“Have you got any liver left to kill?” Athos asks in a rhetorical sort of way, going to sit on the chair opposite with his wine, resting his elbows on his knees. He sips, and closes his eyes, and sighs quietly. If drinking this early in the day has become gauche, Athos certainly hasn’t noticed - or has decided not to care.

He sends Porthos a skeptical look. “You just fell trying to get to the kitchen. Stay where you are.”