So, there I was, rushing between dentist appointments (braces are a bitch, but add in having to get it undone, get a cavity filled, and then getting wires back on in a matter of four hours, and I almost started crying in the chair), studying for an exam, procrastinating on reading the Scarlet Letter for American Lit class by reading Alexandre Dumas instead, and somewhere in the middle of all the madness, I finally started writing down those vaguely amusing little fanfiction ideas that I've had running through my head for a few months now. Some bookverse, some movieverse (I just love the potential chaos from having our four favorite people living together), probably some OOCishness...some absolute ridiculousness and really silly humor...and hopefully some damn good fiction.
Disclaimer: Seriously, people. If I actually had anything to do with Alexandre Dumas or the Three Musketeers, then I probably wouldn't be getting corrected for my awful pronunciation of any word that sounds remotely French. Oh, and I Dream of Jeannie With the Light Brown Hair is a poem by Stephen Foster from 1856, which I shamelessly stole for the purposes of amusing myself. That's right, I'm a thief. No, no, it's okay. I can admit it.
The Little Black Journal
It was well known, though generally not spoken of among his close friends that Aramis was a bit of a ladies ' man. One could suppose that given his penchant for boasting and his readiness to share those things which Aramis considered of a personal nature with anyone who had ears, he was far surpassed in those particular endeavors by his good friend Porthos. Indeed, many a weary, wine filled night was spent rubbing his temples and sharing looks of either disgust, horror, annoyance, or amusement with his comrades over the sheer ridiculousness of Porthos' bragging. The fact was, however, that while Aramis did indulge in activities other than engaging with his close friends or carefully looking over some verse or treatise in his theological studies, he preferred to keep such appointments to himself. Aramis did not kiss and tell.
There was one to whom Aramis did entrust his secrets every now and then, however personal they may be. It was the one place where Aramis trusted himself to fully let go, to share his thoughts, the moments of his life as a soldier for France, his desperate hopes for one day reentering the priesthood. As a scholar and an avid reader of anything he could get his hands on, it was hardly an unusual idea that he should keep a journal—though he had to admit that keeping it from Porthos had become a bit of a ridiculous chore from time to time. The man, Aramis reflected one spring day, when he'd had the pleasure of separating Porthos and the husband of a very pretty girl with a rather large bosom, was a bit like a child. A really large child with a gut from drinking too much, an over pronounced sense of fashion and generally lacking in good common sense. In any case, it was here that Aramis found himself creating some of his best work and, he thought modestly, he had written some rather fine verses in his day.
So it was that one sunny day in June, Helene de Chevreuse sat up in her bed with one eyebrow raised quizzically as she eyed the dark haired man sleeping lightly beside her. Never before had she seen this coveted book and she was quite surprised to find that upon his usual quiet arrival at their secluded meeting place, he had indeed composed a verse of her beauty and his affections for her as he had previously promised. Her curiosity had piqued the moment he had pulled the small black book from a pocket, but as he began to regale her with his words, she'd been far too enchanted to care about such a silly little object and her attentions had been drawn elsewhere, much to both their delights. It was not until after they'd both spent themselves in their private meeting, having leisurely stretched on the soft bed and untangled the sheets from about them that Helene's thoughts returned to the book that had accompanied her dear Aramis that afternoon.
He lay beside her, his face soft and childlike as he dozed lightly with an arm draped across her thin waist. It was a welcome vulnerability that she had yet to witness in her lover and one that was perfectly understandable, given his recent return from a long mission far away from their home in Paris and the wound that he had had to recover from on his trip home. She lay beside him, watching the rising and falling of his chest, memorizing the relaxed curves of his face, tracing the shape of his lips with her eyes in a moment of perfect contentment. He'd been so sweet in his dealings with her, so gentle and generous in everything—and when he'd read to her, his voice like red velvet and his words like spun silk. With a quiet sigh of happiness, she carefully slid across the bed, from beneath the grasp of her sleeping lover. She padded across the floor silently, pausing every few steps to be sure that she hadn't inadvertently woken the sleeping form in her bed as she made her way to the table where the little black book sat reverently. Picking it up, she closed her eyes and remembered those fabulous moments earlier, when he'd read to her and they'd fallen into the bed together in a desperate frenzy, before opening the book to regale herself with his words once more.
Oh, she thought to herself, quickly realizing that she'd flipped to the wrong page. Not wanting to intrude on Aramis' privacy, she would've instantly flipped the book closed or gone searching for her particular passage, if only the one that she had opened to wasn't so…interesting. Oh, my. Helene glanced back at Aramis in the bed, eyeing him cautiously, before settling herself in the armchair only steps from where she stood. She turned her attentions to the little book, flipping to the next page. Oh my, indeed, she thought, sitting up a little straighter. Turning to another passage, she let out a small gasp. At the next, an eyebrow rose in surprise. When she reached the next passage, she'd found herself curling her legs to her chest, comfortably seated and reading with interest as she paused to glance at the well muscled body she'd become so well acquainted with. She should've stopped reading, she knew, but she just couldn't resist turning the page and continuing, her eyes drinking in every word scrawled in ink like a drunk who'd just traveled through the desert for forty days and had finally happened across a tavern. What a delicious little discovery she'd made!
