This IS post-season 3 and it will thus be absolutely spoilery if you haven't watched all 10 episodes. Turn around and come back in a few months if you don't want to be spoiled. Otherwise, enjoy. I haven't written Annamis fics in months. I may be a bit rusty.
No Worries Tonight
It's a servant who fills the copper tub with hot water. Aramis would have gladly done it himself. He's always done it whenever he felt like taking a bath. He's used to it.
He isn't used to people tending to such simple needs for him, and tonight is not even the end of it. There are so many unusual things in his life nowadays. So many things which unsettle him.
His clothes, to start with. They are always clean. Always pristine. Heavy and expensive. Regal. There's cotton, of course, but also silk and embroidery. Hardly any leather. No pauldron. No sword. No pistols. Nothing attached to belts that he isn't wearing anymore either. He misses it. He misses his Musketeer uniform and the bulk of it. He misses his hat.
He misses Porthos and the others teasing him about it. Laughing because it takes Aramis forever to buckle his coat up. It used to take so long that he had given up on doing it when they were on a mission.
He misses hoarse laughter, banter and scolding. He misses his brothers.
Aramis has been at the Louvres for a month, always surrounded by people. Guards, servants, courtiers milling about. A crowd he knows, not so different from when he was a regular Musketeer. But everything has changed now. The nobility hardly cared about him before. Now all eyes are on him, every second of every day, observing his moves and decisions. Judging this common soldier turned Minister.
It makes sense to have appointed another man of this trade to follow in Tréville's footsteps, given the war raging against Spain. But Tréville was more experienced. Aramis has never known a war such as this one. He trusts he'll grow better at it, because Porthos is on the front, sending weekly letters. And d'Artagnan, even if he's busy rebuilding the Garrison, often comes to see him. But a First Minister cannot steal away at night to enjoy a few drinks in a tavern.
Aramis has always been a dutiful man. To his friends, to his country. He's determined to outshadow his past mistakes by a righteous existence and a fierce will to educate the young King in order to show him how to become a great leader.
He smiles at the thought of the small boy who is growing accustomed to him. And Aramis loves seeing him every day. Not having to hide to do so. It's close to perfection. One month and he hasn't tired of it. He never will. Because gazing at him playing is by far the best activity he has to do.
Politics, Council meetings, dispatches, giving orders and people readily obeying them, it's all foreign and peculiar. Aramis has never liked orders. Be it receiving or barking them. He simply does so for the greater good. For France.
He's busy, that's certain. Busy re-arranging his world, his existence. And yet, he feels lonely. The monastery was different. There were quiet, contemplation and love in Douai. He missed the others but the monks were part of a community in which he believed he belonged. There's nothing similar at the Palace. Nobody talks to him if not for affairs of State.
Everyone is so reserved and respectful, and when they do, people address him ceremoniously because the decorum demands it, because he outranks them. Aramis feels uncomfortable, then. A little. Still out of place. He's never felt the emotion before so he despises it. Although he doesn't show it, and instead hides it behind a strict and firm attitude.
All of it is exhausting, though, and he sinks with a groan in the warm and clean water, now that he is alone in the room. It's dark even if candles glow in each corner. This is a nice and welcome improvement, he decides. He stretches in the tubs, revels in the water gliding on his skin, on his muscles, soothing and relaxing them.
Aramis buries himself deeper until he has to bend his legs and there's water rippling against his chin. He swallows a little once he parts his lips to smile. It tastes like roses and Aramis likes it. He will have to ask the maid to add a few drops of the perfume everytime he bathes from now on. This is a luxury that he should mind, he ponders. But he's been unlucky too often in his like to feel guilty about indulging if he is able to.
There's a fire blazing behind him, warming his clothes hanging in front of it, warming his back. It's silent in the room. And outside of it as well. He's asked the guards who follow him everywhere to let him be for tonight. He's locked the door after the girl left and he's a soldier. Whoever may come for him, they'll be no match.
