment but they don't - Athos is patient, Porthos presumably unsure what to say - and in the face of their silence Aramis puts his head back so it lolls wearily on his neck, staring up at the ceiling, and he sighs heavily. Then he walks over to the bed beside Athos, touches his cheek almost apologetically, says, "I'm tired." and climbs on the bed past him, settling himself out full length, arms folded behind his head on the pillow.
Porthos swats at his shin, says, "Shoes."
"You untie them if you care so much." Aramis says, eyes closed to the ceiling.
Porthos is beginning to look actually pissed off, and so Athos has to not sigh because vampires don't very often and they both look at him when he does, and instead he leans over, and begins unlacing Aramis' shoes himself. He says, "Do you want to talk?"
Athos already knows he doesn't, Aramis isn't acting any of how tired he is, but he opens his eyes, slow to the ceiling, troubled and still sad both on the inside and on his face. He says, "I don't suppose this is one of those occasions where I really can say no."
Athos says, "You can always say no." and takes one of his shoes off, and places it beside the bed.
Aramis stares at the ceiling for a little longer, long, drowsy gaze sword-straight under his lashes. Then he says, "It was premature, the baby. Whoever put it in the wall - maybe they didn't like to bury it in the garden, maybe they didn't want the neighbours seeing, we'll never know. But whoever put it in the wall, I don't know if they thought it was but it - it wasn't dead yet. They nailed it in, covered it in plaster and tiles and . . . it died in there, alone, and it never in its life knew one moment of love. I don't suppose we'll ever know why. I suppose all that matters now is that it's at peace."
Porthos shifts in his seat. "How'd you know it was premature?"
Aramis sighs again, draws the breath in through his nose and lets it out slow. "It was too small," he says. "I read a lot about the stages of development of a foetus, when I was a kid. When I was a teenager, at least." He looks at the ceiling, dark distant eyes, and he has the feel on the inside that Athos recognises as his specifically not thinking about Athos, thinking about something far away from Athos; memories from before he knew Athos existed. "I had a baby, once." His eyes slide off the ceiling, dark and distant. "Almost."
Porthos doesn't move. Athos lowers Aramis' other shoe to the floor, then sits beside him on the bed, twisted to face him, and is uncertain of how to touch him, whether to touch him. He says, "Aramis?"
"My girlfriend," Aramis says. "When I was in high school. She got pregnant, all of our parents . . . it was a big mess." He waves a hand and lets it drop again, Athos can feel how heavy exhaustion has made it to him. "But she . . . she wanted to go to university, she didn't want - I knew she didn't want a baby. She didn't want to keep it. And I know that's her decision to make, I do know that. So I just told her, if she did have it, she wouldn't be bound by it in any way. I would look after it. I didn't mind dropping out to look after a baby instead, it was already obvious I wasn't going to be any sort of academic star. If she'd have it, I would take it. I offered her those terms in particular after seeing the look on her face when I'd asked her to marry me," with a twitch of his smile, not truly amused. "We were already over, she'd never loved me like that. But she agreed. She would have the baby, I would take it, and she would go back to school and get on with her life and have what interactions she wanted with the child without ever being forced to abandon her dreams for it. And I would get a baby."
Aramis' mouth twitches, some true honest joy in it at that thought, but so much else as well. He closes his eyes, still looking very relaxed, but Athos can feel the twist like metal wire, sharp enough to garrotte, on the inside. "She miscarried a few months later. And she went off to university and I went off to join the army and . . . well, my entire life would have been different, otherwise. I would never have come to Paris. I would never even have met the two of you."
Porthos says, quietly, "You never said."
"It's never really come up. It's not like other conversations, is it? There's a time to tell someone you'd rather do the washing up than the laundry and a time to tell them you're not into feet and a time to tell them you snore but not . . . not that . . ."
"That you are a parent," Athos offers, since Aramis seems to not know the words for it. "Though the child was stolen from you."
Because that is what he feels. Athos knows it. That pain, that is not mere regret. That is grief like a gag tied over a scream, grief like a diamond split, and oh, his exorcist; all they'd ever thought he'd had to walk away from was all those massacred exorcists . . .
Aramis is silent, then says, "Yes." and rolls onto his side, to face Athos, eyes fixed closed. He has the least to lose, in facing Athos. Athos can already feel it all.
Porthos says, quiet and gruff, "You should've said. We would never've made you -"
"We haven't enough exorcists in the department for me to make a fuss and expect someone else to come all the way out. And it needed someone - it needed someone who could give it what it really needed. That poor child."
Athos outstretches his hand and trails his knuckles, gently, along Aramis' forehead, along that fine scar there, just brushing his ever-unruly hair. "Yes," he says, and he doesn't have to say anything else, Aramis can feel it, that small confused knot inside Athos, that cynic as he is and long used to humans and their ways, he understands why someone could put a child into a makeshift grave without ever so much as caring about it, and yet at the same time he thinks of what it means to Aramis and can't understand how someone could act as if a child mattered no more than potato peelings or coffee grounds, something merely to be discarded.
Aramis lays there, muscles held just slightly too tense, eyes still pressed just too tightly closed. "You'll fuss now," he says. "It would have been better not to say anything."
He doesn't mean it. Athos looks over Aramis' shoulder at Porthos, who looks at the back of Aramis' head and clearly has no idea what to do, then says, "No it wouldn't." and gets up, sits on the edge of the bed at his back, rubs roughly at Aramis' back between his shoulder blades. "An' of course we fuss. It's 'cause we love you, an' we never knew . . ."
"I'm alright," Aramis says. "Aren't I always alright?"
"You are a genius for coping," Athos allows. "But that does not mean the same thing as being alright."
Aramis opens his eyes to stare at him, and for one second, Athos does think he's going to cry, he feels the sting of it so strangely piercing at his own eyes. But then Aramis smiles instead, and says, "Porthos, remember this moment; Athos finally acknowledged my genius."
