In the Margins of Time ~ Aramis x F!OC
Chapter 1? -The Journal
Summary: Mica starts using an antique journal as a diary. Four hundred years earlier, Aramis finds the same book.
Soon, messages begin appearing across the pages, connecting a woman in the twenty-first century with a Musketeer in seventeenth-century France.
Neither knows why the journal chose them. Neither expects the stranger on the other side to become important.
Word count: 3K
a/n: This can also be like Aramis x Reader if you squint really hard. I was having a very bad burn out moment in my life and for some reason reading Aramis fanfics gave me a sense of peace. So Since there are not a lot of BBC Aramis fics out there (or im really dumb to look) I wrote this.
Also if you are here cause of my Captain rex fanfic you will notice I have a thing with pen-palling
Pls let me know in the comments if youd like a series on this, and if you have any good Aramis Fic recs also 💗
The journal was too beautiful for Micaela to use.
That was the first problem.
The second was that she had absolutely no use for a journal.
She had notes on her phone. Three different calendars. A folder on her computer labeled IMPORTANT that contained, with remarkable consistency, things that had stopped being important approximately six months earlier. She had notebooks for work, notebooks for classes, sketchbooks she bought faster than she filled them, and an impressive collection of pens she guarded from her students with the territorial instincts of a dragon.
She did not need another place to write things.
Especially not one this pretty.
"It's going to sit on my shelf forever."
Her friend rolled her eyes.
"Then it'll look pretty on your shelf forever."
Mica turned the journal over in her hands.
Dark green leather covered the boards, worn soft around the edges. Gold lines had once decorated the spine and corners, though time had reduced them to faint fragments. There was no title. No initials. No lock.
Just thick cream-colored pages with uneven edges and the faint, unmistakable smell of old paper.
Mica lifted it toward her nose.
Her friend stared.
"Did you just smell it?"
"It's old."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"It smells good."
"You have issues."
"I have culture."
"You smell books."
"Exactly. Culture."
Her friend laughed and reached for her coffee.
They had found the journal at a weekend antique market, tucked between a stack of old postcards and a wooden box filled with mismatched silverware. The seller hadn't known much about it. He had claimed it was French, probably nineteenth century, though Mica privately suspected he'd invented that information after hearing her ask about its provenance.
There were no dates inside.
No writing.
No maker's mark.
Nothing particularly useful for identifying it.
Her friend had bought it anyway.
A late birthday present, she'd said.
Because Mica had stared at it for too long.
Now, sitting across from each other with coffee between them, Mica ran her thumb along the worn leather.
"Fine."
Her friend smiled.
"Fine what?"
"I'll use it."
"For?"
"I don't know."
"Write your secrets."
"I don't have secrets."
Her friend gave her a look.
Mica corrected herself.
"I don't have interesting secrets."
"Write about your tragic work life."
"That's would not be a journal. That would be pamphlet."
Her friend laughed so suddenly she nearly spilled her coffee.
Mica smiled and slipped the journal carefully into her purse.
She forgot about it for three days.
On the fourth, she had a terrible day.
Not catastrophic.
Those were almost easier.
Catastrophes gave you something specific to fight.
This was simply Tuesday.
Her alarm went off at five-thirty.
She hated existence for approximately forty seconds, showered, got dressed, drank coffee far too quickly, and prepared for class.
One student hadn't submitted anything.
Another had somehow created a loop that refused to stop.
A third confidently explained why the assignment requirements were wrong.
By nine she was home again and beginning her other job.
Emails.
Comments.
Posts.
Reports.
More comments.
A meeting that could have been an email.
An email that somehow required another meeting.
At five in the afternoon she closed her laptop and stared at the wall.
Her apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
She considered going for a walk.
She considered baking.
She considered calling her sister.
Instead she made coffee despite knowing perfectly well she shouldn't be drinking coffee that late and collapsed onto the couch.
That was when she saw the journal.
It sat on the coffee table where she'd left it after unpacking her purse.
Mica stared at it.
The journal stared back.
Or would have, had journals possessed eyes.
"Don't."
It remained innocent.
She reached for it.
"You're not becoming a diary."
The journal offered no resistance.
She opened to the first page.
Blank.
Perfect.
Intimidating.
Mica frowned.
She had always hated the first page of notebooks.
It felt too important.
Like whatever she wrote first had to justify ruining something pristine.
She grabbed a pen.
Thought for several seconds.
Then wrote:
Tuesday.
She stared.
Terrible.
