Hello there! Another installment! As usual, unbeta'd and just for fun so have mercy on mistakes.

Special Announcement for my Vantage Point Universe Readers! I finished the first draft of Not So Ancient History at long last! It still needs to go through the editing process, but the biggest hurdle is past! Huzzah!

Now, enjoy this little tidbit and have a good day and or night depending on where you live.

Warnings: mentions of domestic violence against a woman and against a child

There are no secrets that time does not reveal.
Jean Racine

Anne absently stroked her fingers through Esmé's fur as she read through emails on her phone. In the bathroom, she could hear Aramis singing a lively rendition of Taylor Swift's "I Knew You Were Trouble" over the constant spray of the shower.

She grinned at a particularly daring attempt at a high key but let it fall away when she noticed a new email arrive.

Her mother.

Of course, Margaret d'Austriche would email instead of just calling her. Esmé lifted her head from the bed to look at her and Anne stroked the dog's side soothingly as she opened the email.

Anne,
It has come to our attention that you are seeing someone. Your father and I will expect you both for dinner Friday night.
Sincerely,
Mother

Anne stared at her phone, mouth hanging slightly open. She hadn't told her parents about Aramis in the six months they'd been dating. In fact, she'd been hoping to keep him as far away from them as she could for as long as she could. She had no idea how they'd found out now.

"Why am I even surprised?" she muttered under her breath.

"Surprised by what?" Aramis asked around his toothbrush as he emerged from the bathroom with a towel tied loosely around his waist. She watched him dig around in one of the drawers of her dresser and was momentarily distracted by the beads of water rolling down his back and the wet, tousled waves of dark hair sitting in disarray on his head.

He turned back to her, boxers in hand, eyebrow arched teasingly over one eye.

"Anne," he pulled the toothbrush from his mouth and pointed it at her, "are you objectifying me?"

She twitched her own brow in response, a grin pulling at her lips.

"Maybe," she confessed.

He hummed sternly but was grinning as he went back to the bathroom, toothbrush back in his mouth. A few moments later he was back in the room, toothbrush gone and boxers in place of the towel. His hair had clearly been scrubbed with a towel because it was even more wild than it had been a few minutes ago.

"Surprised by what?" he asked again as he sat on the other side of the bed, reaching for his handgun on the nightstand.

She watched him methodically check to make sure it was loaded and ready before ensuring the safety was set and returning it to the nightstand.

"My mother," she finally told him. "She found out about you somehow."

"Was I a secret then?" he asked with a chuckle, leaning to retrieve his knife from the sheath tangled in his abandoned jeans.

"From them? Yes."

He twisted to look at her then, confusion shining in his gaze, along with a thread of hurt that she couldn't allow to continue.

"Not because you're you, but because they're them."

He snorted at that and slid his knife under his pillow before flopping onto his back next to her.

"So, they know about me now? I take it they don't approve?"

"I don't know, exactly," she admitted. "She sent me an email inviting us to dinner Friday — sort of, at least."

"How can we be sort of invited to dinner?"

"It was more like a demand, less like a request."

"Ah."

"We don't have to go."

He shifted, pushing up onto one elbow so he could face her.

"You don't want them to meet me?" he guessed.

"I don't want you to meet them. There's a difference."

"Anne." He tilted his head just so, clearly indicating he thought she was being a bit dramatic.

Anne groaned out a frustrated breath and tossed her phone onto her nightstand. She felt Aramis' gaze studying her for a long moment.

"You told me that you wanted to know all of me. Do I not deserve the same consideration concerning you?"

Anne wilted. He was right. Of course, he was right.

"They're a lot," she warned. "I don't think you know what you're getting into."

"Anne, my love, I'm not some weak-willed, thin-skinned mouse of a man. I've dealt with far worse than them in my life and will deal with far worse again. They can say or do as they please and it won't affect me, nor will it change how I feel about you."

Anne met his earnest gaze, warmed by the conviction in his words. She slid down in the bed, leaning in to press a kiss to his mouth over Esmé's head.