"At actin' like there's nothing wrong," Porthos grumbles, rolling Aramis onto his back by the shoulder to lean and look down at his face. "You really alright?" he says. "What d'you need?"
Aramis looks up at him, from no distance away at all, such little distance he doesn't even need to lean to lace his arms around Porthos' neck to draw him down for the kiss. Athos tells himself that he will allow this as long as it doesn't turn into a true distraction from what they were actually trying to talk about, for once.
Afterwards - Aramis drew Athos into proceedings, of course, and he knows the afterwards is Aramis' favourite part, sandwiched between the two of them with a heart beating fast at one side of his head, and hardly at all at the other - Aramis holds onto their arms slung over his stomach from either side, keeping them in place, and he says to the ceiling, "Do you think the boy can hear us?"
Porthos mutters, "I think Charlemagne et ses Leudes can hear us when you're keen."
Aramis chides back, "Not everyone has a werewolf's hearing."
"Then why're you askin' me?"
Athos says, "The walls are reasonably thick, and he only has a human's senses." He runs his hand down Aramis' arm, he'd wonder how his skin kept so soft if he didn't know that it's because of the moisturiser Aramis thinks other men are idiots for not using. "Aramis, the child . . ."
"I'm alright," Aramis says, gently. "I honestly am. I feel better, for the two of you . . ." He wrinkles his face, relaxes it like a shrug. "Knowing, I suppose. I - it wasn't like I was hiding it -"
"No, of course -"
"We all got -"
"- but it was hard to bring up." He does shrug under their arms then, very gently shifting their three bodies on the bed. "'Not to ruin the mood or anything but once when I was a teenager' -"
"You can always speak to us," Athos says, his thumb brushing at the mystery of the soft of his skin, yes, but the warmth of it, the way he allows Athos' cold touch like he enjoys it. "We don't only want you for a certain 'mood'."
Porthos sniffs at Aramis' hair as if he agrees, and Aramis' smile quirks, he stretches and relaxes between them. "I'm alright, here and now." he says, voice more relaxed now. "Do you believe me?"
Silence. Porthos isn't reading Aramis' tone and body language, Athos knows. He's waiting for Athos' verdict from the inside.
"Yes," he says, because he feels the quiet settled happy soul of Aramis right now, like a candle warming a dim room, a quiet golden glow, the contentment of him.
"I haven't lived as long as you," Aramis says, hand settling over Athos' at his waist, and pressing. "And I don't always know what the early years were for you," he adds, his other hand on Porthos' wrist, and his eyes on his. "But the things that happened to me, before, I can use them now, I suppose I have to, in a job like mine. I walk with Death, and I need a life like mine to do that. I need to know how to comfort a little child, not just 'knowing' but from the heart, knowing. Wanting to. And all those exorcists at the college . . ." His eyes are distant. "You understand, don't you? I need that. To keep moving forwards. I don't want to wipe it all out. Now I have the both of you I understand how to live with it."
Athos knows that what he's talking about now isn't just what is contained within the words. He doesn't change his face, or tense, and he has no true breath to catch. To indicate his nonchalance in the face of it, all he does is stroke with his thumb at Aramis' stomach, as if for no reason more than soothing.
If Aramis were a vampire, gifted a life as long as he can manage without decapitation - which in most instances is a decent amount of time, Athos grants, he's managed quite a few centuries himself without for a long period even wanting to - he would be strong, and healthy, and he would see better by night, and hear the heartbeats of those who might intend to attack him. But he couldn't be an exorcist, that is not given to vampires. For all that his senses would sharpen they would blunt, too. He would lose so many of the voices he hears now. He would see less. And, more, he would feel less, and it's always the way Aramis feels things that Athos associates with him the most, of course he's an exorcist, a heart as peeled-open to the air as Aramis' is, of course the dead can touch it and leave a sting, of course they do.
And if he were a werewolf - if he changed once a month, if his eyes sharpened, his nostrils became sensitive as exposed nerves, his hearing clarified until he had no need to put his head to Athos' chest to confirm the eventual bump that he feels in his own chest, if he were a werewolf and strong and immune to illness and his life extended beyond that of a human's, maybe twice as long, maybe Athos would get near a full century with him - even then there are things that would be taken from him. The moon might call him but the dead no longer would. His fur would shield him from the cold of their touch. Perhaps it would be fair; the blood between them, Athos thinks that Porthos would like if he and Aramis had something to point to themselves, something that no external party could deny, as proof of what they are to each other despite anything else. But if they had that, Aramis would have to give up more than most do, and Athos knows how he would feel it.
Aramis is an exorcist. He didn't ask for it, he was born to it, which Athos does think makes it different in its way to being a werewolf or a vampire. He suspects werewolfism was forced on Porthos, not so many choose it unless some desperate circumstance pushes them towards it. His own vampirism was an 'inheritance' of his family, and he knows Aramis who has studied this must know what it means; when he was of age, his father turned him, but Athos always could have fled it. He might have been tracked down and killed for it, or brutalised by some village mob when they realised who he was, but there was some element of choice there, even if an extremely reduced one. But Aramis discovered that he simply was an exorcist, it is who he is, and he could have feared it but Aramis thinks that God decides these things, and embraced it quite cheerfully. And then the college, and then the massacre . . .
Aramis wouldn't change the life he's had, not even the parts that have pained him like a nail put through the flesh. And he won't change the risks he faces, or even the death he might face at the end of it all. He is willing to die an exorcist, and, respectfully, he declines the offer of their teeth. He isn't afraid of suffering. Only sorry for it, and the fragility of his life, and the brevity of it.
Athos says, "If we can be a comfort to you, I'm glad."
Quietly, "I'm sorry if I can't be much in return."
