The water, again, frees Athos of his dark thoughts, and when he opens his eyes, he offers Porthos a smile that is only a little tentative. Porthos may have given up his anger, Aramis may have insisted that they have no way of knowing what Athos did when he left the garrison, but Athos still carries the guilt of that damning possibility. Perhaps he did flee with his wife, his murderess, his Anne, that devil of his own making. If he did, he does not deserve to be here with these men, in the warm embrace of their arms, soaking in the healing heat of the water.

He does not deserve it, but he is weak. He craves comfort. And he seeks it now, leaning across the tub to capture Porthos’ mouth in a kiss.