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His breathing is shallow. It hitches every time the waxy burn salve makes contact with his skin, rumbles through his chest when he groans quietly in pain.
She watches the bones under his skin shift as he tenses against the touch, and there’s guilt somewhere under her breastbone for feeling the sting of rejection, like it’s her he’s shying away from and not the lightning branch burns that mar every inch of him. It feels selfish to say that she suffers when he does but every quiet, bitten-off gasp is like a knife to her heart.
“Don’t cry,” he murmurs, “it’s alright.”
A huff of air. He’s trying to laugh.
“I’m still a god, after all.”
Is she crying? She presses her lips together and realises that something hot and wet is indeed spilling over her cheeks.
He lifts a hand as if to brush away the tear, but then his face contorts in agony and he sets it down again, thin chest rising and falling rapidly as he wrestles back control.
“Sorry about all of this,” he says, once he’s got his breath back.
She could strangle him. He sounds like he’s apologising for leaving the front door open.
She wants to grab him by the shoulders, shake him, demand answers. He’d been doing so well, standing up to the others, giving Zeus a piece of his mind. Why, then, had he lost his nerve?
Why had he needed to get in the damned water?
“You’re ridiculous,” she whispers, and again his hands twitch towards her, his brow furrowing in frustration at his own weakness. His hands rest in his lap, open like claws, burns on his palms, along his fingers. There’s a faint tremor to them that at once fascinates and horrifies her.
“You’ve got those black gloves,” she says, “with that soft lining. For your hands.”
He nods silently, sweat beading on his brow as he focuses on breathing.
The lightning burns reach all the way up his neck to his jaw. He flinches away involuntarily when she leans in with the cold salve on her fingers.
He’s so pale he’s practically grey, save for the tip of his nose, which had somehow also managed to get burned by the sun in the short amount of time they were out on Olympus for.
“Got a black turtleneck in that closet somewhere too,” he said, his voice hoarse and strained despite an attempt to keep his tone light, “should cover up as much as I can. Don’t need the rest of the Underworld seeing… all this. I think Medusa mentioned she wanted a word-”
“You can’t be serious,” breathes Persephone, “Hades, you can’t possibly go back to work after-”
“And if I won’t, who will?” he says fiercely, his eyes trained on the floor.
He takes a deep breath.
“Who will?” he echoes softly, just for himself.
“If only the Underworld had someone else who knew what was going on,” she said, an exasperated smile on her face, “who could oversee proceedings on her own. A queen, perhaps-”
“Don’t even joke about it,” he says, “I can’t… I can’t imagine the possibility of leaving-”
He swallows anxiously before continuing in a hoarse whisper.
“He was going to hurt you. Didn’t you catch it?”
“All I did was say not to-”
“My brother’s never been particularly fond of being told no.”
Hades shakes his head at the memory.
“I’m not leaving you alone. Not at a time like this.”
She takes his face in her hands, because at least there’s one part of him that hasn’t been ravaged by Zeus’ attack. She brings their foreheads together and feels him sigh against her.
“I thought you were dead,” she says quietly.
She feels his frown against her skin, the tightening of his brow, the tension.
“I know he was thinking of killing you,” he replies.
Something shifts in her mind then, the pieces clicking into place.
“You’re an idiot,” she breathes.
“Say again?” he sounds amused, but slightly taken aback.
“I knew you couldn’t have been so stupid you didn’t realise you were getting in the pool with your brother the god of lightning.”
She pulls away, looking at him hunched in on himself, unable to meet her eyes.
“Hades-”
“Don’t. What’s done is done. We have work to do, and I-”
They’re interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Call for you, sir,” calls a voice.
“Yes, yes, thank you,” Persephone shouts back.
She hates that he’s right. They’re running out of time. But the battered, exhausted man in front of her can’t go on like this.
“You need to rest,” she says hopelessly.
“I need-”
He grimaces, doubtless having jostled some part of his extensive injuries.
“I need you to help me get dressed.”
She shakes her head.
“I don’t like this-”
“You think I do?”
His hand flexes. Catches hers finally, and squeezes. He’s breathless with pain.
“Please help me,” he whispers.
And after all these years, how can she say no?