Sorry for the fragility of his life, and the brevity of it. Athos, who might live a millennia more alone, closes his eyes, and the chasm of it yawns at his feet. He could make it go away, he could keep him so easily, if he just opened Aramis' skin with his teeth and forced his own stale blood between his lips.
But he wouldn't deserve him, then. That rises as the stronger feeling, listening to Aramis' heart beating in Athos' own chest. He would rather be worthy of him and alone than own him and yet be undeserving. He feels vertigo in that moment, dizzy on his side in bed, on the realisation that history does repeat itself, that he's been exactly, exactly here before . . .
Aramis raises his head, and touches Athos' shoulder. Athos says, "I'm alright. And you have nothing to apologise for. Being human is no fault and neither is being an exorcist. I thought that was the point of the 'modern' world, the belief that no-one should suffer abuse for merely being what they are."
Aramis runs his hand down through his chest hair, voice coming lightly teasing now. "I love the way you say 'modern' like that."
"I've seen a lot of 'modern's go by."
Porthos says over his shoulder, "You're alright, then?" and rubs at Aramis' arm. "You gonna sleep?"
"Mmm, it's still early." Aramis yawns despite the words, and kisses the closest patch of skin; Athos' shoulder. "What about round two?"
"Just to kill time?"
Athos says, "You can't be capable."
"Hm. You'll never know if you don't try me."
Yes, Athos thinks, looking down into the sprightly dark of Aramis' eyes as he grins back. He's alright. He knows how to live with death. It's not that Aramis isn't troubled by death, it's just that Aramis knows how to deal with being troubled by it, and someone this alive really is the perfect foil against all the rising silence of the grave.
Porthos says low, "Just cuddlin's nice though."
Quiet, and then Athos feels the settling joy in Aramis, a profoundly peaceful joy, that he knows himself utterly where he wants to be, between them with his heart fresh-spilled out for them and they still hold him. His cheek settles comfortable to Athos' shoulder, and he tucks Porthos' arm closer around himself in his own. "Yes," he says, the vibrations of his voice humming into Athos' arm from his living, breathing, beating chest. "It is."
Rating: I'm gonna say very light R but disproportionately disturbing for that rating?
Disclaimer: Unless ownership of the characters is being handed for out for a trick or treat, I don't own them, no.
Warnings/spoilers: Always refer to part one, but this part has bad things happening to very young children in it and that is really super disturbing and I am very aware of that and really really don't read it if you don't want to read that really seriously okay thanks <3
Summary: "We're driving through a thousand corpses, with only time between us."
Note: wooo hallowe'en So I promised a recap of the last fic in case anyone just really didn't want to read all the blood, basically, d'Artagnan isn't a Catholic so there was a bit of confusion over how he'll channel his exorcisms, given that Aramis leans on his faith really heavily for that. In the end he picked runes (the Elder Futhark if anyone wants to study along with him), because it doesn't matter *what* you're using as long as you are using some sort of coherent system. Oh and also non-department exorcists are getting murdered as well as the department ones now, happy Hallowe'en! wooooooo
D'Artagnan prefers a day shift - his sleeping patterns can't quite get used to the long nights at the department - but often thinks of the work as more mundane during the days. People call on the night if it's an emergency, but they call during the day because there's ectoplasm coming out of the toilets (he thinks it cost Aramis a lot to forgive him for picking up that call, given that it forced them down the sewers), because a road rage incident involves a werewolf and the police would like appropriate back-up, because a body's been found though the obviously supernatural murderer is long gone, because of what seem like either pettier or certainly less urgent concerns, generally.
Generally. D'Artagnan is really very aware of what is meant by 'generally'.
They're called all the way out to Chatou, because building work in a house, knocking a wall through between the kitchen and dining room, has had to stall due to poltergeist activity. The builders shrug and say they'll come back tomorrow and they'll just have to charge for the extra day, and the owners of the house are furious and frustrated and frightened; they've lived there for years but only now have the taps burst off over the force of unnatural water pressure, all the cutlery is rattling in the drawers, the doors slam open and closed, every glass in the cupboards hums as if circled by an angry damp fingertip.
"They've disturbed something," Aramis says in the car, arms folded and chin tucked low - he yawns, and allows his eyes to close - beside d'Artagnan on the back seat. "Happens all the time. Whole world's lousy with death, we just don't notice it until we happen to nudge it."
D'Artagnan says, "It can't be too dangerous if all it's doing is banging about a bit. And what do you mean, the whole world? I can't hear any death right now."
"Not moving this fast, I shouldn't think you would." Aramis says. "Just do the maths. Humans have been living here in large numbers for - how long? And they've been dying at a very regular rate, throughout the centuries, everywhere, boom, boom, boom. Mostly they don't echo. But every death only needs the wrong poke to wake it right up again." His eyes fall that thoughtful, melancholy way to the view out of the window. "We're driving through a thousand corpses, with only time between us."
D'Artagnan follows his gaze with his spine gone a little cold, but Athos, who's driving, just says, "Must you be so dramatic about it to the boy."
"I'm getting scolded for drama by the brooding champion of France."
"I don't brood."
D'Artagnan mutters to the window, "And I'm not a boy."
Porthos says, "We c'n get coffee afterwards." seeming quite smug to have avoided the three-way sniping going on across the car.
It's a nice house, one of the row of nice townhouses; they're let in to a corridor with family pictures on the walls and a dust sheet covering its floor by a woman, as a man is gathering two small children in their coats to take them outside, both children staring up open-mouthed at the four of them turning up. "Are you a vampire?" the older boy says to Aramis, who grins, and crouches a little, and says, "No, I'm not, I just see ghosts."
"What kind of ghosts?"