"I'm gonna hold you to that," she whispered against his lips.

"Meeting the parents, huh?" Porthos mused as he watched Aramis fuss with his hair, stroking his hands through it as if such ministrations had ever managed to tame it in the past.

"Walking to execution, more like, if Anne's to be taken seriously."

Porthos arched a brow.

"I've met her father," Athos commented as he stepped into the bathroom doorway next to Porthos and held out a tube of hair mouse. "The man is an ass. But you've handled far worse and far more intelligent."

"Yes, but this time I can't just threaten him if things start to go poorly," Aramis muttered, studying the tube of gel critically. "You sure this won't make my hair fall out or anything?"

Athos rolled his eyes and didn't dignify that with a response.

"If you need a quick extraction, just send an SOS text. We'll pull you out," Porthos promised.

Aramis snorted and tossed the tube of mouse into the sink without using it.

"It's a dinner with my girlfriend's parents, not a mission behind enemy lines. I'll be fine."

"Of course, you will," Athos agreed simply. "But all the same."

Aramis met the older man's eyes in the mirror, offering him a grin in response to the earnest words. He glanced at Porthos next, who offered him a wink and a smile.

"All right then, gentlemen, what's the verdict?" He turned to face them, pulling at the cuffs of his charcoal blazer to settle them further down his wrists. Porthos reached forward to pick at some invisible piece of lint on the plain black t-shirt he wore under it and Athos eyed the cut of his black jeans critically.

"The motorcycle boots might be a bit much," Athos offered.

"It was these, muddy running shoes, my combat boots, or the shoes from my dress uniform and those, I hate."

"He does," Porthos agreed. "And to be fair, I don't care for them either. Not exactly built for comfort."

"Or for quick escapes," Aramis added under his breath as he checked the sheath for his knife, hidden in the back of his jeans.

"Least of all evils, then," Athos allowed.

"How reassuring," Aramis replied blandly, checking his watch. "Anne will be here any minute."

"Just be yourself," Porthos coached, dropping his hands onto Aramis's shoulders, and leaning down to meet his gaze. "It's only parents."

"Porthos, you seem to forget the only girlfriend's parents I've ever met were…oh wait, I've never met a girlfriend's parents."

"Well, such things do require relationships lasting longer than a weekend."

"Very helpful, Athos, thank you." Aramis gave the other man a light shove and then patted his coat for his phone. "Of course, it had to be Phillipd'Austriche, damned bloody bastard."

"Maybe just stick with 'sir' and keep the 'damned bloody bastard' bit to yourself," Porthos teased.

Aramis rolled his eyes.

"With friends like you two, who needs assholes?"

His phone vibrated and a quick check showed it to be Anne announcing her arrival.

"Don't forget to walk Esmé."

"Just go."

Aramis went.

He trotted down the steps and folded himself into the passenger seat of Anne's sedan, leaning across the console to greet her with a kiss.

"Ready?" she asked, expression set like she was going into battle.

"Stop looking so concerned. We've got this."

The moment the servant opened the door and ushered them inside, Aramis knew the night was going to go to hell in a second flat.

Louis Bourbon sat casually in the sitting room with Anne's parents, in clear view of the entry area. He smiled pleasantly at them as the servant took their coats.

"What the actual hell?" Aramis hissed under his breath. "Is that your ex?"

Anne looked caught between furious and petrified.

"We're leaving," she stated, turning to snatch her coat back from the servant.

"Anne? Is that you?" Phillip d'Austriche came strolling out of the sitting room, a glass of something likely more expensive that Aramis's motorcycle in his hand. "Come now, don't linger in the entry."

"We're leaving," Anne said again. Aramis curled the corner of his mouth downward when he saw her hands shaking where they were clenched in her jacket, which the servant hadn't fully released back to her.

"Don't be ridiculous," Phillip dismissed her easily.

"How could you invite Louis here? Tonight?"

Phillip looked back at the sitting room as if confused about what she was talking about. He turned back to her with his eyebrows raised innocently.

"He was over to talk business. Dinner approached and it would have been rude to send him away."

