Work Text:
He lays aside the quill and flexes his ink-smudged fingers, the knuckles cracking as he works the stiffness out of his hand. The desk is covered with pages of densely written notes, his thoughts on the proposed amendment to the maltôte, that was discussed in the council meeting that afternoon. As the war with Spain has dragged on, finding ways to pay for it has become one of the most intractable of the problems in the repertoire of difficult tasks that he deals with every day.
But tonight, the sun long set, there is little more the First Minister of France can achieve if he cannot even get his fingers to uncramp long enough to hold a quill. A few minutes of stretching should ease the pain in his hand, but as Aramis leans back in his chair, rolling his neck and shoulders, the tight stretch of aching muscle and tendon wrings a soft groan of pain from him.
It has been three years since Grimaud had captured him and hung him from a beam in a cold, open stone ruin. For eighteen long hours his entire weight had been suspended from his arms, the muscles and tendons of his shoulders and back screaming for relief after thirty minutes, and then terrifyingly numb after a few hours. Finally rescued and back on his feet, he’d been in agony, nothing dislocated but – torn and bruised and swollen – the shoulder joints and the muscles along his spine had never fully recovered. Consistent exercise and treating the joints, especially the right shoulder, gently makes the pain manageable, but for weeks like this one, with every day spent in council meetings and every evening writing up notes, the repetitive motion of forming the neat, even, curves of his script has eventually triggered deep, relentless stabs of pain that radiate all the way up his arm to his shoulder, across the back of his neck and down his back.
It's not unbearable, not painful in the way that his many, many wounds as a Musketeer had been; not the fiery slash of a blade or the fierce skewering agony of a musket ball. But it is persistent and unrelenting, and as such it wears on his soul in an especially grueling manner.
He leans forward, and stretches his right arm out across the tabletop, wincing at the ache in his wrist and elbow, the deep, throbbing soreness of his bicep; the way the pain radiates out from his joints, pulling the muscles of his neck and shoulders into wire taut spasm and sending tiny sparks of agony into all the muscles along his spine. The pain goes all the way to the bone, deep and incessant and he straightens up, flexing his back and reaching to dig the fingers of his left hand into the rigid knots at his shoulder, trying to massage the tightness out of the aching tendons. But he doesn’t have the angle to apply enough force to make any appreciable difference and, frustrated, he pushes back from the desk with a huff of pained vexation, just as a quiet tap on the office door distracts him.
“Come.” He knows who it is, at this time of night it could only be one person, and really, by protocol the Queen has no obligation to ask for permission to enter her First Minister’s office, no matter what the time of day. But, as he watches Anne slip around the barely open door and come silently into the room, Aramis understands that she is not demanding as his Queen, but asking, as his wife.
Her smile is fond and a little exasperated.
“His Majesty was not pleased at being put to bed without a word of goodnight from you.”
Aramis almost laughs as he demurs “I will apologize in the morning, I am afraid I was detained by these annoying, albeit not unreasonable, objections to our proposed increase in the maltôte.” He holds up a hand to stay whatever she is about to say. “I know we need the money to reinforce the fortifications outside Artois, but there will be pain in the provinces, we need to be prepared.”
She holds his gaze, with a small understanding nod, and he wonders again at her quiet strength and serenity, regency is a heavy burden, and she wears it like the Queen she was born to be. The least he can do is carry some small part of the load for her. He takes a moment to fortify himself against the aches of his body, she doesn’t need to know of his pains, and then he straightens his back and smiles, ignoring the quick stabbing twinge of a cramp at the base of his spine.
Anne levels her gaze, and holds out a hand to him, sharp and assessing as he goes to stand and he can’t quite contain a flinch as the cramp takes firm hold and twists into the broad flat muscles of his shoulder blade.
“You are in pain, do not try to hide it from me.” She steps close, sparing him from standing, and places a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s nothing, just my shoulder.”
“Then not nothing.” These pains are not new, in the three years they’ve had together she’s more than once seen him almost incapacitated, pale and sweating with misery as the muscles of his back and shoulder spasm in excruciating agony.
As small and delicate as her hands might look, there is real strength in them and with a word of command “Stay.” She uses her fingertips to press firmly into the rigid muscle of his shoulder. He can’t contain the deep moan of relief as the muscle gives under her touch and his head drops forward to rest against the soft silk of her evening robe, moaning again as she slides both hands under the open collar of his linen shirt and takes a long moment to work at the corded tendons in his neck.
“Aña.” It’s a breath, a sigh of gratitude and love and intense physical release, and he can feel as she moves closer and leans in to drop a kiss on the top of his head.
“My love, I think you need to leave your desk for the night and perhaps avail yourself of the bath that has already been prepared for you.” Her fingers continue to work at the deep knots in his shoulders “And if you are patient and content to stay in the bath long enough for your pains to begin to recede then I will sit with you.” He nods and lets his head rest once more against the silk covering her breast, losing himself in the way her warmth, and her voice and the soft scent of lavender soothes him, her fingers carding gently through his hair.
