Work Text:
March 1789
Oscar was in love.
The realization came slowly, painfully. Life wanted that for her; she was destined to struggle. It ought to have been easy to bring such a thing into the light, and under other circumstances, in another life or another world, perhaps it would have been. The concept seemed simple enough, and Oscar was a woman whose entire life was comprised of logic and order, a lifestyle for which the straightforward way of doing things always worked best.
But it was complicated—truly complicated. She was in love with André, her oldest and dearest friend, her servant and attendant since childhood, a man she had cared about and known for so long that she hadn’t thought to put a name to what was between them until recently.
He had known, though, he’d realized it long ago.
Je t’aime! Je t’aime! Je t’aime!!
She hadn’t had a change of heart. Oscar couldn’t let herself believe in such things. And she wasn’t seeing him a new light, either. No, she felt the same as always. He was still André and she was still Oscar. The world still revolved from night to day in the same fashion as it had since the beginning of time; a heartbeat was still required to continue living; the shadow always fell behind the light.
That was how things had always been, and, she supposed, how they would always be. Who was she to change the natural way of the world? A heart was not a thing that could be given orders. She knew that as well as anyone.
Oscar sighed and dropped her military jacket over the footboard of her bed. She was allowed to enjoy a little break, she reminded herself, tipping her head back and rolling it to the side until she felt her neck crack. The days felt longer now, though time continued to flow as always. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have minded working through Company B’s supposed leave, but her busy schedule and the tension of what loomed on the horizon were, combined, enough to fatigue anyone. A bit of time off would do her some good—would do them all good. As soon as she’d issued Company B their pleasant order, they’d cheered and hurried to escape the barracks, eager to see their families.
André had waited patiently for her as always, standing straight and still by the door to her office as if he were a real soldier obeying orders.
Mon Dieu, she was tired.
She moved to the window, sweeping back the curtain to peer outside at the rain-soaked grass. Spring, again, another new beginning for the earth. There was something exhilarating about seeing the grass turn green against the brown left behind by the cold of winter. It was all about cycles, she supposed. Another year of life for the world, another chance. Nature was always giving those.
So where was hers?
The curtain fell back into place as her chilled fingers let it go. She didn’t really need that, not exactly. It was courage she needed now, or the chance to go back in time to right a few wrongs. Oscar François was not someone who easily felt regret, but she supposed everyone had at least a few things about their life they would change if they could.
She didn’t regret dancing with Fersen on that day that seemed so long in the past it may as well have been a dream. The whole affair had been humiliating, but she’d gotten her answer. A man’s heart was free to feel as it would, and his saw her as—
Well, it didn’t matter anymore, did it? She couldn’t regret having let Fersen go; for her own sake, she’d needed to do it. And it was better, in her opinion, to have done so without uttering a word.
But surely, she realized in hindsight, she could have avoided at least a little of the hurt that had been inflicted on both Fersen and André by proxy.
André didn’t deserve to suffer, not for her sake and certainly not because of her. But he had. That time and many others besides. How often had he responded to a request or demand from her, no matter how foolish or thoughtless, with a soft, even, d’accord? How many of her footsteps had he followed in without hesitating?
Hadn’t he sacrificed his eye for her—because of her?
His entire life?
She didn’t deserve it.
She left the window behind and retreated further into her room, away from what remained of the evening light, and took a seat in the chair near her bed. The fireplace was empty, no flames danced in the hearth. It was just like her, she thought. Cold and still.
It had made her early life easy. No distractions, no vulnerability. But now, at thirty-three, she felt…lacking. Different.
Broken?
Marriage wouldn’t change that, no matter what her father thought. It might do the opposite—turn her resentful and afraid. The thought was terrifying.
More so, even, than her feelings, which had grown quiet and steadfast, like a summer creek winding through her heart. She’d never had to dissect such things before. Oscar acted on logic and instinct, but to stop and think about why she felt a certain way, or why her gut told her to do something was asking too much.
But didn’t she owe it to herself to know?
So she’d made the effort, and she’d put a name to the feelings…but how was she to share that? How could she shape such feeling, such emotion, into words?
The concept of confessing was enough to make her want to hide, but hiding was for children; she wasn’t allowed that luxury anymore, neither the action nor the time it wasted.
But after hiding for so long, after erecting walls around her heart to ensure that nobody would ever be able to accuse her of being sentimental, of being weak—of being a woman, she realized suddenly, pulling her knees up in the chair. Because being a woman came with its own hardships, didn’t it, and Oscar François de Jarjayes was to live her life as a man. She could hardly afford to have accusations leveled at her that would call her capability into question, could she?