"All kinds of ghosts. People ghosts and cat ghosts and dog ghosts and spider ghosts. Just a moment," He flicks at the boy's shoulder as if dislodging some dust. "You have a little something there."
The boy stares at him and then explodes into giggles, his younger brother crowing, "You had a ghost on you, you, you had a spider ghost on you -" and the man, looking harassed, gets both children out by using his outspread arms like shepherds' crooks. The four of them have to press awkwardly to the walls to let them past, and d'Artagnan knows there's something wrong in this house, he just has this feeling. It's not in him but in the air, so hard to explain, the feeling that something is screaming to breathe but silently, because there is nothing to breathe. The endless sucking for no air, forever.
The woman folds her arms and looks them up and down, then nods at the door at the far end of the corridor, beyond the staircase. "It's in the kitchen. It keeps-"
There are three great shattering bangs, like something enormous is striking a drumstick the size of a telegraph pole off the roof. Porthos jumps, Athos flicks his glance to the kitchen door, Aramis gives no indication of even having heard them; the woman just throws her hands up, says, "As if it's not enough that the builders track all that dirt and dust through -"
"We won't trouble you much longer, madame." Aramis says, smiling for her - a little tightly, d'Artagnan knows how to note - and he walks down the corridor, and opens the door.
They follow him in. It's a big enough kitchen, four times the size of theirs, but it'll be huge when the wall has been knocked through. A little work has started, they can see through the tiles and plaster to a hole in the wood, everything dust sheets and dust chaos. And that feeling d'Artagnan had in the hallway -
His own lungs clench dry, like something is trying to breathe through him, and that thing can't breathe.
Aramis crosses himself almost absently, and his eyes have already focused on a certain spot on the wall. D'Artagnan forces himself to swallow, to remember the techniques Aramis has taught him to keep control of his own body in situations like this; he flicks the inside of his wrist to divert his attention back to his own very human body, and does it a few more times when it doesn't work enough at first.
Behind his shoulder, trying not to look miserable - Porthos hates ghosts, it's his least favourite part of the job - Porthos says, "C'n you get rid of it?"
Aramis looks at some of the heavier workmen's tools they must have left for tomorrow, on the sheet-covered sideboard. Athos, at his side, clearly leery to not be close even in the face of danger Athos could do little about, says, "Aramis?"
Aramis looks back at d'Artagnan, says, "What can you feel?"
D'Artagnan tries to articulate it, is aware that his mouth is moving without knowing what to say for some time. He eventually manages, "It can't breathe."
Aramis nods, slowly, almost thoughtfully, says, "Where? Don't go looking if it feels dangerous to open yourself to it."
D'Artagnan stares at him, then breathes out through his nose, and closes his eyes, and traces on his own left palm, over and over, the shape of Algiz, for protection. And he draws his breath in, and feels -
He jolts back with a snort of sickness, the great open chasm before him a howl of incomprehending no, and Porthos steadies him from behind. "Don't try again." Aramis says softly. "I only wanted to . . . I'll explain it later. I would appreciate - for this -" He looks at Porthos, at Athos - "if you would wait outside, for this. All of you. Please."
"Aramis," Athos says, in the first and lowest grade of his warning voice.
"I'm in no danger." Aramis says. "This will just be easier, alone. Please. Take the boy out, I won't be long."
D'Artagnan can tell from the feel of Porthos' hands on his shoulders that he's happy to leave, and d'Artagnan himself is beginning to feel a placeless panic at being in this room, the failure to breathe that the air itself is, it's enough to make him too entirely uneasy to even think to state that he is not a boy. It's Athos who says again, a hesitant tone suggesting that the second grade of his warning voice may be utilised soon, "Aramis . . ."
"You will know if anything happens to me," Aramis says, taking and pressing Athos' hand; 'you will know', of course Athos will. "Take d'Artagnan out, please, this isn't - he's not ready for this yet."
"I think I've seen enough to be ready for most things." d'Artagnan says, and Aramis says, "Not this. I'll explain later."
Athos says, "We would all really rather that you explain now." and a kitchen drawer shoots open, slams closed again, and Porthos' back jolts straight, and the lance of it stabs right behind d'Artagnan's left eyebrow. He rubs at his forehead, grimacing, and Aramis looks half impatient, half despairing.
"And while I explain there's all this, will you just - how many years have you known me do this for, Athos, do you think I don't know what I'm doing?"
It's not that, d'Artagnan knows, trying to force himself to breathe steady, flicking and flicking at the inside of his wrist to not get carried away in the panic of someone else's lack of breath. It's that anything, in their line of work, could be the last thing; the most mundane task in the world, to an exorcist in Paris, could be the last thing they ever get to do. But Athos must be able to feel Aramis feeling all this, or something like it, some echo of the way d'Artagnan (flick) is telling himself (flick) to breathe - (flick) - breathe - (flick) - don't get distracted, breathe -
"Fine." Athos says shortly, as one of the ceiling lights overhead begins to swing in no obvious wind, and Porthos opens the door to leave again immediately. D'Artagnan says, "I could just watch -"
"No," Aramis says, his eyes on his - hard to read, so complicatedly, strangely sad. "I promise I will explain afterwards. But for this I really would appreciate the privacy, d'Artagnan, and -" he gives d'Artagnan a hearty pat to the centre of the chest and d'Artagnan sucks a breath in, having forgotten for a moment to do so - "I can't remind you to breathe, concentrating on this." He looks at Athos. "Don't come in unless you feel that I need you to, whatever you hear. I promise you I have it under control unless you know I don't."
D'Artagnan looks into his eyes for a long moment, and then Athos takes his arm in a cool hand, says, "Give him his space." and d'Artagnan can only, hesitantly, follow him out of the room. They close the door behind themselves.
D'Artagnan says, "What do you think it is?"
Porthos folds his arms and shrugs, not caring so long as it's taken care of quickly. Athos says, "I felt nothing infernal in there, so I presume only a ghost. Are you alright?"