Aramis takes a deep breath and sinks further in the tub until he's completely under water. It splashes on the tiles when he resurfaces, hair soaking wet, plastered to his face. He forces the curls back, closes his eyes again, breathes deeply.
Drops trickle down his chest and his back. He wonders if he'll ever obtain new battle scars as he watches water glide over one on his arm. If he'll ever see a battle and take part in it again. Or even a brawl. He's a politician now. He has a role to fulfill. He is defending his country in a different fashion.
Aramis has no idea how long he stays in the tub, lying still. But the water pooling at his feet is cold once he steps out of the tub. His shirt, however, is impossibly inviting and hot. Clean, too, and there's perfume on it as well. He likes it. Even if it sticks to his wet skin. The garment almost covers his body completely. He could probably walk to his bedroom in this simple attire. It is after all, right around the corner, next to his office. The one which used to be Tréville's and his late mentor would be proud of how how well-kept it is maintained.
In the few weeks he's been invested with his new responsibilities, Aramis may not have left the Palace at all. Except to go to church, which is another relief he finds comforting.
So he gathers his smallclothes and his pants because putting them on is useless. It's time to rest and sleep the troubles away. Then Aramis groans at the knock on the door.
"What is it?" he grunts, opening the door wide. He's already expecting a letter or a pressing matter which will demand his immediate attention despite the late hour. Instead, he stammers and forgets to bow. "...Your Majesty..."
The Queen looks as surprised as he is, perhaps more. She gasps a little because he's a sight to behold, truly. Long wet hair hangs loose on his shoulders. His white shirt is turning transparent in some spots because of the damp skin underneath it. And then, the Queen blushes profusely: he's naked from the thighs down. She adverts her eyes, takes a step back.
"My apologies. I did not imagine...I am disturbing you. Excuse me."
"No, wait! Please. One moment." There's an urgent side to Aramis' words and she complies.
They've hardly talked since she offered him the position. No, that would be a lie. They have discussed matters in public, they have commented on the weather and on how beautiful the gardens look. And on how delighted the King appears to play outside. They have discussed the war, finances, debts. They've discussed how to cleanse Paris of corruption and injustice.
They have barely made eye contact, though. They have always avoided staying together longer than a few minutes if it wasn't necessary. Aramis has forced himself to bow and never let his eyes wander. The Queen has forced herself to hold her head high, to talk to him as if he were almost a stranger. Someone she didn't know personally. A man whose skills she admires or else she wouldn't have entrusted him with this particular office. She's been acting as if Aramis meant nothing else to her. She has to show the world. It's for the best.
She's terrified of what could happen otherwise. It's imperative that she asserts her authority as Regent and any rumor could damage and doom the both of them. The three of them.
Yet, it's an ordeal. To see Aramis every day, in his fine clothes. And to see how he holds his ground among the people at the Palace. How he rises above them, with panache, dignity, grace and courage. Bless Athos for suggesting him. For giving them this chance. The Queen is proud of Aramis. Confident that she has made the correct choice. For France. For her son. For herself.
Her heart is beating faster as Aramis disappears behind the door left ajar. She can hear him fumble with his clothes. It's the first time in long weeks that they are together, alone without an audience. She had hoped it would be so, coming here tonight. She hadn't expected such a spectacle. She feels her cheeks heat up slightly.
Aramis hurries with his pants and once he's decent and rather presentable, he joins her in his dark office where she's waiting patiently. She is still wearing her heavy black dress she had on for supper. But most of the jewelry has been removed and blond locks of hair fall freely, framing her embarassed and nevertheless beautiful face. The authoritarian mask she has to wear in public wearies her.
With nobody to worry about, Aramis is at peace staring at her, admiring her, as pretty and charming as she always is.
"May I be of assistance, your Majesty?"
"Anne," she's quick to correct. "There is no one to fool tonight."
