Athos has forgotten his prepared words entirely. He pours his wine, and then turns round as instructed, offering a sheepish smile. “You do,” he says quietly, “you know my faults better than anyone.” This is what he must remember. They understand him and have never shrunk away. They will not now.

He closes his eyes for a moment, wishing, strangely, that he had chosen to wear his uniform. But Athos remembers the locket that rests beneath his shirt, against his heart, and that gives him strength. “If you are certain that you would like me to share your bed, then I accept.” He offers a rueful look. Athos had not meant to cut right to the chase moments after they returned, but his has never excelled at the niceties of conversation.

“Welcome home."