Chapter One

When Jean opened the door, the petite blonde on the threshold had her eyes fixed on the doormat. The mat bore a weather and use faded fleur-de-lis, he and Armand having never agreed on what constituted an appropriate welcome into their home. Jean always considered 'bienvenue' an acceptable staple, while Armand found the most useful message to the majority of people who would approach their door to be 'fuck off'.

She raised her head at his cautious hello, jaw set with what he could only describe as determination. Her bright blue eyes were steely, but when they landed on his face, something in them faltered. She looked... hopeful?

"Armand Richelieu?"

Jean was typically the one to invite company over, if they had any at all. Their home was a space mostly reserved for just the two of them. Some of Armand's regular clients and Porthos were just about the only people to grace their dinner table, making unexpected guests unheard of for them.

He took a step back from the door and turned to project his voice down the hall. "Armand? Someone at the door for you." When he turned back towards her he smiled, putting a hand out in invitation. "Please, come in."

Her gaze hardened, becoming distant as she nodded to what could only be herself before stepping inside. Jean's smile faltered at that, though he felt more worry than fear. She looked like she was preparing herself for the gallows. Maybe she was a prospective client. Some of the people Armand represented were in way over their heads, though they generally preferred the privacy of his office to voice their troubles. He closed the door just as Armand tromped down the hallway in the midst of one of his rants.

"She threw another file into my briefcase, no wonder the latches didn't close. I swear to God I will cut her bleeding heart out myself next time I see her, where does she think I have the time? Or does she think that the work being free means the time is too? If all I do are pro bono cases, how am I supposed to eat?"

Jean cast an apologetic look towards their mysterious house-guest, not surprised to see the determined set of her jaw was back.

It was best not to let him get too carried away, no matter how determined she seemed to weather it. "Armand."

The volume of his voice drew his husband's focus away from the briefcase in his hands, which did look to be resisting all of Armand's attempts to latch it. His eyes first went to Jean, before landing on the woman. His brow knit together and he frowned rather than apologize for his violent tirade.

"Who are you?"

Jean rolled his eyes.

The woman raised up her chin. "Armand Richelieu?"

"Yes?" His gaze flickered back to Jean, who only responded with a shrug.

"My name is Anne. I believe you knew my mother in Austria, some years ago. I'm your daughter."

Armand dropped his briefcase, which all too gladly sprang open, spewing case files all over the floor. Several glossy photos of evidence whistled through the air before attempting to lodge themselves between Armand's expensive leather shoes and the hardwood floor. The edge of the briefcase itself seemed to have managed to land on his foot, though he didn't utter a sound. His eyes were round with surprise, and his skin, not prone to tanning, was paler than normal.

Jean was so enraptured by his response, that what Anne was saying barely registered to him. Armand, speechless. Had the world come to an end?

"I- you- what-"

And now he was floundering. Perhaps Jean should have bought the lottery ticket he had been eyeing the other day. The cheap bottle of wine he had opted to pair with the take-out had seemed the better option when curled up next to his husband, but now... Perhaps they would have been rich. Not that they had any complaints to make about money, no matter what Armand said about not being able to feed-

-wait, had she said she was his daughter?

Jean tore his eyes away from Armand to look at Anne, trying to find his husband in her features. The imperial posture and unimpressed glower could have been his, but it seemed her mother's genes had determinedly won out in the looks department. Perhaps it was best, as Armand was rather impressively impersonating a fish at the moment. Jean moved forward and took his husband by the arm, leading him to the couch.

"Sit, before you fall down."

"I'm not going to-" He looked down to find himself already sitting, body having been more than ready to comply with Jean's gentle push. His hands stayed out in front of him, as if still holding the briefcase, before slowly sinking into his lap. "Austria? Austria."

It seemed the summer he sometimes spoke of after getting kicked out of seminary was finally coming back to him. Jean's fingers fondly caressed the side of Armand's face as his round eyed shock faded into a glassy stared daze.

"I'll call Constance, tell her her heart is safe from your knife wielding and that you won't be into the office today."

When he stepped away from the couch, he almost walked right into the reason he needed to make his phone call. Of course Anne was still there, he would have heard the door otherwise. Her steely gaze had cracked somewhat with worry, and when her focus turned to Jean, guilt shadowed it as well.

"I didn't mean..."

"Just sit." Though he kept his words soft, Jean did not feel the need to add a 'please' to the end of his sentence. After the bombshell she had just dropped, Armand deserved an explanation, she wasn't going anywhere.