"Of course I am."
"You look pale."
"Pot." d'Artagnan says flatly. "Kettle."
"Vampire," Athos says indifferently, as if he was only being polite in asking anyway, looking as if depressed by it at a painting on the wall.
Behind the kitchen door there have been a couple of odd sounds; now there's a - a wrenching sort of bang, and another, and then a straining, snapping -
Athos puts a hand on d'Artagnan's chest when he tries to turn and get past him for the door. "He asked for privacy." Athos says.
"What the hell was-"
"Aramis." Athos says. "I assume he knows what he's doing."
"Putting their new kitchen in for them by the sounds of it," Porthos says, aiming for levity, rubbing his arms.
Some more twisted snapping noises, and something again bangs the air itself like a giant's spade being hammered off the roof of the house, but the kitchen's gone almost quiet again. D'Artagnan wishes Athos weren't between him and the door, he could at least listen, then; the lack of breath is still in the air, straining with no rhythm (without breath there can be no rhythm) for oxygen. But there's something else now. Something as yet muted behind the lack of air, there'd be another feeling if something other than suffocation could be felt . . .
He flicks his wrist, draws Algiz, and Algiz again because he's uneasy; then, tentatively, Ansuz.
It doesn't help. He can hear, very muted, the sound of Aramis' voice behind the door, oddly musical. He draws Algiz, Algiz, Ansuz; still when he tries to feel out, all he feels is that something can't breathe.
If you protect yourself too much, he thinks, wetting his lips, nothing can get through.
He draws Ansuz, Mannaz, Ansuz . . .
He can't hear Aramis any better. But he can hear something else, some odd strange high noise, not rhythmic, long then stuttered short then long. Odd. Like a kitten crying.
That feeling like something can't breathe is fading back. The walls give a single almost uncertain bang, and Porthos looks at them warily, but d'Artagnan thinks it's the dying throes of it because there is something like peace, now. He closes his eyes, feels out, feels something like curiosity, and a lollingness, no desire for anything in particular, mere existence, and he draws his runes, draws his runes, and listens; gradually he feels a contentment so passionate it's like no emotion d'Artagnan could have named, a sort of furious, joyful satisfaction in a mere current state, no conception even to desire more than this; then nothing . . .
They wait. Athos looks at d'Artagnan, and d'Artagnan shrugs. It's done.
Athos puts his hand to the door handle, then pauses, and knocks instead of turning it. There's a pause then before Aramis' voice calls, with a quick clearing of the throat, "Alright."
Athos opens the door, and his step in stops, so d'Artagnan bumps his back and Porthos leans to see over them both. Aramis - he's sitting, d'Artagnan can see that, on one of the kitchen chairs, and he's got something on his lap. "There's a blanket, in the boot of the car." Aramis says. "If someone could fetch it. It's cleaner than this thing. Poor thing," added so very softly, as Porthos hesitantly moves away, back down the corridor for the front door, and Athos drops the door handle, and walks slowly towards his exorcist.
Aramis is looking at the thing on his lap, wrapped in one of the dust sheets from the sideboard. It's - d'Artagnan's instinct is to recoil and he fights it only because the counter-instinct snaps in just as hard, the instinct to not cause upset to what he now knows caused all of that chaos: Aramis is holding the desiccated body of a baby in that sheet, some tiny thing brown with age and shrivelled, bird-like bones and parchment skin. He's holding it, tucked in his arms, as tenderly as if it's new born, but there's a tension to his back, and Athos puts a hand on his shoulder.
D'Artagnan looks around mostly to stop himself from staring at that baby's body. The wall the builders were working on has a large, messier hole in it, Aramis himself must have attacked it, knowing exactly where he needed to. He found the body in there, took it out, and - and spirits leave, d'Artagnan knows, when they get what they want; and he remembers that odd edge of Aramis' voice they could catch from outside. It sounded like he was singing.
The corridor outside creaks with Porthos' return, and he holds the blanket out to Aramis, a little uncertain of the body he's holding. "Here," he says.
"Thank you," Aramis says, catching the body's weight back in his arm, gently unfolding the wrap of the sheet. "Something softer for you, little one." he promises quietly. "Something kinder."
"We'll have to contact the police." Athos says.
"That thing's ancient," d'Artagnan says. "Whoever killed it's long dead themselves."
"Still." Athos says. "Protocol."
Aramis wraps the baby, gentle as if handling dandelion clocks, in its new blankets; still he leaves the face showing, as if it's a living child, and d'Artagnan is partly repulsed but does understand the necessity, before they remove it from this place where it's so close to its own death that its spirit's angry resurrection could be jolted on by any careless action. "The police," Aramis says, softly. "And Treville. And if it's all the same to him, I would like an early end to the shift, if no-one else objects."
*
The room the three of them usually sleep in is officially Porthos' room, originally Porthos' room, and so Athos tends to knock, tends not to enter it if Aramis isn't already in it or inviting him into it; that afternoon he walks in with Porthos, because they know they'll need to have this talk away from the boy, once Aramis has finished his lesson in what used to be his own room. Something needs to be said. They saw Aramis' face, in that kitchen. Athos felt it.
Porthos sits in the desk chair and rubs angrily at the back of his hair, says, "He upset or angry or what?"
"He'll tell us himself," Athos says mildly, and has no intention of handing Aramis' feelings away as public property if the man himself doesn't offer them; everyone else has the right of internal privacy, the blood between them never gave everyone else entitlement to the insides of Aramis' heart.