What’s so difficult about loving and being loved? André had asked once, long ago. At the time, she hadn’t given it much consideration, but now…now… She understood what it was he was trying to say to her that day. What was so difficult about loving and being loved? There are some loves that cannot even be confessed.
Like yours, she wanted to jump back in time to say to him. Like yours for me.
Like mine for—
So there was plenty of difficulty and pain in loving and being loved, depending on one’s circumstances. For me, too, she wanted to say to that younger André who still had his eyesight and his long hair and a thoughtful little smile. I don’t know any other way to be except the way I am.
How could she let anyone see her for herself? Wasn’t the reality disappointing?
She was to her father what her father wanted her to be. She was to Marie-Antoinette what Marie-Antoinette wanted her to be. She was to Girodelle what Girodelle wanted her to be. And to André—
Well, she couldn’t be sure. He knew her better than anyone, but did he know her fully? Did he understand her? How, when she hardly understood herself?
The way I am isn’t enough, and that hurts.
Oscar let her forehead fall to her knees and sighed, eyes closing. She wasn’t really tired, she told herself. Just confused. Confused and overworked and exhausted from standing out in the rain and worrying about things that were out of her direct control.
And some of the things within it.
Why was it so hard to confess something as simple as caring?
A knock on her foyer door startled her out of her thoughts.
She took a deep breath, pushing her feet back down to the floor where they belonged. “Come in!”
But nobody came.
She knew who was at the door; it could only be one person. Only one man was afraid to come into her rooms. There was only one man who had a reason to want to avoid them.
But there were two people who had bad memories attached to the last time he’d been inside. He’d brought her…tea. If she thought about it, if she closed her eyes, the scene replayed. It didn’t matter how overwhelmed she felt at the time, she ought to have considered more feelings than her own. But everything had spilled over, her frustration and sorrow, her desire to throw away the parts of herself that made her feel weak and stupid. She’d burdened André with all of it, the whole sloppy mess, one she hadn’t been able to make sense of herself. How could she have expected him to understand it, then, if she could not make sense of it herself?
How could she have known he loved her when her own feelings for herself were so muddled and unpleasant?
It seemed unimaginable that anyone could feel that way for such an unlovable person! It still felt impossible, even recalling André’s fervent, tearful declaration: Je t’aime! Je t’aime! Je t’aime!
Just below the surface, beneath the military training and skill and the fortune of having a good-looking face, what was there to love?
“André,” Oscar said, opening the door. “Did you need something?”
He stood stiffly, as if he still thought they were in the barracks. “Ah… I thought I’d make sure you didn’t need anything before I retired for the evening.”
Uncertainty was clear in his expression. She wanted to smooth it away.
Was there anything she needed? Wanted? She fumbled for an excuse to keep him there a few moments longer. “You, ah…” She remembered the hearth in her room, as cold and still as her ability to express herself, and swung the door open wide to invite him inside. “You could light a fire for me.”
He hesitated on the threshold, and she felt her heart twist. He was afraid. Afraid of her rooms, afraid of her in her rooms, afraid of what he’d done the last time he’d been alone with her there.
It wasn’t necessary. She’d forgiven him his transgression instantly. Wasn’t it similar to her own messy expulsion of emotion, just one bad action brought on by the other? It wouldn’t happen again, of that she was certain. André would never intentionally hurt her; she knew that. She knew him.
“I trust you,” she said, and touched his arm. He jumped at the contact, light as it was, and Oscar remembered his promise to never touch her again. Well, he hadn’t done the touching this time, had he? That was her own doing!
He nodded before stepping into the foyer.
Oscar shut the door behind him and watched him go, heart constricting painfully in her chest. What a magnificent man, she thought, that he would try to conquer his own fear for her sake.
Couldn’t she be half as brave as that after all he’d done for her? After all the years of friendship they’d shared? Companionship? Hadn’t he always been, to some degree, her confidant? Her touchstone?
She could try, couldn’t she? She could make the effort? For him?
Shame washed over her as he knelt to start the fire. Despite all their years together and hundreds of thousands of shared memories, she hadn’t taken the time to tell him what he meant to her. Not even once. Not the way Oscar François usually did things: honestly, openly, bluntly. She’d always felt the need to disguise it with a laugh, a joke. André, don’t let your ego get the best of you; I did it for Nanny’s sake, you know, not for you!
Why was the truth so difficult?
She shook the thoughts from her head only to notice André watching her. The flames were a respectable size, now, but he hadn’t moved from his place on the floor. He just looked at her expectantly, as if waiting to be dismissed.
But no, not yet. She needed more time.