She added the date.
Still terrible.
Then, because she'd already ruined the page anyway, she continued.
Today one of my students managed to create an infinite loop and nearly murdered his computer.
Mica smiled.
Better.
I explained what he'd done. He looked me directly in the eyes and said, "But it worked yesterday."
She paused.
I teach future engineers.
Another pause.
We're doomed.
That made her laugh.
And suddenly writing became easier.
She complained about work.
About traffic.
About the price of groceries.
About wanting to reorganize the kitchen but lacking the energy to actually do it.
She wrote that she'd been thinking about her grandmother's stew all day.
She complained that her sister had sent her seventeen messages and fourteen of them were videos.
She admitted she'd watched every one.
By the time she stopped, she'd filled three pages.
Mica leaned back.
"Huh."
Maybe diaries weren't terrible.
She closed the journal.
The following night, she wrote again.
Then Saturday morning.
Then Monday.
There was no discipline to it.
No solemn ritual.
Sometimes she wrote three pages.
Sometimes three sentences.
Sometimes she drew instead.
Flowers appeared around paragraphs.
Faces.
Tiny houses.
A particularly good drawing of a frog wearing a crown occupied half a page after a difficult meeting.
The journal became less intimidating as it became hers.
She wrote about good things too.
A student finally understanding something she'd been struggling to teach.
A pastry she'd attempted that came out nearly perfect.
A walk taken without destination.
A song she'd rediscovered and played six times.
A beautiful yellow flower growing somewhere it had absolutely no business growing.
Then, one night, she wrote about the house.
She hadn't intended to.
It simply happened.
I want a garden.
Mica stopped.
Looked at the sentence.
Then continued.
Not even a big one.
Just mine.
She drew a tiny square house beneath it.
Then flowers.
Far too many flowers.
Jasmine here.
An arrow.
Maybe roses here.
Another.
Lemon tree if I can somehow avoid murdering it.
She smiled.
Then her pen slowed.
I think I want somewhere that feels permanent.
That sentence sat differently.
She stared at it.
The apartment suddenly seemed very quiet.
Mica continued.
Something nobody can take away because the lease changed or the rent went up or life decided to become expensive again.
She hesitated.
Then:
Maybe someday.
She closed the journal.
The next evening she wrote nothing.
Two nights later, she returned after dinner with a “friend".
A date.
Technically.
A terrible one.
She kicked off her shoes, dropped her purse onto the chair, removed her glasses and rubbed both hands over her face.
"No."
Her apartment offered no sympathy.
"Absolutely not."
She retrieved the journal.
Sat cross-legged on her bed.
Opened it.
Men are exhausting.
She underlined it.
Then underlined it again.
I would like to formally resign from heterosexuality until further notice.
Mica stared at the sentence.
"That's not how that works."
She added:
Unfortunately.
The next twenty minutes were devoted to documenting the evening.
The interruptions.
The condescension.
The moment he'd explained her own degree to her.
The revelation that he apparently considered himself an expert on video games because he'd played three.
She sighed.
Some of the anger had gone.
That was why she liked the journal now.
It didn't solve anything.
It simply gave the frustration somewhere to go.
She turned the page.
The old paper whispered beneath her fingers.
Then she wrote:
Dear mysterious dead French person who probably owned this before me, I'm sorry your beautiful historical artifact is currently being used to complain about men.
She smiled.
Added a tiny flower.
Then:
In my defense, men are frequently annoying.
Satisfied, Mica closed the journal and went to brush her teeth.
-----------
Four hundred years earlier, Aramis found a book where no book had been before.
He noticed it because the chapel was nearly empty.
A narrow room attached to an old house outside Paris, abandoned long enough that dust had gathered across the altar.
The mission itself had been tedious.
A courier.
A missing letter.
Two men who had lied badly.
One man who had attempted to escape through a window and discovered, with unfortunate timing, that Porthos was standing beneath it.
Nothing particularly memorable.
Athos and D'Artagnan were searching the house.
Porthos was questioning the surviving courier.
Aramis had been assigned the chapel.
There was little to find.
A wooden cross.
Candles burned down to stubs.
A cabinet containing vestments too damaged to use.
Then he saw the journal.
Dark green leather.
Gold worn almost entirely from its edges.
Resting on the first pew.
Aramis stopped.
He was certain it had not been there when he entered.
He looked toward the door.
Empty.
"Interesting."
He approached.
No dust covered it.
More interesting.
Aramis picked it up.
The leather was warm.