Anne's eyes narrowed doubtfully.

Aramis cleared his throat, breaking the tense moment of silence.

"Aramis de la Cruz," he offered, holding out a hand to her father. The man eyed him with clear disdain but reached out to shake his hand anyway.

"De la Cruz…Spanish?"

"On my mother's side."

"Hmmm."

Aramis cocked a brow at the air of disapproval.

"Aren't you from Spain originally?" he asked.

"Indeed, but it's not really the same, is it?"

Aramis clenched the hand he had hidden at the small of Anne's back, letting his smile shift from genial to something a little more feral.

"Oh, that I think we agree on," he said.

Phillip's eyes narrowed, perhaps perceiving the intended insult.

"Come in," the man insisted briskly. "Have a drink."

Then he turned on his heel and returned to the sitting room, clearly expecting them to follow.

Aramis looked down at Anne, surprised to see her watching him with something like adoration on her face.

"What?" he wondered.

"You're wonderful."

His neck flamed in response to the blunt praise.

"I didn't do anything."

"You didn't let him walk all over you."

"Have you met me? When have I ever let anyone walk all over me?" He thought for a beat. "Besides Esmé that is."

She smiled a little, something of the shaken air fading from her gaze.

"True," she allowed.

She looked towards the sitting room and then quickly back at him.

"I love you," she reminded, too softly for anyone but him to hear.

He pressed a quick kiss to her temple in response and then together they headed into the proverbial lion's den.

"You must tell us, de la Cruz, what it's like for a regular infantry man such as yourself!" Louis asked brightly, smile wide and teeth perfectly straight.

Aramis wanted to punch him squarely in those perfect teeth.

"Oh, nothing as exciting as you might imagine," Aramis replied blandly.

"Aramis isn't in the infantry, Louis," Anne put in, voice somehow both brittle and painfully pleasant. "He's part of a commando unit."

"Right, right," Louis waved his hand dismissively, as if he had forgotten that this had all been explained not ten minutes ago. "Which unit is that?"

"I work under Jean Treville."

"Ah, you're one of those damned Musketeers!" Louis crowed, clearly pleased to have drawn the connection.

"We generally prefer 'fucking Musketeers' but, you know, semantics," Aramis replied, casually lifting his glass to sip at his whiskey.

Anne choked on her own drink and on the couch across from them, her mother, Margaret, blushed and pressed her hand to her chest as if deeply scandalized.

"Such language!" Margaret, gasped.

"Indeed," Phillip agreed sternly.

"My apologies," Aramis pressed his hand to his heart, as if deeply aggrieved, though he knew his voice didn't ring quite sincerely enough to make the apology feel genuine. A glance at Anne showed her trying to hide a grin behind her glass.

"You mustn't hold it against him," Louis said, grinning widely. "I would wager, you're both a far cry from the company he's used to keeping. I imagine the vocabulary in the barracks leaves something to be desired."

Aramis bit hard at the inside of his lip to keep from snapping something in his own defense. He knew he could be a bit rough around the edges, but he wasn't exactly an unlearned Neanderthal.

Anne, however, made no such attempt at restraint.

"Actually, Aramis can speak six languages beyond French and English," she pointed out primly, reaching out to cover the back of his hand with hers. He realized he'd curled his fingers into the edge of the chaise longue they were sitting on, leather creaking under the pressure. He forced himself to relax under her hand.

"Really? Which ones?" Louis asked, though it sounded like a challenge.

"Spanish, Arabic, Kurdish, Russian, Japanese and Italian."

Aramis resisted the urge to smirk when Louis could only blink dumbly in response.

"Where did you study?" Phillip asked, seeming grudgingly impressed.

Aramis knew he was asking about university, but that hadn't been a real option for him. Though he'd done some intense courses throughout his early training with the Commandos, most of what he knew came from life experience.

"In country," he answered. "I learned through immersion, you might say."

"You must have an ear for languages," Margaret commented.

