Lessons - Chapter 8
Anonymous asked: "Olivier and Anne planning the wedding and discussing family."
I wanted to work in discussion about the part where Charles will be getting two slightly crazy uncles, but that didn't end up happening. (Still. He totally is and he's bound to decide it's awesome.)
Hopefully the information I looked up about how weddings are handled in France is reasonably correct – if not, please educate me. :3 (The most intriguing part was that they still post banns … which makes me wonder whether Athos' family will find out.)
If Olivier stops and thinks about it, he realises he hasn't attended any weddings in years – the last was Thomas', just after he'd told his family his plans to leave the army, and any recollection he has of the event dwindles in the face of the far more vivid memories of his younger brother's challenging stare, Catherine's flinty eyes, and his parents' silent disapproval. None of his close friends have married, and he's not the sort to attend a wedding just because he's invited, as has been the case with several coworkers. And while it's not a problem, but it does leave him with very little in the way of a framework.
When he was younger he had always assumed that, if he did marry, it would be Catherine (because they'd both been raised with that idea) and her mother and his would no doubt arrange the whole thing, so it had never been worth dwelling on. By the time he got old enough to seriously think about weddings, he'd realised he had no intention of marrying Catherine or anyone else just because his parents expected him to, and that it wasn't even something he was especially interested in, not then and not with any of the other women he's dated through the years, few and far between as they might be. Not until Anne.
He does think about it, once he realises he wants the promise and the permanency that marriage implies (and especially after he asks and she says yes), but the more he thinks about it the more he'd realises he doesn't care what the wedding itself looks like – that it isn't important. This turns out to be a problem when first they talk about it one evening, albeit the kind of problem that leaves them both laughing.
"We'd be better off letting Charles decide the whole thing at this point," she says with a last chuckle, wincing as she collapses back against the pillows. "I'm sure he has more ideas than either of us."
"More than both of us together, probably." Olivier tries to envision what a ten-year-old might come up with, especially one as fond of old stories as Charles is, and winces. "On second thought, that's bound to end badly. Is it selfish to want something small and simple – just family?"
"I thought you and your family didn't get along."
"We don't." And he doesn't want them there for the wedding, god knows, doesn't need his father's sour disapproval and his mother's haughty disdain, doesn't need Thomas and Catherine clouding his happiness. "They're not who I meant."
She rolls back over to look at him in the golden glow of the bedside lamp. "Your army brothers?" One finger traces the tattoo on his bicep, following the lines inked into his skin. The understanding in her eyes doesn't surprise him one bit; given her relationship with Armand (god, it's still strange to think of his old commanding officer by his personal name), she's well-acquainted with the idea of families of choice.
"They're the only family I'd want around at a time like this – the only ones it matters to have there." And even if Porthos and Aramis haven't met her yet, he's certainly written them enough about Anne (and gotten heckled enough in the return letters) that he has a fairly strong suspicion that they'll get along just fine. It matters a great deal to him that they do. As well as he fits into her family, he wants her to fit into the part of his that counts.
Something in her face suggests they're going to revisit the subject of his blood relatives, but she doesn't pursue that line now. She doesn't say anything, in fact, until he raises his brows in silent question. "What, mine? You already know the extent of it. I suppose this will be small, if it's just the four."
"Is that a problem?"
"Hardly. I'd rather have our families and a private ceremony than any amount of pomp or circumstance just because it's expected." She smiles, a glint of wicked humour in her green eyes. "We can even dispense with the church part and just do the civil service, since we're both shamelessly wicked."
It makes him chuckle. They are, no doubt, as far as the Catholic Church is concerned – living practically under the same roof, being intimate well in advance of marital bonds. But it's the twenty-first century, and the parish priest has never looked at them askance when he's come to services with her family. "I think I'd like that part all the same, if Father Laurent is willing to officiate – I'm sure there'll be others at the city office, and that can be ours alone."
Her expression grows thoughtful as she considers that. Religion is more habit than faith for them both, the traditions less familiar to her than to him but still a part of life, but he hadn't considered until now what that might mean in terms of a wedding ceremony. Just as he's wondering if perhaps it had been the wrong thing to suggest, she murmurs, "I think I'd like that." A soft laugh, "And it should satisfy Charles' need for ceremony, since he won't be able to stand as a witness."
It's a good thought, one he'd not even considered – but it's important that Charles feel a part of it too, and there's little room for a minor in a civil ceremony alone. And so he just smiles at the thought and reaches out to switch off the lamp, and leans down to kiss her once he returns. The silence fills the room again as they get comfortable, pull up the blankets, but once they're settled she speaks again, almost musingly. "I never thought about how small this family is before."
His turn to push up on one elbow and regard her. In the dimness that thoughtful expression is still there, but without any of the sadness he'd feared might accompany it. "We can change that." Unlike marriage, children are something he'd thought about in the past – hard not to, surrounded by youngsters for much of the year – but he'd never seriously imagined having any of his own. Fostering, perhaps, or adopting. But Charles has worked his way as inextricably into his heart as Anne has, and while he can't ever replace the boy's father it's a role he'd like to fill as much as he's allowed. And now, with Anne, with marriage … now, as with marriage itself, for the first time he truly wonders.
And yet it would mean changes – would mean sacrifices, more hers than his, at least to start. He's sure they'd have Armand's help, and his job means he can be home fairly early, but hers … He rests a hand lightly on her ribs, careful of the bruising still there, the underlying injury, just one of the more obvious reasons why fieldwork is incompatible with children. A baby would mean working from a desk for at least a year and probably longer, and he knows how she chafes at the idleness – how she's struggled with that in order to be around for Charles more often.
But she's looking at him, and there's a softness in her eyes that's only ever there for her family, and she says, quiet but steady, "I think I'd like that, too, someday."
Endnotes: As always, this 'verse can be found on my Tumblr (myalchod) under the tag "d'artagnan you little punk". XD My askbox there is always open for prompts and questions.