She knelt beside him, hands reaching for the heat. André’s hand intercepted hers just as her fingertips brushed the grate, but he jerked it back again instantly, an apology on his lips. His promise not to touch her, she knew. It was obvious by the way his eyes fell to the floor.
It was maddening, that promise! Gone were all the small intimacies they’d shared, things she had never allowed herself to enjoy from anyone else! The lack of them made her ache.
She reached for his hand, fingers closing around his. He resisted, tried to pull away, but she held on tight. “It’s okay,” she said, but the words came out like an order.
You’re not a monster, André, she wanted to say. You’re just a man. What right do I have to throw the first stone, when I am the reason for your blinded eye? You’ll spend the rest of your life living with that.
Compared to a few moments of fear…
“It’s okay,” she said again.
Silence fell between them as she gripped his hand and struggled to find words that weren’t from her usual pool of clipped demands. She had to do it right. She owed him that much, didn’t she?
“Oscar?” He sounded worried. She blinked, and his face came into focus in the firelight. Soft, comforting. She’d missed him, somehow.
She sighed, the sound uneven, and pulled his hand to her face, turning it so that she could press his palm against the curve of her cheek. His skin was warm and a little rough, but it felt right to her. Natural.
“André,” she began, and tried not to notice the way he swallowed, as if nervous. “Do you still love me?”
She hadn’t meant to ask that. She’d meant to tell him her own feelings, even if they came out a jumbled, stupid mess. But she was a coward who couldn’t make the first move, who was putting it all on him. Again.
What if his heart had changed? She quashed the doubt that surfaced at the back of her mind. It didn’t matter—it didn’t matter. She owed him this much! It took everything in her to hold his gaze, but facing the truth was the least she could do.
“One eye isn’t too much to sacrifice for you, Oscar.”
But it was. Oh, it was!
André looked away first, and she felt her heart sink.
“What a question!” he said when the silence had grown thick around them. “I remember the beginning well… I was eight and you were seven. You thrust a sword into my my hand and demanded a match. Even though I had no experience in swordplay, you refused to hold back. You’ve always been that way.”
“I’m sorry.” She had been a thoughtless little thing back then, she knew. She ought to have been kinder.
He continued as if he hadn’t heard her apology, his voice nearly trembling. “I’m still here, Oscar… I’m still here. Does that answer your question?”
A thousand memories burst from her heart at once: all the times he’d stood quietly behind her, beside her, in the same frame. His smile, his tears, the sound of his laugh, the twinkle in his eye when he teased her, the feel of his hand on her arm, the indescribable emotion in his eyes when she’d gripped his collar in a rage and he’d only looked at her—looked and smiled and said nothing until the anger fled from her body.
“How long?” she asked before she could stop the words from tumbling from her lips.
He laughed, the sound short and sad. “I imagine it’s been an eternity by now. I don’t remember what things were like before.”
“An eternity…” she echoed, lowering their hands to her lap where she carefully moved her fingers over his, tracing the shape of them carefully. “I don’t understand how you could feel that way for me… How anyone could—”
“Is it really so difficult to imagine?” He leaned toward her, his voice soft as the fingertips of his free hand brushed over her jaw. “I love you for being you. You wore a dress for Count Fersen, as if you thought the act of changing your clothes might change you, somehow, but there was never any need for that. If a man had the capacity for it, he would have already fallen in love with you. As I did.”
Not to mention Girodelle and Alain, she supposed.
But it still seemed surreal that anyone could see her, could know her, and would still feel that way.
She felt almost on the verge of tears for some reason, the confusion swirling around her. “Why?” she asked, her voice nearly breaking under the strain.
“When you wore that dress for Count Fersen, when you stood awkwardly in the hall looking uncomfortable in your own skin, I told you how splendid you looked, and I meant it, but what I should have said, what I thought as you walked away, was that…the dress had nothing to do with it. You have always looked that way to me.”
André’s hand slid to her cheek, and the tenderness in his seeing eye made her heart tremble until the tears fell.
“Even now, from my world of shadows, you are radiant.”
Her arms went around him, then, her face warm and damp and her heart full. What could she say to something like that? It was the answer she’d wanted, but it was so much more than a simple yes. “I’m sorry,” she said at last. “I never meant you hurt you, André. You must believe me. I just didn’t know…”
He let his cheek rest against her hair, hands carefully settling on her back. “If you were different, I don’t know that I would feel as strongly as I do.”
“Will you forgive me?”
"I’m the one who should be begging for forgiveness, Oscar. Love is not an excuse to cause hurt. That I ever caused you any pain…will always be my greatest regret.”
“I forgave you long ago,” she said, softly.