"That's what Treville says. It usually takes me a few days to be able to carry on a basic conversation, a little more to feel truly comfortable. I couldn't exactly write sonnets, but I can get by easily enough. My Spanish is better, more like a second language. That I learned from my mother."

Margaret's eyes lit up a little, something in them eying him with curiosity for the first time, instead of disdain.

"And who is your mother?" she asked.

"Esperanza de la Cruz." He saw her brow furrow slightly as she tried to place the name. "She was no one to anyone but me," Aramis explained. "She died when I was young."

Margaret's eyes softened, but she didn't say anything else.

"I presume you have a father as well?" Louis asked.

"It would have made for an interesting conception had I not."

Anne choked on her drink again and Aramis rubbed at her back, fighting down a grin.

"Who is your father?" Phillip pressed.

"Julien d'Herblay."

"Of d'Herblay International?" Phillip looked surprised, even impressed.

"Could be."

"You mean, you don't know?"

"Well, I've never met the man so what he does for a living matters very little to me."

Everyone, Anne included, stared at him.

Aramis took another sip from his glass, unperturbed.

"Yes," Louis cleared his throat, "well, perhaps that is a lesson to us all about engaging in untoward behaviors before marriage."

"Louis!" Anne snapped, her hand clenched atop Aramis's and he shifted so they were palm to palm instead. He squeezed hers lightly to calm her. The assumption, however insulting, was nothing new to him.

"I think, perhaps, the better lesson is to choose your partner wisely," Margaret interjected calmly. She was giving Aramis and Anne a disapproving look as she said it, but Louis still looked as if he'd sucked on a lemon.

A servant appeared at the door.

Food at last. Perhaps Louis would keep his perfect teeth a little longer.

"The French Military are not mercenaries to be used at the whims of politicians and businessmen," Aramis argued. Anne shifted her gaze from him to her father, to see his reaction.

"Even if those politicians and businessmen are acting in the best interest of France?" Phillip challenged.

"Show me a man in either profession with such a pure cause and I'll let the Pope know he's missing a goddamned saint."

Louis choked on his wine and Anne barely held back a laugh when her father could only sputter in response.

"Perhaps a change of subject?" her mother interjected.

It wasn't a suggestion. Her father continued to fume silently in his chair while Louis eyed Aramis across the table like he'd very much like to challenge him to a battle of some sort but couldn't figure out what he might actually be able to best him in.

"Aramis, you mentioned your mother was from Spain? Have you ever been yourself?" Margaret asked diplomatically.

"A few times, yes," he replied easily, as if the confrontation with her father hadn't even happened.

"What city do you favor most?" her mother went on.

Sensing a tentative, if perhaps temporary, peace, Anne excused herself quietly, touching Aramis's shoulder as left the dining room. She made quick work of the trip down the hall to the powder room and enjoyed the few moments of peace found inside.

She was unsurprised to see Louis lingering in the hallway outside the door when she emerged.

"He'll never measure up, Anne," Louis hissed lowly. "He's nothing and has nothing. What kind of life do you think you would have with him?"

"Based on the last six months? I'm betting on a happy one."

Louis blanched.

"Six months?" He stalked closer, hand closing around her elbow tight enough to bruise. "You've been seeing him for six months?"

"Let me go."

"What could he possibly have to offer you that I can't?" Louis demanded, driving her backwards a step with his grip.

"Kindness. Honesty. Respect. Love. Should I go on?"

His hand tightened and she couldn't stop the wince that stole across her face.

"Why should I respect you? Why should anyone?" he leaned closer, eyes hard. "You're a whore, just like his mother."

She swung her free hand at his face, but he caught it with his, squeezing her wrist tight enough that the bones ground together.

"You're hurting me," she stated, clawing at calm when all she wanted to do was scream.

"I still love you, Anne. End things with him before you make this any worse."

"No."

"Anne." The warning in his tone, coupled with the bruising grip he had on both her wrist and elbow, brought stinging tears to her eyes. She thought of Aramis, confessing to her about his PTSD and the op that went wrong last month, and she felt braver, stronger.

"I don't love you, Louis," she said. "I never did and never will."

