Well. That was exhilarating. Thalassios or Poseidon pondered to himself. His knuckles stained red with blood of both his own and the thugs that the bratty money-stealing Tychon had sent after them. With a mixture of some well times slips of Thalassios'...inhuman strength and Odysseus' not so surprising knowledge of brass knuckles, they made quick work of them.

Now they laid in a hotel room, silently recovering. The best form, Thalassios would have once thought; when his home was the ocean, when all he could think about was the gentle waves and the sloshing of water around his temple. Ah, how he missed it. But here he sat, heavy breathed and bloodstained in a crumby hotel, worse than Odysseus' which was laden with newspaper articles and ugly red yarn.

He laid stretched out on the bed, his hands resting lazily on his chest and his legs hung over the edge of the bed. He looked bored, the pain in his body barely reaching his thoughts as he glanced over at Odysseus. His thick brow furrowed as his eyes naturally landed on his bandaged legs where Odysseus had carefully wrapped his sliced up legs. He didn't want to, but some dark half of his mind wished for Odysseus. Wished to hear him say he was okay—

What?! What did that mean? What was he thinking?! Pull your shit together, Poseidon! He snarled internally, though he found himself longing. He sighed outwardly, his golden jewellery clinking as he stands and walked over. He kneeled next to Odysseus, giving a side-long glance towards the man as he scoffed. "Are those injuries bothering you, Mr. Detective?" He questioned, throwing in the nickname to seem like he wasn't as serious about it.