Athos raises his eyes from the book, lips parting slightly in surprise. When was the last time someone had gifted him something, anything? Certainly before Darrow, and likely some time before that. These days, he does not often buy himself luxuries, either, not even the books he has always been fond of. Now, he examines the book with new eyes, appreciating the color of the soft leather color, the smell of the pages, the rhythm of the Latin.

He swallows, unsure what to think. Athos hasn’t been given many reasons to trust Porthos, and despite the simplicity of this gestures, he senses a catch. “Why?"