His eyes flared in fury and he opened his mouth, hands tightening.

Footsteps in the hallway gave him echoed warning. He had dropped his hold on her and backed away by the time the servant came into view.

Anne rubbed at her aching wrist and tried not to feel like a coward as she all but ran back to the dining room.

Aramis's gaze locked on her as soon as she came back in and she smiled, hoping to deter any suspicion or concern. He smiled back, but there was something calculating in his eyes as he tracked her progress back to her seat. The way his eyes snapped to Louis when he strode in a few moments later, prompted Anne to quickly intervene.

"Aramis, didn't you say your unit has an early training tomorrow?" she asked.

To his credit, he didn't even pause.

"The curse of the life as a regular infantryman."

She thought she saw Louis's grip on his fork tighten.

"Training? On a Saturday?" Margaret asked doubtfully.

"The military knows no weekends," Aramis replied with a disarming grin.

The way her mother's eyes shifted in response made Anne pause. If she thought her mother could warm to anyone, she would almost dare say she might be warming to Aramis.

"We won't keep you then," Phillip dismissed.

If Anne wasn't leagues past ready to be done with this evening, she might have been offended by it. As it stood, she and Aramis took their leave as expediently as they could get away with.

The front door had barely closed behind them when Aramis held out his hand.

"Keys."

Still feeling unsteady after her confrontation with Louis, she handed them over readily.

Aramis didn't say anything as they drove, but she saw his eyes lock briefly on her wrist when it was exposed as she reached for the radio dial. It took every shred of self-control she had not to self-consciously pull the cuff of her coat down over the darkening mark circling the pale skin.

He took her back to her apartment and followed her up without having to be asked.

When they were safely locked behind three deadbolts, and he still hadn't said anything, she started to wonder if he was angry with her. All she wanted to do was shower and wash the feeling of Louis's hands on her skin away. But the thought that Aramis might be upset kept her from retreating to the bedroom.

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

His head snapped around so quickly from where he was scooping coffee into the machine that she jumped.

"What for?" he sounded nothing but bewildered by her apology, so she shrugged, tossing her hands slightly out from her sides.

"You haven't said anything since we left my parents. I thought maybe you were angry with me."

He shoved the filter basket into the coffee maker with a bit more force that such a chore warranted.

"I'm not angry with you." He stood at the sink for a few silent moments, filling the pot with water. "I'm listing the ways I could maim your ex in my head, but I'm not angry with you."

He went about pouring the water into the coffee maker and then sliding the pot into its place. He jabbed his finger at the start button sharply enough that the entire machine rocked.

"Aramis…" she ventured warily.

"Is it just your wrist? Or did he do something else?"

She swallowed, taken off guard by his bluntness.

"It's nothing," she tried.

He blew out a sharp, angry breath and turned his back to her, bracing his hands on the counter. She expected anger to be reflected in his voice when he finally spoke, but instead, he just sounded tired.

"Is it just your wrist?" he asked again.

She touched her elbow even though he couldn't see her. She thought about the night, months ago now, when he came home from an op with a bruise exponentially larger than the bullet that had caused it on his chest. It had been the day she met his brothers and he had told her then that there were things about himself that he didn't know how to share.

She had told him she had things too.

He'd since confessed his PTSD, a big piece to the puzzle that made up the man she loved. Perhaps it was time she confessed something of her own. Maybe the burden would feel lighter then.

"My elbow too," she said quietly. She watched him hang his head briefly before pushing away from the counter. He turned to face her, eyes zeroing in on the hand she had wrapped around the bruised joint in question.

"Can I see?" he asked, expression soft and full of none of the anger she expected.

She nodded and only then did he approach. He helped her out of her coat and then took her elbow through a series of range of motion exercises. When he was satisfied it would do nothing more than bruise, he took her bruising wrist into his hands, handling it gently as he inspected it.

"How did you know?" she asked quietly as she watched him trace tender fingers across the darkest part of the darkening bruise. "You knew before you ever saw my wrist. How?"

He was quiet for a long moment before answering.