Aramis was surprised to find that he'd fallen asleep in a bed not his own—he'd had many encounters with the opposite sex over the years and this did not usually happen. Even more surprising to him, however, was that he was alone in the bed. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and let them adjust to the afternoon light that peeked in through the cracks around the curtains, stretching his feline-like form and pushing himself up in the bed with a frown. He scanned the room quickly to find Helene, her figure clad in her thin night dress as she smiled at him from the chair mere feet from the bed. Her blond hair was still tousled from their tumble earlier, falling in a mess of curls about her delicate shoulders and framing her pixie shaped face elegantly, her bright blue eyes shining in the dim light of the room….though her expression was rather curious, he thought. He greeted her with one of his more handsome smiles—the sort of smile that results from a passionate entanglement and with which one only greets his most intimate companion. "What are you doing over there?"
"How many women have you had?" Helene asked him curiously. Aramis' expression immediately fell and he sat, frowning at her. He tried to decide how to approach such a random question that he, by no means, intended to answer.
"What do you mean?" he responded, watching as she shifted in her seat. Helene smiled at him good humouredly.
"How many women have you had?" she repeated. "It's not a hard question, my love. It's quite a simple one, in fact." Aramis' jaw hardened as he tried to determine what had aroused such a question. It was certainly the first time that any woman had asked that of him after they'd spent an afternoon together. He was far more used to hearing his name moaned in his ear during an embrace before being graced with a delicate sigh upon their release. He had grown quite accustomed to that reaction, he reflected idly. So what the devil had brought this on? It took a moment for Aramis to realize that the little black book, the journal that he'd coveted so dearly and hid so well from his prying roommates during the time they'd lived together, was not where he'd left it. Aramis' heart stopped as his eyes fell on the bedside table, free of the object he'd been hoping to find there. His eyes shot back to Helene quickly and grazed over the book tightly clutched in her right hand. Well, Aramis thought, his eyes frozen on the journal….fuck.
"What," Aramis began calmly, exhorting all of his effort to keep his voice level. "Are you doing with that?" Normally, he would not have risked bringing such an important item to one of his meetings with Helene—or anyone, for that matter—but after returning from his mission, seeing the physician to be declared fit for duty once again, the impromptu sparring match in the courtyard with Porthos, and wrangling D'Artagnan into cleaning up after his….horse? Well, he'd hardly had time to freshen up for his appointment with Helene, let alone to copy down the verse he'd so carefully prepared for her. In his haste, he had taken the little book with him. Something that was, apparently, a mistake.
"You fell asleep," Helene accused him with a light voice, her lips tugged into a small smile. She imagined herself eyeing him like a cat that has just spotted a delicate little mouse. "I wanted to hear your words again." Aramis' heart leapt into action once again when she flipped open the book and looked down at the page, glancing up after a moment in the hopes of seeing Aramis in his panic. She had to admit to herself, Helene was getting quite the evil little amusement out of this situation. "You're quite the wordsmith," she complimented him. "You do have such skill. I count at least five women from your work. Not including me, that is."
"My dear lady," Aramis began, planning how to retrieve his book. "There is no one else but you, nor could there ever be." He stood up and walked over to her, gently guiding her from her chair. She smirked up at him gleefully as she crossed her arms behind her back, the book resting in both hands and out of his reach.
"What about the redhead?" Helene asked him, hoping to get some obvious reaction out of him. Aramis was a man with many skills, however, and Helene was amused to find that staying cool under pressure was definitely one of those skills.
"The redhead?" he asked her with a puzzled expression. Aramis did, of course, remember the redhead. Her name was Arabella and she happened to be the niece of a good doctor friend of his who he occasionally visited to discuss theology. She was a very sweet girl, very beautiful, and she always did love when she and Aramis used to…Helene nodded her head gently.
"The redhead with the green eyes, whose gaze held such brilliance as to see the depths of her soul." Helene told him, paraphrasing what she'd read earlier. Aramis sighed.
"As you said before, my love, I am a writer," Aramis told her. "Writers are slaves to their words. It was merely a verse written on a moonlit night, when the words just deigned to be formed as such. I know of no such lady." Helene searched his gaze, so full of sincerity, and found herself almost believing him. Which was really quite ridiculous, she thought, given what she'd read not too long ago. Aramis risked an almost imperceptible inch closer to her as she quickly thought over what he'd said.
"But what about the girl who smells of lavender?" Helene asked him, referring to another passage she'd read. Ah, Denise. He remembered her very well. The garden where they used to meet was filled with her favorite flower, lavender, and many a time had she graced him with a tender kiss in the embrace of spring morning. Aramis shot her a confused look and shook his head.
