"If God had given me tits," d'Artagnan begins conversationally to no one in particular, "I'd have frozen them off by now."
"If God had given you tits..." Porthos, sitting up for first watch, gives a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows, "You and Aramis would be a lot warmer right now."
Aramis turns to the young Gascon with a wink. "I'm not precious, are you?"
D'Artagnan grins, shuffling forwards into the outstretched arms, but is soon shivering again. Even with his nose buried against the curve of Aramis' throat he can find little comfort.
"Thank you all for your help," Athos says tartly as the fire finally begins to crackle and they all eagerly drag their bedrolls closer.
"Knew you 'ad it in hand."
"Didn't want to get in the way."
Settling beside Porthos and the bundle of cloaks that is Aramis and d'Artagnan, Athos gives the Aramis part a pointed kick. "And your excuse is...?"
Aramis smiles enigmatically but rolls so that d'Artagnan lies between the two of them. D'Artagnan would protest the manhandling, the being used as a human shield, but Athos – his blood being at least two thirds wine – runs warmer than Aramis and d'Artagnan is only too happy to abandon Aramis in favour of him.
Aramis is predictably outraged "Your breasts, Traitor, could have been carved by God himself and I still wouldn't touch you with a barge-pole."
D'Artagnan's face briefly emerges, tongue extended in childish impudence. "I wouldn't want you to touch me with your barge-pole."