"Go get a shower. Get comfortable. Then we'll talk."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and then retreated back to the gurgling coffee machine.

She felt steadier now, knowing he wasn't upset with her, and a little stronger now that he knew the truth. So, she did as he asked, showered, braided her hair back and slipped into her favorite leggings and the sweatshirt she'd stolen from his closet months ago. He was waiting on the couch, two cups of coffee on the table in front of him. His blazer was abandoned over the back of the chair at the kitchen table. His boots were arranged neatly near the front door. He looked at home on her couch, like he belonged there.

The thought warmed her as she padded over, curling into the space he offered at his side with a raised arm. His hand rubbed down her back gently as he pressed his lips to her forehead again.

"The look on your face when you came back into the dining room," he explained without prompting. "I'd seen it before. Something not quite panicked but…hunted. Then also, your eyes were red like you had held back tears and you were breathing too quickly for someone who had only left to use the restroom."

She forgot sometimes that even if hyper-vigilance hadn't been a necessity for his job, his PTSD had sharpened those skills into something that could be overwhelming at times.

"He was waiting when I came out of the bathroom," she explained, dropping her head to his shoulder. "He doesn't approve of you."

"I'm shocked."

She found herself smiling as she twisted the hem of his t-shirt between her fingers. The smile faded as she went on,

"He wanted me to end things with you and go back to him."

Aramis was quiet, but the gentle hand stroking up and down her spine never faltered.

"When I told him that wasn't going to happen, he was angry."

"Was he angry often when you were together?"

Sometimes it felt like that's all he ever was.

"Yes," she said simply.

"And when he was angry…did he hurt you?"

She opened her mouth to deny it because what had Louis ever really done? He'd slapped her a few times. But really, all he usually did was grab her arm or her wrist. He would spit out hateful words but had never truly escalated things.

But as she stared down at the darkening skin of her wrist, she realized that hurting her was exactly what Louis had done. It was what he had always done.

"Yes," she said quietly, but then felt Aramis tense against her and hurried on, "but only like this," she held up her wrist. "He never really hit me much but…"

"But?" Aramis prompted.

"But there was always the threat of something more," she confessed. That's how Louis had truly controlled her — through fear. "He had a way of making me feel powerless."

Aramis drew in and let out a slow, controlled breath.

"Do your parents know?"

She shook her head sharply, forehead bumping against his chin.

"I never told anyone."

He nodded, pressing his lips to her forehead for a third time.

"You never have to go back to him again," he promised, and it sounded like a vow.

They sat in silence, her tucked securely to his side with her legs hooked over his lap. His hand never stopped stroking her back, a soothing, comforting gesture. She was wondering if her coffee was cool enough to drink yet when she thought back on something he'd said.

"Where had you seen it before?" she wondered.

For the first time since she'd sat down, the hand on her back paused. It had been a misstep, she realized. He hadn't meant to say that when he was explaining himself earlier.

"Never mind," she insisted, snuggling in closer. "It's okay."

It took a moment, but his hand started up and down her back again.

"In myself," he confessed almost too quietly for her to hear, "every time I looked in the mirror as a child."

She pulled her head up, eyes widening as she realized what the words implied. He slid a look at her out of the corner of his eye and then cleared his throat, looking away.

"I was in foster care," he reminded. "I was an angry kid in the beginning, alone and abandoned in the world. I didn't have Porthos yet and my attitude tended to bring out the worst in people. They weren't all bad, but I tended to kick up trouble when they were, trying to make it so they would rather be rid of me than deal with me. When that didn't work, I just ran away. That got me a reputation, though, and then the good homes didn't want someone like me anymore. I was twelve when I met Porthos and found a reason to stop running."

Anne studied his profile as he resolutely refused to look at her. She wondered if it was easier this way, if he was imagining that since he couldn't see her, he was confessing to an empty room.

"We were together in a home for two years before it got shut down."

She felt his body slowly tensing against her as he went on.

"After that, I was put in a home for 'troubled boys' because no one else would have me. At least that's what my caseworker told me at the time."

