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Summary
“You know, it’s a good thing I didn’t have to kill you, that day we met,” d’Artagnan slurs, the words coming out of the blue, his Gascon accent becoming thicker with the wine.
“I’m glad you think so,” Athos comments dryly, through a thin smile.
“No, really, Athos,” d’Artagnan protests, coming to a sudden stop that nearly trips them both, and swinging himself round to stand in front of his friend, empty hand planted on Athos’ chest to keep himself steady, “It would’ve been a shame.”