AN: I wrote this in response to requests from silvermoongirl10 and LadyMusketeer92. I hope you like it :) Aramis ran the spectrum of emotions in "The Exiles" and we never got to see how it might have affected him. Fits with my stories from the "Love and Brotherhood" series of oneshots but can be read on its own.
"Don't get involved," he'd told D'Artagnan. He shook his head as he walked slowly through the streets of Paris, marveling at his own hypocrisy. Could I have strayed further from my own advice? He certainly didn't regret aiding Agnes and baby Henry, but he had never intended to get in so deep. He had considered going with them. That was never supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to hurt when he rode away.
When they'd returned to Paris, the others, even Athos, had been flushed with victory. It was rare for things to work out quite so beautifully; few people found happy endings in their line of work. D'Artagnan and Porthos had insisted on celebrating. Even Athos deigned to drink with them instead of huddling in the corner like a hermit, sitting quietly and smiling that half-smile at the others' jokes. Everyone had been happy, but after a while Aramis's face had begun to feel stiff from his forced smile, his bravado wearing thin. He'd slipped away while the others were distracted. He needed space to think.
He knew he didn't have long before Porthos noticed his absence and came looking for him. He liked to celebrate privately after remarkable successes. It was something Porthos was extremely enthusiastic about, and under normal circumstances Aramis would have joined him eagerly, but tonight he held back. He needed some time alone first to reflect. He wasn't ready to face Porthos. He was too present, too loud, too alive. He shone too brightly for Aramis's current mood. And so Porthos was drinking and carousing while Aramis wandered the back alleys of Paris alone.
His mind grappled with thoughts of his past and images of Agnes's face. He'd been strangely tempted to join her and the baby in their exile, to go to Spain and help her raise Henry. He spoke the language; they would have a good life. He knew it could never be, and yet he felt strangely grieved by the loss, not only of Agnes, but of a future that was not his. He was mourning what he knew he would never have. A wife, a family. That was not his destiny, and no matter how long ago he had accepted it the knowledge had not ceased to ache within him.
He'd been drawn to Agnes in a way he couldn't quite define. She was beautiful, but it wasn't her beauty that called to him. He had sensed in her a kindred spirit of sorts, feeling as though perhaps she would understand what lay hidden in his heart. He had come so close to confiding in her…
"Do you have a family?" she'd asked, tears in her eyes. It was such an innocent question, but it wrenched something deep inside him.
"Not unless you count the Musketeers," he'd told her, concealing the reopened wounds with the light response.
"No wife?" He wished he could turn the conversation to other things.
"Something always got in the way." He thought of Isabelle, and his heart clenched. God had made it very clear he was not cut out for a family.
Agnes went on, oblivious. "Have you ever felt it? Love? I mean real, true love. That need that leaves you incapable of existing without the other person."
For a moment, Aramis didn't know what to say. His thoughts were already of Isabelle, but now they shifted to a gleaming smile and dark, wild eyes. It was hard to process his thoughts. He couldn't tell Agnes that he understood the feeling, the all-consuming fire that bound you inextricably to another person. She would want to know who, and he wasn't sure she would understand.
So he told her instead his first love, and he saw the sympathy on her face. He wondered as he spoke if perhaps he could confide in her, but he held back, fear of discovery too ingrained within him to risk everything for the sake of unburdening his soul.
"Sixteen?" Agnes asked sadly, pity warring with compassion on her face. "And you haven't loved since?"
I have, he desperately wanted to tell her. I do now. I know what it means love, truly and honestly. But he couldn't tell her, he didn't dare, and so instead he deflected the question. "If I answer, will you tell me why those people on the road ran from you?"
Then she'd told him about Philippe and all that had happened. He'd felt deep in his soul at that moment that she would understand his position, that she would not look upon him with hate as others might. She knew too well the effects ignorance and fear could have on misunderstood love. He wanted to tell her everything, but still had not dared to speak. He had missed his chance, and the loss of her empathy hurt like a knife to the ribs. He had been so close.
Now, wandering the streets, he mused on Agnes and all she had said. He felt intensely the similarity of their positions. Both loving those who the laws of God and men said they ought not to love, both haunted by it. But where Agnes was haunted by the pain of the past, Aramis lived in fear of the future. Fear of discovery.
He recalled the simple pride in Agnes's voice when she spoke of walking beside Philippe as a family, and the ragged edge it took on when she spoke of the people's retaliation. "They beat him. Until his bones shattered. Burned him while he still breathed life."
Aramis rested a hand on the wall, breathing deeply, fighting to keep his stomach from turning on him. When Agnes had spoken the words, he had not pictured some unnamed man suffering at the hands of a mob. No, in his head the man had a face.
Porthos.
Porthos, beaten and burned for the sin of loving him. Condemned to Hell by judges and priests who saw a monster, not a man. It had always been his deepest fear, and it had grown in magnitude since he had voiced his feelings aloud. Hearing Agnes's story was confirmation of the darkness in the hearts of men. How could love be a sin?
He found himself longing for Porthos's presence and vitality even as he wondered if he shouldn't keep far away from his lover, keep him safe by removing himself from the equation. But he could never do it. Aramis knew he lacked the strength to walk away, even knowing it was the only certain way of avoiding discovery. He could not turn his back on Porthos, even to save him. Not now. Not ever.