Not warm from sunlight.
The chapel had been cold all morning.
He turned it over.
No mark.
No name.
Nothing.
He opened it.
Blank.
The first page.
Blank.
The second.
Blank.
He flipped farther.
Blank.
Aramis frowned.
A completely unused journal abandoned in a ruined chapel.
Strange.
He tucked it beneath his coat.
Perhaps it belonged to someone in the house.
Perhaps it mattered.
It did not.
Nobody claimed it.
By evening they were back in Paris.
The journal remained among Aramis' possessions for several days.
Then, late one night, unable to sleep, he remembered it.
He sat on the edge of his bed and retrieved it.
Athos was asleep.
Porthos was making a noise that might generously be described as breathing.
D'Artagnan had not yet returned.
Aramis lit another candle.
Opened the journal.
And stared.
Writing covered the first page.
He did not move.
For several seconds he simply looked.
The handwriting was strange.
Not illegible.
But unfamiliar.
Different from any hand he knew.
The language was English.
Aramis read it.
Something about a student.
A loop.
A murdered computer.
He frowned.
He knew every individual word except one.
Together they made absolutely no sense.
He turned the page.
More writing.
Different days.
Different entries.
Some English.
Occasional Spanish.
Fragments of Italian.
Drawings.
Flowers.
A frog wearing a crown.
Aramis stared at the frog for a particularly long time.
Then turned another page.
A house.
Small.
Surrounded by flowers.
Notes indicated where jasmine should grow.
Where roses belonged.
A lemon tree occupied one corner.
Aramis smiled despite himself.
Whoever owned this book had plans.
Then he reached the most recent entry.
Men are exhausting.
His eyebrows rose.
He continued.
By the end of the page he had learned several things.
The writer was a woman.
She was educated.
She possessed a sharp temper.
She had recently endured dinner with a spectacularly tiresome man.
And she was very funny.
Then he turned the page.
He read:
Dear mysterious dead French person who probably owned this before me, I'm sorry your beautiful historical artifact is currently being used to complain about men.
Aramis went very still.
His gaze moved toward the door.
Then back to the page.
"Dead French person".
He read the sentence again.
Then the next.
In my defense, men are frequently annoying.
A small flower had been drawn beside it.
Aramis stared.
There were several sensible responses to this situation.
Call Athos.
Wake Porthos.
Find a priest.
Burn the journal.
Aramis did none of them.
Instead, he reached for his ink.
He dipped his pen.
Hesitated.
Then, beneath the woman's final sentence, he wrote in English:
You needn't apologize.
He considered.
A smile tugged at his mouth.
Then he added:
Complaining about men is generally justified.
Aramis waited.
Nothing happened.
Naturally.
He felt ridiculous.
He closed the journal.
Went to sleep.
And decided that in the morning he would speak to Athos about the strange book.
He did not get the chance.
Because four centuries later, at six-twelve the following morning, Mica opened her journal while waiting for her coffee to brew.
She wanted to write down something she'd dreamed before she forgot it.
Instead she found two lines beneath her flower.
Mica stopped breathing.
Her hand remained suspended above the page.
The handwriting was not hers.
Elegant.
Slanted.
Written in dark ink that had bled slightly into the old paper.
She read the words.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Her coffee machine beeped.
Mica did not move.
She looked toward her apartment door.
Locked.
Toward the windows.
Closed.
Back to the journal.
"No."
She touched the ink.
Dry.
Her pulse accelerated.
Someone had written in her journal.
Someone had entered her apartment.
That was the only rational explanation.
Mica stood immediately.
Checked the bedroom.
Bathroom.
Closet.
Front door.
Nothing.
She returned holding the nearest thing she'd found that might function as a weapon.
A wooden spoon.
She looked at it.
"This is embarrassing."
The spoon went down.
The journal remained exactly where she'd left it.
Mica approached slowly.
She read the message again.
You needn't apologize.
Complaining about men is generally justified.
Her fear began competing with indignation.
Someone had broken into her home to make a joke?
That was somehow worse.
Mica grabbed her pen.
Okay.
She stared at the word.
Added:
Whoever you are, this isn't funny.
Nothing.
She waited.
Nothing.
Mica narrowed her eyes.
How did you get into my apartment?
Still nothing.
She waited another minute.
Then five.
Her coffee grew cold.
At seven-fifteen she had to leave.
The journal went into her purse.
There was absolutely no possibility she was leaving it alone in the apartment.
For the rest of the morning, nothing happened.