Aramis returns her smile. These are also changes he'll have no problem adjusting to. He's happy she's come. It's a pleasant surprise.
"We have barely seen one another today," she remarks.
"D'Artagnan had a lot to talk about," Aramis apologizes. The new Garrison sketches and the lists of supplies are still on display on his desk.
"And I spent an agreeable day with Constance, yes. I nonetheless missed you."
It's a honest admission that Aramis relishes in. He holds her gaze.
"You are busy and I know it is a lot to comprehend and adjust to."
"I like most of it," he reassures her.
"Good." The Queen fumbles with her hands. Even after all these years, he manages to make her feel like a girl. "I should hope soon we will have plenty of time to enjoy each other's company more often." The words come in a whisper, full of hope and expectation. She is sure that they will grow used to living in such proximity and any remains of awkwardness will fade.
"I should hope so, too."
The Queen would like to drown in his kind smile and his intense eyes. He invades her air, her space, to grab one of her trembling hands.
"You've nothing to worry about. Not tonight."
Aramis brings the white fingers to his lips. She gazes at the stark constrast they make on her skin.
"I am not nervous, Aramis. I am...happy...I would say. And it has been a long time."
A smile stretches on her hand that Aramis keeps tightly in his grip and he's so close to her, looking down with pure adoration.
"Good," he breathes out.
"I have something for you. Seeing Constance reminded me of it."
Aramis reluctantly steps away so she can rummage in one of her pockets. Love and thankfulness brighten his face as she lets the necklace untangle and dangle from her fingers. The rosary looks exactly the same as it did all these years ago. When he gave it back to Constance, hoping that she's manage to pass it along to its rightful owner. There was no question to leave it behind once he'd decided to join the monastery. He just couldn't let it go to waste, though. Or worse, be lost.
"You kept it." It shouldn't be a surprise.
"Always. I simply could not bring myself to wear it. It brought back too many memories. Yet now, you are here so I thought...you might like to have it again."
Her smile echoes his and there are too many emotions seizing his heart for Aramis to do anything but nod.
It reminds him of a similar situation, so many years ago. They were much younger and he'd almost never interacted with the Queen of France back then. But he had perhaps just saved her life at the Châtelet. And she had stood in front of him like she is doing right now, to tie the necklace around his neck.
Except that she has to be careful not to trap any stray hair in her knot this time. And this time, her hands don't only graze his chest. They stay on his shoulders, hold on to them firmly.
Tonight, it doesn't matter if her husband passed away less than two months ago. It doesn't matter that she is in mourning. She has a renewed chance at happiness so she is taking it.
Aramis' lips are soft, gentle against hers. The Queen had almost forgotten what it felt like to be kissed. The tenderness, the sharing, the hotness of the mouth on her. The hand on her hip and how she curses all the layers of fabric between it and her bare skin.
The Queen gives a sigh at the calloused fingers on her neck, rubbing carefully. Aramis cannot stop, cannot think that what he's doing may be wrong. It couldn't be more right. He's dreamed of it for years. She welcomes the tentative tongue sneaking in between her parted lips. She anchors herself around his neck, clutches a handful of hair as well as his shirt.
There's no urgency in their kiss. They both savour it immensely. But the Queen nevertheless gasps for air after they part. She's flushed, unwilling to move from his arms that he tightens on her waist. They don't have to speak to understand one another.
Aramis knows he'll sleep blissfully tonight, gathering strength from this welcome development of their new relationship. He had hoped for it, but not so soon. She's a godsend.
"Thank you, Anne," he says quietly. She closes her eyes at the name, at the silky lips kissing her cheek.
Thanks to these few stolen minutes, she'll look at tomorrow with less apprehension. She knows they'll have some sort of intimacy in private and she believes they won't jeopardize it in public. Because they know it's theirs and no King, no Rochefort, no one is around to spoil it for them.
Even if it's only kissing. She's been deprived of so much for years. Aramis will willingly and beautifully mend it all for her.