He blearily stares through the grit and haze that clouds his eyes as he watches her, stumbling to sit up. He gives her an appreciative look, dragging the bowl over to himself with slow hands. Sinking down to the floor with the bowl in front of him, Athos braces himself on his knees and plunges his hand into the pitcher without delay, the habit a new one for his drinking, but one he's found is quick to rid the effects of the drink. He drags over the pitcher and pours the icy water into the bowl, his head following as he lingers there for a long moment, aching and cold and lost.

How on earth did he manage to end up here? And how lucky he is that the woman hadn't returned him to the Musketeer garrison with dismay. He wipes a nearby rag over his face to collect himself, slumping back against the bed as he tries to regain himself, giving himself a moment to become put together. He dries himself off, eventually, and staggers out to find her once more. "Madame Bonacieux," he greets calmly. "My name is Athos, of the King's Musketeers. I'm afraid I've imposed on you without meaning to."