What Aramis feels now, at this exact moment, is a tiredness sunk through the muscle into the marrow, a great overwhelming tiredness. He's showered - extensively - and then sat with the boy, to talk over the afternoon's events, while Athos and Porthos drew out a cafetière of coffee outside. Athos is patient as vampires are patient, but Porthos is rather strained by all this, hates dealing with ghosts to begin with and neither of them were prepared to walk in on Aramis cradling a baby's corpse. "Sit down," Porthos says gruffly, gesturing at the bed, every movement a little too sharp with impatience.
"I don't need to sit," Athos points out, "but thank you."
Dead muscles don't get tired. Porthos just gives him a long look, and folds his arms, and Athos sits on the edge of the bed and looks past him, out of the window. He knows it's a strange situation, the two of them waiting for their lover to come in to talk to them, the two of them waiting for the exorcist they share. They like each other well enough in their way, Athos and Porthos, but occasionally they strain on the different things they want for Aramis. Probably it looks unfair, to Porthos. Athos knows that Aramis is just so, so tired, the tiredness that only comes through a surfeit of sadness, and all Porthos knows is that he's seemed quiet and gloomy since they handed the child's body over to the police - since Aramis did it, very defensively. The police officer was annoyed at the blankets, at the disturbance of the scene, the contamination of forensic evidence; Aramis stood, holding the body as if it were still a breathing baby in his arms, and made clear with his voice low and his eyes fierce black that if the child were not treated as a child, as it never was in life, there would be hell to pay. And people tend to hesitate, when an exorcist uses a word like 'hell'.
Probably Porthos thinks it's unfair, that Athos has access to what Aramis is feeling and he doesn't. Athos thinks it's unfair as well, given that he and Aramis hardly set out to put themselves into this situation. He does the best he can with it, respects what he can of Aramis' privacy, tries not to overload Aramis with his own emotions. He knows they have an imperfect solution to their problem, but that's only because there is no perfect solution. Fucking feelings are too messy to ever admit of that even under optimum circumstances.
Athos feels for him now, his exorcist. He feels the tension, the avoidance of embarrassment, of his having to explain something he doesn't want to explain without giving too much of himself away with it; it's a subtle emotion but one Athos knows quite well, he feels similar in Aramis whenever d'Artagnan asks him an indelicate question about vampires in front of Athos, or they have to talk about the matter of blood in public. Usually, it's Athos' sense of privacy Aramis is awkwardly trying to defend. Aramis himself, Athos had always thought, was rather an open book. And he is, to Athos, in terms of his emotional life at least, though he frequently does feel things that Athos doesn't understand. His affection for children is one thing Athos has never understood, he would really rather an unpredictable, sticky little creature was kept away from him until old enough for reasonable conversation but Aramis seems to take such delight in them, sticky little hands and all. And yes, sometimes Aramis is sad, he has a streak of melancholy in him that Athos had merely thought was something everyone felt sometimes, especially people believing themselves possessed of a poetic soul as Aramis clearly does. He feels a distant sort of sadness himself, when he thinks back to long ago. Athos has always accepted that things have happened to Aramis, before they even met, that made him sometimes sad.
He looks at the photograph of dead exorcists Aramis keeps like a shrine on Porthos' wall, the cold candles beneath it on one of Porthos' speakers, the rosaries he hangs from its corners. Yes. Aramis has reasons to be sad sometimes.
Sad like this . . . ?
Porthos follows his gaze to the photograph, then looks away again. "Dunno why he keeps that thing out like that," he mutters. "I'm not sayin' I'd get rid of it but I'd stick it in a drawer or something."
"He's a Catholic," Athos says. "He understands martyrdom."
"Dead is dead." Porthos says. "Martyrs, hell. S'not like the poor bastards asked for it."
They hear a door handle outside, look at one another and then away again, affecting the poses of men who haven't just been talking about Aramis as he opens the door, looks in on them, closes the door behind himself. He stands there waiting for them to say something for a moment but they don't - Athos is patient, Porthos presumably unsure what to say - and in the face of their silence Aramis puts his head back so it lolls wearily on his neck, staring up at the ceiling, and he sighs heavily. Then he walks over to the bed beside Athos, touches his cheek almost apologetically, says, "I'm tired." and climbs on the bed past him, settling himself out full length, arms folded behind his head on the pillow.
Porthos swats at his shin, says, "Shoes."
"You untie them if you care so much." Aramis says, eyes closed to the ceiling.
Porthos is beginning to look actually pissed off, and so Athos has to not sigh because vampires don't very often and they both look at him when he does, and instead he leans over, and begins unlacing Aramis' shoes himself. He says, "Do you want to talk?"
Athos already knows he doesn't, Aramis isn't acting any of how tired he is, but he opens his eyes, slow to the ceiling, troubled and still sad both on the inside and on his face. He says, "I don't suppose this is one of those occasions where I really can say no."
Athos says, "You can always say no." and takes one of his shoes off, and places it beside the bed.
Aramis stares at the ceiling for a little longer, long, drowsy gaze sword-straight under his lashes. Then he says, "It was premature, the baby. Whoever put it in the wall - maybe they didn't like to bury it in the garden, maybe they didn't want the neighbours seeing, we'll never know. But whoever put it in the wall, I don't know if they thought it was but it - it wasn't dead yet. They nailed it in, covered it in plaster and tiles and . . . it died in there, alone, and it never in its life knew one moment of love. I don't suppose we'll ever know why. I suppose all that matters now is that it's at peace."
Porthos shifts in his seat. "How'd you know it was premature?"
Aramis sighs again, draws the breath in through his nose and lets it out slow. "It was too small," he says. "I read a lot about the stages of development of a foetus, when I was a kid. When I was a teenager, at least." He looks at the ceiling, dark distant eyes, and he has the feel on the inside that Athos recognises as his specifically not thinking about Athos, thinking about something far away from Athos; memories from before he knew Athos existed. "I had a baby, once." His eyes slide off the ceiling, dark and distant. "Almost."