She checked between classes.
Nothing.
At lunch.
Nothing.
During a meeting she opened it beneath the desk.
Still nothing.
By four, Mica had almost convinced herself someone was playing an elaborate prank.
Then, while she was typing a report, the journal shifted beside her laptop.
Not moved.
Shifted.
The pages rustled.
Mica stared.
Slowly, she opened it.
Her question remained.
Beneath it, fresh ink began appearing.
Not handwriting already there.
Writing.
Appearing.
Stroke by stroke.
Mica's entire body went cold.
She watched the invisible pen form words.
I had intended to ask you precisely the same question.
Mica screamed.
Not loudly.
More of a strangled, horrified noise.
Then she slammed the journal shut.
She stared at it.
"No."
Silence.
"Nope."
She stood.
Walked into the kitchen.
Opened the refrigerator.
Stared inside without seeing anything.
Closed it.
Walked back.
The journal remained on her desk.
Mica pointed at it.
"No."
The journal did not appear particularly chastened.
She sat.
Opened it again.
The message was still there.
Her heart hammered.
This was impossible.
Completely.
Objectively.
Scientifically.
Impossible.
She wrote:
Are you watching me?
The response came almost immediately this time.
No.
Mica stared.
Can you see where I am?
No.
Can you see anything except what I write?
A pause.
Then:
No.
Her shoulders loosened approximately half an inch.
Then another message appeared.
Can you?
Mica blinked.
Can I what?
See me.
She stared at the page.
Something strange happened then.
Fear shifted.
Not disappeared.
But shifted.
Because whoever was on the other side sounded...
Concerned.
Maybe even frightened.
Mica slowly wrote:
No.
A pause.
I only see your writing.
The response took longer.
As do I.
Mica sat back.
Her engineer's brain began screaming.
Her historian's brain was screaming louder.
Her common sense had left the building entirely.
She wrote:
Where are you?
The answer appeared.
Paris.
Mica frowned.
France?
There was a long pause.
Do you know another?
Despite herself, she laughed.
"Smartass."
She wrote:
No.
Then:
I'm not in France.
A pause.
That much I had guessed.
Mica's eyebrows climbed.
How?
The answer came quickly.
You write strangely.
She gasped.
"Excuse me?"
Her pen attacked the page.
My handwriting is perfectly readable.
I meant your manner of speaking.
Mica stared.
Then laughed.
Actually laughed.
The absurdity was beginning to overpower the terror.
You speak like you're in a period drama.
There was a considerable pause.
Then:
I do not know what that means.
Mica's smile disappeared.
Something cold moved slowly down her spine.
She looked at the journal.
At the leather.
At the paper.
At the handwriting.
Old-fashioned was too simple a word for it.
The letter forms.
The phrasing.
The ink.
Her heart began beating harder.
Absolutely not.
She wrote:
What's today's date?
The answer came with day and month.
Mica swallowed.
Her fingers trembled as she wrote the next question.
What year?
This time the pause was longer.
Then ink touched paper.
Four numbers appeared.
Mica stared at them.
She stopped breathing.
Read them again.
Then once more.
Finally she wrote a single word.
Bullshit.
Several seconds passed.
Then:
I confess my English is imperfect.
Another pause.
Is that an accusation?
Mica covered her mouth.
Because suddenly she was laughing.
Not because anything was funny.
Because the alternative was screaming.
"Oh my God."
She looked around her twenty-first-century apartment.
Laptop glowing.
Phone charging.
Electric lights overhead.
Cars moving somewhere beyond the window.
Then down at the journal.
At handwriting supposedly being formed in seventeenth-century Paris.
Mica pressed both hands against her face.
"This is not happening."
The journal waited.
Eventually she picked up the pen again.
Yes.
A pause.
It's an accusation.
Another.
I'm accusing you of being completely full of shit.
The answer came slowly.
I fear that expression has not improved with explanation.
A laugh escaped her.
She bit her lip.
Then wrote:
Fine.
If you're really where you say you are, prove it.
Far away, in a room lit only by candles, Aramis stared at the challenge appearing beneath his hand.
He smiled.
Whoever she was, she was becoming considerably more interesting.
He dipped his pen.
Gladly.
And four hundred years later, Mica leaned closer to the page.
Neither of them understood yet what the journal had done.
Neither understood why it had chosen them.
Neither had the faintest idea what they were beginning.
For now there was only ink.
Paper.
Two impossible centuries.
And a stranger on the other side.
