[ despite himself, Ganymede's smile, the light touch of his hand like an anointment, calms Vivian and his face smooths from those fear-dark eyes and drawn forehead back into something professional. ]

It's my job to be worried. Everyone's worried. And you... that felt like a close thing.

[ but, "everyone", that's business, and he doesn't want to bother Ganymede with a sum total list of how much shit has hit the fan. the House can wait, reporting can wait, the rest of the world can take a back seat to standing in a bathroom and watching a god slowly undress. ]

[ there's a bruise on his forearm, and it's nothing, could have happened to anyone, but on the pale arm of an immortal it seems stark and terrifying. Vivian reaches for that slender wrist to examine it, darts a blue look up. ]

Company? I'll wash your hair.