André didn’t answer, he only touched her hair, his fingers carefully twirling the ends of it around and around.
She’d always been bad at expressing the sweeter emotions. Was it a result of her upbringing, or was it simply the kind of person she was? She hadn’t asked to be cold as ice, but she’d always been that way, felt that way. Had a time ever existed in which she might have readily accepted André’s love for her? Where a passionate je t’aime murmured against her skin might have warmed her body, made her blood sing?
She’d had moments of loneliness, but to accept something like love…
To take such a step… and with André, with whom she shared her life…
It would have been too much. Too hard. Too frightening.
But she understood her own feelings, now. Every moment she’d rushed to his aid, every stray thought that involved him, each consideration and worry, her intense grief and anger… It all made sense, now.
And that he still loved her after everything… The notion was so overwhelming that for once, she didn’t know what to do—only what to say.
“I need to tell you something, but first… First I must know…”
“What is it, Oscar?”
She swallowed hard, determined to stop protecting her own heart so fiercely. “Will you love me, only me, for the rest of your life? André—”
“Must I say it a thousand times?” he asked, interrupting her. “Or even a million times? My answer will remain the same, always, for all the days I have left on this earth. I decided long ago to remain by your side until Death came for me…and I am happy with that choice.”
So much like a marriage vow, Oscar thought as she pulled away from him and lifted her hand to his hair to push it away from the eye he’d lost for her sake. There he was, her André, looking at her earnestly.
If she was going to do this, then she had to do it well, had to be courageous in her own way. He would need to see, to understand, to feel her sincerity. She touched his cheek. “I love you, André. I really do.”
It wasn’t a passionate declaration. There were no frills.
Just her heart, out in the open, plain and sensible, waiting for an answer.
It came immediately, his head bowing, lips grazing hers so softly it made her heart flutter in her chest. She wanted to respond to it somehow, but her courage faltered at the last moment, and André pulled away before she could find it again.
“I have a confession, too,” he said, his fingers tracing her face, “though not a pleasant one… The shadows… They are growing ever darker.”
Oscar felt her back stiffen as horror washed over her. “No,” she said aloud, voice cracking. “No! I don’t—I’m—” But the truth seemed obvious, suddenly. She’d seen that far-off look in his eye as he descended the stairs, had watched him reach for something on the ground and miss it, had witnessed him stumble when he walked…
She’d known, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it! Who would want to?
“Oh, André!” she said, shrugging his hands off so that she could touch his face, could push his dark curling hair away from his eye to run her fingertips over the scar, the one that had taken the sight from his left eye. “This is my doing, all because I—”
His hand at the back of her head stopped her. “No,” he said. “I never blamed you, not even once.”
His words washed over her, dispelling the self-loathing that had tried to force its way into her heart.
Suddenly, it didn’t matter that she hardly knew what to do, she was pulling him toward her, her mouth coming to rest against the skin over his left eye. The scar was light and thin, and she followed it with her lips, kissing the path over and over again until she was satisfied. Then her eyelashes were fluttering against his own, against his hair, over the bridge of his nose, as she moved to gently touch and kiss his other eye—the one that was, even now, starting to fail him.
“André,” she murmured, brushing his hair back from his dead eye, tucking it behind his ear, “don’t hide from me, please.” She pressed her forehead against his and ran her thumb over the scar one last time, her hand trembling with emotion. “I always did like your eyes.”
The sound he made was something between a chuckle and a sob. “Anything for you,” he said, and pulled back slightly before turning his head to catch her lips with his.
She kissed him back, feeling almost shy, emotion welling up in her chest.
The lips I know…
The lips I know…are strong and soft. They melt against mine with a tender sort of passion…
Of course they belonged to André, the man who had stood quietly at her side as long as she’d known him, whose laugh was gentle and whose smile was kind.
Over and over again, André’s lips met hers, but it never felt like enough. Even when he pulled her close to him, so close she could feel the hard lines of his body against hers, her mind still clamored for more.
When had he gotten so much bigger than her? Probably ages ago, she reasoned as he eagerly pressed his lips against hers again. Back when they were still children, they had been the same…but now, the difference was staggering.
“Oscar,” he said, pulling away from her, his fingers still buried in her hair, his breathing almost harsh in the silence of her rooms. He looked at her as if she were something precious to him, eyes so warm and soft that it made her joints feel weak. “I do love you,” he whispered, and bent his head to kiss the corner of her mouth, and then the edge of her jaw, “more than I can even say.”
How could she have ever thought otherwise?
“I know,” she said, her voice trembling.
His warm mouth found her ear and kissed the sensitive skin just behind it before he trailed down to her neck. She clung to him desperately, fingers going into his hair, confusion and desire at war with one another in her mind.
