Scars
Milady was sat behind the desk in his musketeers office as his war scarred body fell through the door. "My, you look awful dear husband."
"Very helpful," he says laconically, but there's no denying the marks war has left on him: his armour may hide most of it, but the scars beneath mirror the scars in leather and steel, and there's no mistaking the hitch in his gait.
She huffs out an exasperated sigh, one he still remembers too well after years spent more apart than together, but there's softness lurking in the corners of her smirk, at odds with the irritation in her eyes. She's always been a contradiction, though – push and pull, demon and angel, and with that it somehow does not surprise him that she should be here, despite how they'd parted. "You didn't damage anything important, did you?"
The arch demand doesn't hide the very real worry underneath, and Athos lets his brows lift in response, the slightest of challenges; he knows her as well as she knows him, and knows she'll understand the invitation.