They want him. They want him as part of this bond that they have forged, indelible as anything between the two of them. If what Aramis suggests is unorthodox and difficult to comprehend, then is that not part of the power that has always existed in their friendship? Is it not right, somehow, that they make their own sort of life, and damn the rest?

Understanding rocks him back as though he has been struck a blow, and Athos nearly flees from the excess of feeling that sees fit to overwhelm him after all. This is not the first time he has asked himself such questions; nearly ten years ago he had said damn the rest and pledged to marry Anne, never mind the scandal and disgrace that might come. Such blessed possibility has not laid out before him since, with hope so tangible. And Athos is terrified.

He slots what scraps of his stoicism he can gather back into place, for it is either that or collapse under the weight of memory, though he clings all the tighter to Aramis’ hand. “I need to think,” he admits, hating how his voice breaks slightly. Swiftly he adds, “Understand, it is not you or Porthos that I mistrust.” Athos’ own heart is the truly dangerous thing. Experience has taught him that much.