Porthos doesn't move. Athos lowers Aramis' other shoe to the floor, then sits beside him on the bed, twisted to face him, and is uncertain of how to touch him, whether to touch him. He says, "Aramis?"
"My girlfriend," Aramis says. "When I was in high school. She got pregnant, all of our parents . . . it was a big mess." He waves a hand and lets it drop again, Athos can feel how heavy exhaustion has made it to him. "But she . . . she wanted to go to university, she didn't want - I knew she didn't want a baby. She didn't want to keep it. And I know that's her decision to make, I do know that. So I just told her, if she did have it, she wouldn't be bound by it in any way. I would look after it. I didn't mind dropping out to look after a baby instead, it was already obvious I wasn't going to be any sort of academic star. If she'd have it, I would take it. I offered her those terms in particular after seeing the look on her face when I'd asked her to marry me," with a twitch of his smile, not truly amused. "We were already over, she'd never loved me like that. But she agreed. She would have the baby, I would take it, and she would go back to school and get on with her life and have what interactions she wanted with the child without ever being forced to abandon her dreams for it. And I would get a baby."
Aramis' mouth twitches, some true honest joy in it at that thought, but so much else as well. He closes his eyes, still looking very relaxed, but Athos can feel the twist like metal wire, sharp enough to garrotte, on the inside. "She miscarried a few months later. And she went off to university and I went off to join the army and . . . well, my entire life would have been different, otherwise. I would never have come to Paris. I would never even have met the two of you."
Porthos says, quietly, "You never said."
"It's never really come up. It's not like other conversations, is it? There's a time to tell someone you'd rather do the washing up than the laundry and a time to tell them you're not into feet and a time to tell them you snore but not . . . not that . . ."
"That you are a parent," Athos offers, since Aramis seems to not know the words for it. "Though the child was stolen from you."
Because that is what he feels. Athos knows it. That pain, that is not mere regret. That is grief like a gag tied over a scream, grief like a diamond split, and oh, his exorcist; all they'd ever thought he'd had to walk away from was all those massacred exorcists . . .
Aramis is silent, then says, "Yes." and rolls onto his side, to face Athos, eyes fixed closed. He has the least to lose, in facing Athos. Athos can already feel it all.
Porthos says, quiet and gruff, "You should've said. We would never've made you -"
"We haven't enough exorcists in the department for me to make a fuss and expect someone else to come all the way out. And it needed someone - it needed someone who could give it what it really needed. That poor child."
Athos outstretches his hand and trails his knuckles, gently, along Aramis' forehead, along that fine scar there, just brushing his ever-unruly hair. "Yes," he says, and he doesn't have to say anything else, Aramis can feel it, that small confused knot inside Athos, that cynic as he is and long used to humans and their ways, he understands why someone could put a child into a makeshift grave without ever so much as caring about it, and yet at the same time he thinks of what it means to Aramis and can't understand how someone could act as if a child mattered no more than potato peelings or coffee grounds, something merely to be discarded.
Aramis lays there, muscles held just slightly too tense, eyes still pressed just too tightly closed. "You'll fuss now," he says. "It would have been better not to say anything."
He doesn't mean it. Athos looks over Aramis' shoulder at Porthos, who looks at the back of Aramis' head and clearly has no idea what to do, then says, "No it wouldn't." and gets up, sits on the edge of the bed at his back, rubs roughly at Aramis' back between his shoulder blades. "An' of course we fuss. It's 'cause we love you, an' we never knew . . ."
"I'm alright," Aramis says. "Aren't I always alright?"
"You are a genius for coping," Athos allows. "But that does not mean the same thing as being alright."
Aramis opens his eyes to stare at him, and for one second, Athos does think he's going to cry, he feels the sting of it so strangely piercing at his own eyes. But then Aramis smiles instead, and says, "Porthos, remember this moment; Athos finally acknowledged my genius."
"At actin' like there's nothing wrong," Porthos grumbles, rolling Aramis onto his back by the shoulder to lean and look down at his face. "You really alright?" he says. "What d'you need?"
Aramis looks up at him, from no distance away at all, such little distance he doesn't even need to lean to lace his arms around Porthos' neck to draw him down for the kiss. Athos tells himself that he will allow this as long as it doesn't turn into a true distraction from what they were actually trying to talk about, for once.
Afterwards - Aramis drew Athos into proceedings, of course, and he knows the afterwards is Aramis' favourite part, sandwiched between the two of them with a heart beating fast at one side of his head, and hardly at all at the other - Aramis holds onto their arms slung over his stomach from either side, keeping them in place, and he says to the ceiling, "Do you think the boy can hear us?"
Porthos mutters, "I think Charlemagne et ses Leudes can hear us when you're keen."
Aramis chides back, "Not everyone has a werewolf's hearing."
"Then why're you askin' me?"
Athos says, "The walls are reasonably thick, and he only has a human's senses." He runs his hand down Aramis' arm, he'd wonder how his skin kept so soft if he didn't know that it's because of the moisturiser Aramis thinks other men are idiots for not using. "Aramis, the child . . ."
"I'm alright," Aramis says, gently. "I honestly am. I feel better, for the two of you . . ." He wrinkles his face, relaxes it like a shrug. "Knowing, I suppose. I - it wasn't like I was hiding it -"
"No, of course -"
"We all got -"
"- but it was hard to bring up." He does shrug under their arms then, very gently shifting their three bodies on the bed. "'Not to ruin the mood or anything but once when I was a teenager' -"
"You can always speak to us," Athos says, his thumb brushing at the mystery of the soft of his skin, yes, but the warmth of it, the way he allows Athos' cold touch like he enjoys it. "We don't only want you for a certain 'mood'."
Porthos sniffs at Aramis' hair as if he agrees, and Aramis' smile quirks, he stretches and relaxes between them. "I'm alright, here and now." he says, voice more relaxed now. "Do you believe me?"
