Work Text:
He is home, for once.
He has been home for a few hours, maybe more, but it feels as if forever is slowly sinking into the walls of their shared space once more now that she finally has him all to herself.
Andromache is not a selfish woman.
She has allowed him time with his mother, his sisters, his father. She has given him time with the people of Troy, with the worried and doubt-filled, the ones left behind. If anything, it is more generosity than she should have shared.
Alright.
Maybe Andromache is a selfish woman.
(Only with him.)
Their very souls, always entangled. Her heart is his, always yearning for a homecoming she so rarely receives. Hektor, the savior of Troy, the tamer of horses, the slayer of men, the famous and most precious heir.
Tonight, though? Tonight, he is only–
"Hektor!"
It's pulled from her lips in a flurry of laughter as she is pulled from the stone floor and into battle-hardened hands, somehow still impossibly soft. Before she can shift, there are gentle lips on her temple, her cheek, her nose, then–mercifully–her lips. The warmth is nearly overwhelming–she's been deprived of it for weeks on end.
"You'll wake him. You will," she tries to argue, the sound muffled, but there is no attempt to move, even as her eyes flick across the room to where their son rests, exhausted after the day's events.
Scamandrius–he is Astyanax to the people of Troy, the glorious son of a hero, but for now he is her baby, for now he is still her boy and will have the name Hektor has given him– has finally slipped into slumber. Earlier, his father had stepped through the doors to the palace with no warning. A grave mistake, since the poor boy had heard the sound and immediately wound himself into a heartbreaking wail, twisting and squeezing their hearts to rags before Hektor could shed the bronze armor in a panic.
Now that he knows it is his father and no intruder, and that tomorrow will hold hours of play, it has been easy to coax him to rest.
The reply from her husband comes quick, a rough whisper, addressing of her concerns for peace of mind.
"I haven't." Hektor leans down for another kiss, equally gentle, equally breathtaking. A curl slips into his eye, quickly remedied by her nimble fingers. "I won't, I swear it."
The next words from his lips are yearning, insistent, enough to steal the air from her lungs as if it is the first time her heart beat for him.
"Beloved."
His smile is lopsided, half fondness and half exhaustion, pulling her brows together until they've nearly merged. When his hand cups her jaw, she practically melts before hardening once more in determination, slipping from his hold to tug him their chambers.
The halls are silent. Waiting, watching, tense with the night air and intruders on its shores. For once, however, it is not stifling. There are no yells from beyond the walls, no clash of swords and shields. She sends a silent blessing to the gods for such a night.
Their chambers are easy to reach, never too far from their son.
"Sit," she calls, disappearing in a flurry of movement. Her return is triumphant, a small bottle of oil in the palm of her hand.
In a quick movement, she is up in his lap, facing him, dabbing the oil onto her fingers so she can refine the scraggly hair of his beard, the gesture as practiced as breathing. Hektor's hands bracket her hips just as easily, his head tilted just so, enough that Andromache can reach the underside of his jaw with tender care. He can do this himself, but she'd rather have a moment of quiet and busy hands, an excuse to touch him. His thumbs smooth up and down, a gentle gesture blooming with pure devotion.
"What is all this, hm?"
His chest rumbles with his words, the vibrations shifting through his throat, where she can feel them with the beat of his heart against her palms. Alive, alive, alive.
"You have not had the chance," she responds absently, tugging on his beard to tilt his head in the preferred space. "I want to care for you."
Hektor's lips twitch.
"Your poor husband, on the battlefield with his men, hours on end–" his hands ghost up her sides until she twitches, ticklish, to shove them away, "–and awful, unkept facial hair. I can barely stomach the thought."
Her pout is not merciful, but remedied when his forehead taps hers, the way his chest expands into the deepest breath she's heard from him all day. As if he is inhaling her being.
"A jest, my heart, my love, my wife. Thank you."
It seems oddly final. The feeling is quickly shoved down into the depths of her soul.
Hektor tugs at one of her curls, fallen loose in the chaos of the day from the morning's intricate style, then slowly pulls the pins from it, careful not to tug or pinch. When the strands are freed, his hands slip to massage her head in case it happens to be sore.
"Where did you go?" He coaxes. "Your head has filled with secrets in the time I have been away."
The feeling tips her ever so gently to his shoulder, where he slowly, slowly starts to lean back, dragging her down into the soft silks of their bed.
Of course he caught her brief slip. Of course he knows.
Andromache hums.
"This war is too long. Too costly."
A beat. Then she breaks: her secret slips.
"I fear it will take you from me."
A hush falls over their room, the truth having rendered her beloved speechless. It takes him longer to find his words and properly address it, but he does tilt her chin with sure hands, eyes boring into hers.
"I do not want to leave you in grief. Either of you."
Not the answer she wishes. She wants him to promise that he will never leave her. She wants him to promise that he will come back, that he'll spend the rest of their time together in Troy with its people.
But the gods write their story, so she is left with no other comfort.
Instead of a response, Andromache slides from his hold, evading the hands that immediately move to tug her back in. She moves to place the oil aside, but as soon as it taps the wood, her ears seem to twitch in anticipation.
There it is.
A cry rings out, small and shrill, from the hall, a little wail building. Scamandrius is the ultimate escape from the conversation of gloom, both of them off within seconds to quell his discomfort. Hektor is somehow there before both the nurse and Andromache herself, scooping him up into strong and sure arms.
"Here I am," he murmurs. "Father is here. You're all right, my boy. You are safe."
The scene is everything she could have wanted. Tears push insistently at her eyes after being shoved down day after day in attempts to remain poised and sure, and if he so much as looks up–
"Are you angry with me, my love?"
Oh, how she wants to be. To curse him, to raise her voice, to make him bow down to her worries and stay where it is safe, where he will not be harmed.
Their son hiccups. Hektor, the battle-worn hero of Troy, coos.
Andromache sighs, rubbing her temple.
"No, my love."
Her footsteps echo on stone before they stop, her hand reaching out to brush over Scamandrius' head in a move no different to prayer. He babbles and squirms for her fingertips.
Hektor's lips are on her temple again, arms full of the entire world.
"Nothing will touch you as long as I draw breath. Nothing will harm either of you," he promises, finally spilling promises she can rely on.
She allows herself to sink into this warmth. The safety that he brings, the utter devotion he provides.
Later, once their son is settled in his dreams again, and they have slipped back into their chambers, she is tugged backward into his chest yet again, failing to outmaneuver him.
"I do not happen to be upset with you," she starts, cut off by a breathless sound when he sits her on the edge of their plush bed. "I only–"
He kneels with his hand in hers, pressing it to his forehead and closing dark-shadowed eyes. Hektor of Troy, on his knees in front of his wife. There is something behind his expression. A sorrow, a pain, a worry and a threat that has her sinking to her knees with him, her hands cupping his face.
As if he knows what will happen to them.
"You have vivid dreams," is what she utters in place of asking. She will ask him to unburden himself, but for now, he is locked up tight. There is a pang of regret in her chest–she should not have brought up the war in the first place, not when it has been on his mind since the beginning. "Let me ease them for tonight."
A nod.
Hektor stands slowly. Offers his hand to her, and how can she refuse?
They slip into the bed, together after what has seemed an eternity apart, and something pressurized in her chest slowly, slowly eases. After a low breath, his head tucks into her collarbone, a place of solace he's been yearning for. The way his weight shifts next to hers, the way he positions himself to curl around her form, all make it simple to fall into the call of rest.
Outside, there is uncertainty, but the walls of Troy have closed until the next sweep of sun, built to stand impenetrable.
He is home.
They can rest.