"No Constance, he isn't coming in today."

"What could keep him at home?"

"A... personal matter came up."

"You're the only personal matter he has. Are you alright? Jean Treville, if you're dying you have to tell me now-"

"Constance, I'm fine. Just, re-schedule any meetings he has."

"Wait, he's not coming in at all? This isn't just a delay?"

"What did you think I meant when I said he wasn't coming in?"

"That he'd show up late with bedhead and that smug expression on his face that could only mean-"

A cough.

"Right. Sorry. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Constance, I'm fine."

"Is... he alright?"

"I'll let you know."

When he came back into the front room, it didn't look like either of them had moved. They were staring at each other with a newfangled wariness, though the silence was more awkward than tense. Jean ran a hand across his face and beard, suddenly trying not to laugh. Of course Armand had an unknown love child suddenly appear on their doorstep.

His sister was never going to let him hear the end of it. That thought soured his mirth, and he grimaced before he could smother the feeling. This moment didn't need to be about anyone other than the two statues currently taking up space on his furniture.

"Armand."

His husband's cheek twitched in acknowledgment. He and Anne were apparently locked in a staring contest he was unwillingly to break away from first.

"Do you want me to stay?"

That grabbed Armand's attention, and seemed to almost give him the strength to get up from the couch. "You've been helping them for weeks, you can't skip out on them today."

He crossed his arms, trying not to let the old worry driving his husband bother him. "I'm sure they'd understand if I told them I was needed at home."

"You love children. You hate disappointing them."

"Armand."

"Right, of course. No, no, I'll be fine." He looked back over at Anne, who was doing her best to quash her growing confusion. "I think just the two of us will be... good."

Jean nodded, and saw Anne seem to bow her head in agreement. "Very well." He uncrossed his arms and closed the distance between them. "Call me if you need anything."

Armand nodded, instinctively leaning in as Jean reached out to caress his hair and kiss his forehead. When he stepped back he noted Anne's careful neutral expression, which he took to be the best alternative over shock. If she had displayed anything else, Jean knew Armand would have kicked her out even without an explanation for how and why she had tracked him down.

"Anne. It's been... interesting. Perhaps I'll see you again."

"You will."

He took that as a good sign, too.

The first text said:

She has a son.

Jean read the message, though didn't even think to respond. This was just Armand letting him know something important, not asking for his opinion. Those would be shared when they could look at each other, and not limit their communication with words.

The other volunteers could tell he was distracted, but the children at the center barely noticed. Not when the robot they had been designing and building that summer was finally, properly, wholly, coming to life. Their enthusiasm was infectious and distracting, tying his mind up with the thought of which of the children would be the first to use the controls, and how best to keep the eldest ones from locking out the younger from their turn.

The next text said:

We're having lunch Friday.

Which let Jean know the house was just theirs again. However much he itched to go home, he knew it was best to let Armand sit awhile with his thoughts before disturbing him.

He also had to explain to the children why the flamethrower they had asked for had not been incorporated into the robot's design. The icy stares from parents and other volunteers kept his response tactful, if a little a stilted. The sketches for it were still on his workbench at home. Armand had told him to leave it there after the center's program director had roped him into reading Jean a full article about legal liability and the care of minors.

A third, and wholly unexpected, text said:

There's another one.

Jean could only stare at it, utterly confused. His fingers hovered over the screen, trying to come up with a response, when the phone buzzed in his hand.

He's a fucking moron.

Worried, Jean immediately called his husband. It barely rang once before it was picked up.

"Armand, what-"

"He won't leave."

"Who won't leave?"

"Louis."

"Why is your voice- Armand, have you locked yourself in the bathroom?"

"I told you, he won't leave."

"Louis?"

"Yes."

"And who-"

"My son. Apparently."

There's another one. "What?"

"He has a sister. A twin, Christine. She has four children. He showed me pictures of them all."

Three. Three unknown children. And four, no, it was five now, grandchildren. Ninon was definitely never going to let this go. "Armand-"

"His mother is Marie."

There were unpleasant footnotes in his summer after getting kicked out of seminary, as young men had a habit of doing foolish things. And people. "Marie? Marie the Monster? Marie the Murderer? Marie-"

"Yes, that Marie."

"Armand-"

"Jean-"

"I'll be home as soon as I can."

He had barely lowered his phone from his ear when a small hand tugged at his trousers. The round faced seven year old stared up at him plaintively. Five grandchildren.

"Monsieur Treville."

"Yes?"

"The robot stopped working."