"It's only a poem," he told her confidently. "Besides, I can't stand the smell of lavender." With another nearly imperceptible inch toward Helene, he gazed down at her with a gentle assurance. "It means nothing at all." Helene stared into his eyes, unwilling to admit to herself that she was beginning to fall for his words for a second time that day. Still, Helene was not some naïve virgin—she'd been married for four years now. She knew better than believe that she was his one and only. Aramis drifted ever closer to her, closing the distance between them slowly, his hand snaking behind her back.
"Well, what about Jeannie?" she asked him, not at all failing to notice how the space between them had become smaller, nor the slither of warmth that was sliding around her waist. Aramis paused. Jeannie? Yes, he remembered her very well. They'd had a lot of fun together, perhaps more than had really been wise in retrospect. He'd missed her terribly after she'd had to leave Paris to be with her sick uncle.
"No," Aramis said easily. "I know no lady by that name." Helene looked at him skeptically.
"Are you certain?" Helene asked with a frown. "You did seem quite fond of her. 'I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair, born like a vapor on the summer; I dream of Jeannie with the daydawn smile, radiant in gladness, warm in winning guile'," she recited. Aramis gazed at her in wonder. Yes, he did remember writing those words, just after dear Jeannie had left him. Oh, how he'd missed her.
"You memorized it?" Aramis asked, surprised and somewhat amused. Helene gave him a serious look, but her voice was light.
"You were asleep for quite a while," she told him with a sigh. "I had to amuse myself somehow." She looked off into the distance before continuing to recite the poem. "'Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour, many were the blithe birds that warbled them o'er. Oh! I long for Jeannie and my heart bows low'," Aramis smiled at her humorously, his hand grazing across her arm behind her back as he carefully reached for the book.
"You've a talent for speech, my love," he told her genuinely, feeling victory so close within his grasp. She looked up at him with a broad, proud smile at his compliment.
"I just have one question," Helene declared at last, taking a step back out of his reach at the very last moment possible. Aramis tried to keep his frustration from showing as he turned his full attentions to the stubborn woman before him. She took a quick glance around the room as if to check that they weren't being watched before she leaned toward him conspiratorially, a playful smile on her face. "How good am I?"
"…..what?" It was hardly the reaction that Aramis had been expecting, but Helene looked up at him in all seriousness, eagerly awaiting his response to her rather surprising question.
"How good am I?" she repeated. "I mean, you've obviously had experience. Do you have some kind of scale system for measuring technique or something? How do you rate them? Of all your lovers, how good am I?" Aramis was rather caught off guard and this time it showed on his face. Helene watched him try to decide how to respond, clearly never having been faced with this question before. Not by a woman, at least.
"You're serious?" he asked her. She frowned.
"Well, of course," she told him.
"Is that really your only concern?" Aramis asked, dumb founded by her questions. She gave him a thoughtful look as though she were considering some kind of mental checklist, before nodding affirmatively to him. He risked starting to close the space between them, his hands resting on her arms comfortingly as they stood mere inches from each other. The scent of her perfume, faint in the afternoon air as he looked down at her, tickled his nose. For a brief second, he saw her uncertainty, her insecurity, flash in her eyes. It was not her only concern, not by a long shot—but at that moment, it seemed like the question that really mattered. She swallowed as she looked up at him, waiting for his response. His earlier quest to retrieve the little black book forgotten, he ran a hand along her jaw line, his fingers whispering across her lips. "You are a woman unparalleled by any other," he answered her truthfully and this time, Helene did believe him. He claimed her lips with his own and felt her respond in turn, her body leaning against his as she carelessly dropped the book she'd been withholding and moved her hands to his chest. The thud of his journal hitting the floor vaguely registered somewhere in Aramis' mind, but as they moved back toward the bed, he found that there were other, far more important things that required his attention at that exact moment.
Helene later reflected that just as her husband had married her for her money and then found himself in the arms of a pretty servant girl, so too was she merely a poem, a pretty verse in a little black book that was not meant to be seen by any but the eyes of its owner. Still, if Aramis continued to kiss her that way, to caress her attentively and please her so completely, she wasn't really sure she should care.
This actually turned out a bit differently than I'd planned. A lot more of Helene's character revealed itself to me as I was writing, like her insecurity and how the chapter would end. Then, upon rereading it to polish it up, I decided Aramis'...friends...needed a bit more description. I absolutely hate writing poetry, though, so there was no way that was going to happen. All in all, though, what do you think? Good characterizations? Was it fun to read? Consistency? Did it feel at all rushed? Reviews aren't necessary (goodness knows I always have like, five fics open every time I start my internet browser, waiting to be read and reviewed...), but I will love you forever if you do.
Now I get to scurry off and read Nathaniel Hawthorne, but let's be honest, I'll most likely to be thinking about something evil to do to Porthos in another fic...