"You and Porthos were separated," she realized, her heart breaking.

He nodded stiffly and then shifted suddenly, lifting her legs off his lap so he could stand and pace away, looking more skittish than she'd ever seen him. She stayed where she was, carefully still as she waited.

He moved over to her living room window, hands fidgeting at his sides. He looked out at the darkness for a moment before scrubbing his hands across his face and up through his hair. He cleared his throat and seemed to be straining for indifference when he turned to face her, though he didn't quite meet her eyes.

"I was there for four years. That was where… It was…" He cleared his throat again, motioning vaguely at his own back, "The scars, the old ones I mean, it was… It was there…"

She was off the couch before he'd finished his faltering explanation. He twitched a little at the sudden movement but then melted easily into her embrace when she wrapped her arms around him. He blew out a harsh breath against her shoulder, drawing it back in unsteadily.

"Dios," he breathed out.

She curled one hand across the back of his head, turning her face into neck and willing back hot angry tears that threatened to break free. His hands flattened against her back and when he drew in his next breath it was steadier.

"I've never told anyone about that," he confessed. "Not even Constance, though she might have guessed by now."

She held him tighter.

"Please don't tell Porthos," he pleaded softly.

She lost the battle against the tears then, couldn't stop them from sliding down her cheeks as she pulled back, lifting her hands to frame his jaw and meet his eyes.

"That shouldn't have happened to you," she whispered fiercely, stroking her thumbs along his cheekbones, feeling the raised line of an old, faded scar and wondering for the first time if it wasn't a mission that caused it. "Why didn't you run away?"

"And risk never finding him again?" he replied, shaking his head. Leaving Porthos had clearly been a non-starter. "It was a long time ago," he added as if there were a statute of limitations on childhood trauma. "I just wanted you to know that I understand what it is to feel powerless." He brought a hand around to wipe away the tears on her cheeks. "I don't want you to feel that way ever again."

She curled against his chest then, tucking her head into the crook of his neck and basking in the warmth of his arms sliding securely around her back.

"Maybe you should talk to someone," he suggested, adding quickly, "if you want to, I mean. I happen to know Constance is quite good at her job."

"You're probably right," she allowed. It was probably long overdue. She hesitated and then went on, "Maybe you should talk to her too."

His arms tightened briefly across her back and then she felt his cheek rest against her hair.

"You're probably right," he parroted with a sigh.

Anne closed her eyes, sinking further into his embrace.

"What a pair we make," she murmured wryly.

"You could almost say it's a perfect match," he agreed sweetly.

Too sweetly.

She snorted a laugh and felt his chest shake with his own amusement. She pulled her head back to see him grinning down at her.

"Too much?" he asked with a comically innocent expression on his face.

"You're ridiculous," she accused, smiling into the kiss he pressed against her mouth.

"There's that smile," he stated, clearly pleased with himself after he pulled back.

It hit her then, almost overwhelming in its intensity, how deeply she'd fallen for this man, who only minutes ago had revealed a deeply traumatic piece of his history so that she didn't have to feel so alone with her own trauma.

And then, with almost no effort at all, had been able to make her smile despite it.

"Come on," she pulled at the hem of his t-shirt to drag him after her as she backed towards the bedroom, coffees forgotten. "I can think of a few more ways to keep a smile on this face."

His eyes sparked at the insinuation, the grin on his face shifting to something positively sinful that made her skin feel as if it was suddenly set aflame.

"Oh, I can think of one or two myself."

This modern universe has always hinted that Aramis went through something bad at the last group home, but this is the first time he's really spelled it out for anyone. As he said, he never told anybody (well he has, but not in the sense that he's referring to), so him telling Anne was as big as her confessing the nature of Louis's treatment of her.

You may remember him mentioning that last group home as being the worst time in his life while drugged in another fic (I believe it was in one of the Whumptobers) and then begging d'Artagnan not to tell Porthos. Here again he makes the same request.

Clearly, Porthos is going to find out. So there's that brotherly angst-fest to look forward to.

The next one of these will come to you soonish.

Later, gaters.