His love was forbidden, feared, just as Agnes's had been. And yet she had dared to love Philippe regardless. He'd begun to ask her about it, after they had rescued Henry. "You really loved Philippe. Even though…?" She had wrongly assumed the end of the question, thinking he was asking about Philippe's deformity rather than the forbidden nature of the love itself, but it didn't matter. Aramis felt he knew her answer: she would have loved Philippe had God himself come down to order her away.
Her conviction, her faith, gave him hope even as her pain made him question his decisions. He saw Porthos's broken body in his mind once more, dark eyes accusing in death. Then he saw instead Porthos's laughing face, the look in his eyes before he kissed him. Their love was forbidden, but that did not make it wrong.
Aramis had always been an optimist, and now at last, standing in this dark alley, hope and love won out over fear. He stood straighter, breathing easier. He thought perhaps he should return to the tavern soon, once he had collected his thoughts. He'd been alone long enough.
Even as he thought it, he heard Porthos's voice boom from the end of the alley, calling his name. "I'm not alone. Are you?" Agnes had asked, and he smiled now, knowing the answer to the question.
"Here," he called back, and a moment later Porthos strode into view, concern written across his handsome features.
"Why'd you run off?" He wasn't as drunk as Aramis had imagined he would be, leading him to suspect Porthos had been watching him all evening. He was lucky to have managed to slip away if Porthos's protective instincts had somehow been aroused.
"Just needed to clear my head," he said, smiling as Porthos closed the gap between them, one hand falling to rest comfortably on Aramis's waist. It was late, and the alley was deserted, but Aramis couldn't stop the twinge of fear that shot up his spine. He could picture the consequences of discovery all too well now. Thankfully, Porthos didn't catch it.
"You been thinking about Agnes?" Porthos asked softly, and Aramis nodded. "Did you want to go with her?"
He forgot sometimes how well Porthos knew him. "Part of me did," he answered honestly, noting the glimmer of pain in Porthos's eyes at his words. "I would never leave, but part of me wanted that life. A wife. Children. I will never have it, and it is difficult."
"You could have it if you wanted it," Porthos murmured. Aramis gazed at his lover in awe. Porthos really meant it, he knew. If Aramis wanted to marry and raise a family, Porthos would stand aside. He would not deny Aramis his happiness. He would probably even consent to remain Aramis's lover even as he was uncle to his children. In his place, Aramis knew he could never give him up. He was selfish, and Porthos was too good for him.
"I don't," he told him gently, catching the momentary look of relief. "I am not cut out for that life. I thought I was once, but that was long ago. I thought about it when Agnes left in part because I felt a connection to her."
"You wanted to go because you liked her?" Porthos asked, a note of jealousy coloring his tone.
"If you are asking if I have fallen in love with her, the answer is no," he said with a laugh. "I said a connection. I felt as if she understood me." He hesitated, then went on. "As if she would understand us." Porthos's eyes widened as he understood.
"Did you-?"
"I didn't tell her. But I thought about it. She has faced hatred for loving one who society has said was not to be loved. I do not believe she would have judged us. But I didn't get the chance to confide in her."
"And you wanted to," Porthos said, comprehension dawning on his face. Then his eyebrows lowered quizzically. "But that alone isn't enough to set you wandering, Aramis. What is it that's bothering you?"
"She spoke of her husband's fate," he said, the words almost a whisper. He looked down, unable to meet Porthos's eye. "A mob killed him because ignorance told them to."
"And you got worried about us getting caught." Porthos's voice was low and soothing. "You were thinking you should walk away before you get me killed?" Unable to speak, Aramis nodded. "Did you come to a decision?"
"I can't be the reason for your death, Porthos," he murmured at last. He felt Porthos stiffen. "But I can't walk away."
Porthos released the breath he'd been holding. He tipped Aramis's face up, smiling. "Well, we'll just have to make sure we don't get caught."
Aramis smiled back at him, amazed at Porthos's unquenchable spirit. Porthos kissed him gently and slung an arm around his shoulders. "My lodgings or yours?" he asked, grinning wickedly.
"Mine," Aramis laughed, allowing himself to be hauled along. "What will people think when they see us like this?" The thought of discovery already worried him less, as it always did when he was with Porthos, and his voice was light, freer. Porthos laughed at his tone.
"They'll think I'm drunk, and you're kindly helping me home," he said, leaning heavily on Aramis and staggering comically across the alley.
They emerged from the alley, laughing, and Aramis felt some of his tension ease. "So tell me something," Porthos said as they skirted a puddle. "Did you really think we were going to take the baby to the Cardinal. Really?" He tried and failed to frown, sounding indignant.
"Well, D'Artagnan might have," Aramis said with a sly grin. "He's still a bit too keen on following orders for his own good."
"Ahh, we'll beat it out of him in missions and training," Porthos said dismissively. Then his tone took on a more serious note. "But in the future, Aramis, don't run off alone like that. Athos was right. Your plan was suicide. Least take me along for the ride, eh?" Aramis could hear the slight edge of concern to Porthos's words, and he nodded, swearing to inform Porthos the next time he decided to commit treason.
As they gradually made their way back to Aramis's lodgings, he found himself thinking of Agnes's final words. "I'd ask you to come with us, but you already have a family." He'd told her his family was the Musketeers, and it occurred to him suddenly that it was utterly true. He might never have a wife and children, but he had Porthos, who was a better lover than he'd ever hoped to find, and brothers he would give his life for. What need had he of a wife and children? His family might not be traditional, but had chosen it, and it suited him just fine.
If there's anything you'd like to see written, shoot me a request in the comments! I'm working on a couple of these right now, but I'll try to get to everything eventually. Reviews bring me joy :)