Silence. Porthos isn't reading Aramis' tone and body language, Athos knows. He's waiting for Athos' verdict from the inside.
"Yes," he says, because he feels the quiet settled happy soul of Aramis right now, like a candle warming a dim room, a quiet golden glow, the contentment of him.
"I haven't lived as long as you," Aramis says, hand settling over Athos' at his waist, and pressing. "And I don't always know what the early years were for you," he adds, his other hand on Porthos' wrist, and his eyes on his. "But the things that happened to me, before, I can use them now, I suppose I have to, in a job like mine. I walk with Death, and I need a life like mine to do that. I need to know how to comfort a little child, not just 'knowing' but from the heart, knowing. Wanting to. And all those exorcists at the college . . ." His eyes are distant. "You understand, don't you? I need that. To keep moving forwards. I don't want to wipe it all out. Now I have the both of you I understand how to live with it."
Athos knows that what he's talking about now isn't just what is contained within the words. He doesn't change his face, or tense, and he has no true breath to catch. To indicate his nonchalance in the face of it, all he does is stroke with his thumb at Aramis' stomach, as if for no reason more than soothing.
If Aramis were a vampire, gifted a life as long as he can manage without decapitation - which in most instances is a decent amount of time, Athos grants, he's managed quite a few centuries himself without for a long period even wanting to - he would be strong, and healthy, and he would see better by night, and hear the heartbeats of those who might intend to attack him. But he couldn't be an exorcist, that is not given to vampires. For all that his senses would sharpen they would blunt, too. He would lose so many of the voices he hears now. He would see less. And, more, he would feel less, and it's always the way Aramis feels things that Athos associates with him the most, of course he's an exorcist, a heart as peeled-open to the air as Aramis' is, of course the dead can touch it and leave a sting, of course they do.
And if he were a werewolf - if he changed once a month, if his eyes sharpened, his nostrils became sensitive as exposed nerves, his hearing clarified until he had no need to put his head to Athos' chest to confirm the eventual bump that he feels in his own chest, if he were a werewolf and strong and immune to illness and his life extended beyond that of a human's, maybe twice as long, maybe Athos would get near a full century with him - even then there are things that would be taken from him. The moon might call him but the dead no longer would. His fur would shield him from the cold of their touch. Perhaps it would be fair; the blood between them, Athos thinks that Porthos would like if he and Aramis had something to point to themselves, something that no external party could deny, as proof of what they are to each other despite anything else. But if they had that, Aramis would have to give up more than most do, and Athos knows how he would feel it.
Aramis is an exorcist. He didn't ask for it, he was born to it, which Athos does think makes it different in its way to being a werewolf or a vampire. He suspects werewolfism was forced on Porthos, not so many choose it unless some desperate circumstance pushes them towards it. His own vampirism was an 'inheritance' of his family, and he knows Aramis who has studied this must know what it means; when he was of age, his father turned him, but Athos always could have fled it. He might have been tracked down and killed for it, or brutalised by some village mob when they realised who he was, but there was some element of choice there, even if an extremely reduced one. But Aramis discovered that he simply was an exorcist, it is who he is, and he could have feared it but Aramis thinks that God decides these things, and embraced it quite cheerfully. And then the college, and then the massacre . . .
Aramis wouldn't change the life he's had, not even the parts that have pained him like a nail put through the flesh. And he won't change the risks he faces, or even the death he might face at the end of it all. He is willing to die an exorcist, and, respectfully, he declines the offer of their teeth. He isn't afraid of suffering. Only sorry for it, and the fragility of his life, and the brevity of it.
Athos says, "If we can be a comfort to you, I'm glad."
Quietly, "I'm sorry if I can't be much in return."
Sorry for the fragility of his life, and the brevity of it. Athos, who might live a millennia more alone, closes his eyes, and the chasm of it yawns at his feet. He could make it go away, he could keep him so easily, if he just opened Aramis' skin with his teeth and forced his own stale blood between his lips.
But he wouldn't deserve him, then. That rises as the stronger feeling, listening to Aramis' heart beating in Athos' own chest. He would rather be worthy of him and alone than own him and yet be undeserving. He feels vertigo in that moment, dizzy on his side in bed, on the realisation that history does repeat itself, that he's been exactly, exactly here before . . .
Aramis raises his head, and touches Athos' shoulder. Athos says, "I'm alright. And you have nothing to apologise for. Being human is no fault and neither is being an exorcist. I thought that was the point of the 'modern' world, the belief that no-one should suffer abuse for merely being what they are."
Aramis runs his hand down through his chest hair, voice coming lightly teasing now. "I love the way you say 'modern' like that."
"I've seen a lot of 'modern's go by."
Porthos says over his shoulder, "You're alright, then?" and rubs at Aramis' arm. "You gonna sleep?"
"Mmm, it's still early." Aramis yawns despite the words, and kisses the closest patch of skin; Athos' shoulder. "What about round two?"
"Just to kill time?"
Athos says, "You can't be capable."
"Hm. You'll never know if you don't try me."
Yes, Athos thinks, looking down into the sprightly dark of Aramis' eyes as he grins back. He's alright. He knows how to live with death. It's not that Aramis isn't troubled by death, it's just that Aramis knows how to deal with being troubled by it, and someone this alive really is the perfect foil against all the rising silence of the grave.
Porthos says low, "Just cuddlin's nice though."
Quiet, and then Athos feels the settling joy in Aramis, a profoundly peaceful joy, that he knows himself utterly where he wants to be, between them with his heart fresh-spilled out for them and they still hold him. His cheek settles comfortable to Athos' shoulder, and he tucks Porthos' arm closer around himself in his own. "Yes," he says, the vibrations of his voice humming into Athos' arm from his living, breathing, beating chest. "It is."