This was going somewhere—she wanted it to, but…what would she do? How could she…? It wasn’t like her to sit idly by to let things happen! What could she do? What did she want—?
Her hands left his hair and went to his shirt, fingers fumbling with the front of it. They were still chilled and refused to work properly, even though the rest of her felt over-warm.
André laughed gently against her neck and took her hands in his, kissing her fingertips before moving to remove his own shirt.
Flustered, she felt heat rush to her face. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to!”
He only smiled as he lifted his shirt over his head and carefully folded it, setting it aside. “Anything for you, Oscar,” he said, and returned to her, the pressure of his next kiss so enthusiastic that she found herself tipping backward.
She might as well make it intentional, then, she decided, and pulled him down the rest of the way so that he was leaning over her.
“Anything?” she asked when he pulled away, her fingers moving all on their own to explore his skin. It seemed not so long ago that they had both been of a similar build, but clearly that was not the case anymore! How in Heaven’s name had she missed such a transformation?
André lowered his head to press a soft kiss against her collarbone. “Mm,” he said, and moved a little lower to kiss down the front of her loose shirt. “Anything at all.” He stopped when the fabric halted his progress and returned to her mouth, smiling into their next kiss.
“Well, then,” she said, brushing her thumbs over his nipples, delighting in the way something so simple made him shiver, “you can help me get my shirt off, too. It’s only fair.”
She’d do it herself, but what if her hands shook? It would send the wrong message! She was only nervous, not afraid. Surely there was a difference between the two!
She could feel his muscles relax at her words, but he didn’t act right away. Instead, he nuzzled her cheek with his nose and then took her hands in his, pulling them away from his body.
“Are you sure?” he asked, and kissed her fingers. “Absolutely certain?”
Frustration worked its way into her reply. “I never say anything I don’t mean, André.”
“Then I will gladly assist you in this matter.” He undid her shirt slowly, carefully, as if he were unwrapping a treasure.
When the fabric fell away from her body and joined his in a neat pile off to the side, she waited nervously, expectantly.
But of course he couldn’t see!
“You don’t have to say anything,” she rushed to reassure him, sitting up.
“I can see enough,” he said, the words soft as he carefully eased her back to the floor. “I can still see… I can—” His hands went to her face, fingers brushing over her cheeks, her jaw, down her neck. He traced the shape of her, the roundness of her shoulders, the gentle swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip, the soft skin of her belly. Tears spilled from his eyes, visible in the firelight.
He lowered his head as if in prayer. “Oh, Oscar,” he said, and pressed a kiss, feather-light, to the skin over her heart. “As I’ve always known, you are splendid.”
Surely he could feel the way her blood was racing through her veins! It gave her a little thrill to think about.
“André,” she said, and put a finger under his chin, a gentle request for him to lift his head. His face was wet. “Will you show me something?”
“You know my answer, Oscar.”
“I want you to show me, now…all the love you’ve felt these past years. I want to know how it feels to be loved by you.”
He nodded wordlessly, and bent his head to explore her again, one calloused hand cupping her left breast, his thumb stroking her skin even as his mouth moved to her right side, his mouth claiming the rounded tip of her nipple. She felt it stiffen between his lips, and couldn’t help but make a soft sound as he ran his tongue over it.
She could only bury her hands in his hair and let him look at her the only way he could.
Dawn was on the horizon, and Oscar was wide awake. Her hands kept stroking André’s hair as he slept beside her on the floor in front of the fireplace. The blanket she’d taken from the bed was draped over the both of them, but after the night they’d had, she wasn’t sure she needed the extra warmth.
The memory of his weight on her, of his mouth against her skin, of the way he’d moaned her name when he pushed into her, looking almost shy about it…
She lifted his hand from where it lay on her waist and pressed her lips against his fingertips. It was true what they said about generous and tender men. They really were the ideal! He’d hardly let his own pleasure pass before he’d so thoughtfully tended to hers.
They’d laid together afterwards, limbs tangled, and talked for a little while before letting sleep claim them both.
It was almost like a dream to wake up beside him, the embers in the hearth glowing softly, the break of dawn moments from pouring in through the windows of her room. Watching him sleep made her heart feel full. What a man! What a good and wonderful man her husband was!
For that was what she would call him when he woke.
It was fitting, wasn’t it? They’d been together so long they had spent the last twenty years of their lives married by every definition except the legal one.
But for now, until the morning light broke over his face and roused him from his sleep so that she could ask him properly, he was simply her André: her shadow, her oldest and dearest friend, her fireside dream.