***
The bath has been set, as always, in front of the fire in his sleeping chamber, the water in the tub piping hot and filled perfectly so that as he submerges himself it will come right to the rim. But much to his chagrin, just in the time it has taken to walk the corridors from his office, his muscles have stiffened to the point that he can’t remove his shirt. He sinks down on a padded stool by the fire and huffs a sigh of frustration as he plucks at his sleeve.
Anne smiles, soft and fond, as she comes to his side, “I can do that for you.”
He frowns, mulishly determined to continue to try to do it himself, until she stays his hand.
“Aramis, don’t be stubborn, let me do this for you.”
“You are my Queen; I would not have you act as a servant.” He’s being ridiculous, he knows it, but he hates this weakness, this incapacitating pain, and he loathes the way it forces him to lean on those around him, especially on Anne, who has so many other burdens. Then he bites back a whimper as his elbow gets caught in his sleeve and the pain radiates out from the joint.
“Aramis, I am also your wife and,” She teases him with a look and a gentle scrape of her fingers through his beard. “I have undressed you many times.”
“That’s different.” His voice still petulant. But it is different. When her hands are on him in desire, when they strip each other, in haste or in leisurely passion, when she takes time to savor every slow reveal of skin and scar as they tumble together on the wide, soft beds of their chambers; they are bound together as equals.
She huffs a sigh of frustration of her own and there’s a sudden flash of sorrow in her eyes.
“Aña?” His heart squeezes tight for a moment at the thought that he has inadvertently caused her pain.
“Aramis, how does it make you feel when you are able to take care of me, to take care of Louis, to protect us, to shield us from harm, to know that you can show us your love in acts of sacrifice and kindness?”
He tilts his head with a frown as she sets her jaw to contain the emotion threatening to spill over. The slight quiver of her chin and shine in her eyes, an unspoken plea for him to understand.
“When my son was an infant, he was in the care of wetnurses and governesses, I never gave him a bath, I never fed him, I was not the one who held him when he woke in the night. And now that he has outgrown his governesses, he has become the ward of servants of the bedchamber and tutors, he has no need of me as caretaker. You are the only person in my life for whom I can show this kind of care, the only person for whom I can show my love with acts of service. Please let me have this.”
The entreaty in her voice, in her face, is so very earnest, her need to love him in just this way – to be able to show her adoration for him in the material worship of his body – to comfort and soothe and heal with her hands and to do so without the lure and promise of sex is so compelling that he can’t resist her. For a moment his heart aches for her, and for the implication of so much loneliness over the years, so much isolation imposed by her rank and station. And he softens, gives up his own selfish need to be strong and concedes, gratified at the way she thanks him with her smile, even as he must contain every wince and whimper of discomfort while she rolls his shirt up his back and then eases it over his head, so that it will slide off his arms without any effort on his part.
“My poor love, you suffer so from this.” She rubs a hand gently across his back and he draws a deep, steadying breath as she urges him to stand. There’s still pain, but so long as he doesn’t have to lift his arms above his head, he can manage the rest without her aid, and she strokes gently through his beard one more time before leaving him to deal with breeches and braies and stockings.
Finally naked, he looks up and catches her watching him and he smirks, just the slightest twist of his mouth, as the pink flush rises from her chest to her cheeks. Flustered, caught in her moment of frank appreciation of his nakedness, she turns away and he watches her pick a square of linen from the top of a chest and fold it, letting it soak in the hot water before draping it against the sloping side of the tub to create a soft, warm resting place for his back.
When he finally steps into the tub and sits, stretching out in the steaming water, the relief is beyond measure and a long, slow sigh of content rumbles up from his chest. Sitting on a low stool, Anne is close enough that he can lean over and place a kiss on the fingers that are resting on the side of the tub, and she reciprocates with a kiss to his brow.
“Does this help?”
“Always.” he groans and rolls his shoulders. The relief is transitory, but welcome, and then he rests his head back on the edge of the tub and closes his eyes as she strokes up through his beard and into his hair.
“You’ve spent too many days at your desk. I think I should order you to rest.”
“That would not be wise your Majesty.” He opens one eye and smiles, impudent. If she is going to order him, he will respond with appropriate deference, even if it is in jest.
She laughs, blue eyes merry and teasing, “Very well, no orders. But, please, less time at your desk for a few days.” She brushes a brief kiss against his mouth, “I ask this as your wife.” Another soft, sweet kiss, a little less brief this time. “I would not have you incapacitated for long, my love.”
He leans into yet another kiss, lingering and tender, but entirely without heat. On any other night her presence as he is bathing would inevitably lead to a more carnal intimacy, but tonight he is possessed of neither a willing spirit nor an able body and is content to lie here, basking in the warmth and love of this remarkable woman that he is blessed to call his wife. Relaxing as the heat of the bath, and the tenderness of her touch, leeches the pain from his body and soothes his soul.