Athos shakes his head, decidedly fond, but he doesn’t argue. He can probably manage to slip in a bit more money than he owes, from time to time, without Aramis or Porthos noticing. At least for a while.

He tries to nudge Porthos away, but puts no real effort into it. Athos is tired, and Porthos weight is comforting against him; clearly, the wine, or the sleepness night, or the dredged-up emotions, have gotten to him more than any one of them alone might have. Still, he protests, “I’m not a cushion.”