Shock, thick and pregnant in the space between them, kept her silent for the measure of three breaths. It took her that long to register just why it was so surprising to her. Only now, just now, she realized that Akheron did exactly what she asked him to, without fault, consistently - only the war excepted. Her brow furrowed, her mouth pinched into a round shape, then she jerked to her feet. "Fine," she said, the word both clipped and sharp. "Fine."
Styx made it as far as the kitchen before she stopped. Her hand went out against the archway leading into that cold chrome magnificence and caught her weight as she leaned. What the fuck was she doing. A glance over her shoulder revealed that he was still lying there as still as ever. Annoyance crossed her face, but under it... Something else. Something much softer. She swallowed, then looked past her arm to the kitchen itself. Nike had used the last of her store of ambrosia, but then there was the pitcher at Phobos' temple. He wasn't using it.
It almost seemed fitting, to take from Phobos' temple in order to restore Akheron. And that justification had more bitterness in it than she expected or would have liked. Bia had gone by then, taking with her the anger and uncertainty that her daughter was restling with, and there would come no good of following her. On Olympus, Styx crept up the stairs and slid into the empty temple. It took just a few minutes, navigating through the place, then tugging herself back into one - pitcher in tow.
With a sound of disgust - aimed more at herself than the man on her floor - she slid into the kitchen and picked out one of her favorite glasses - black-tinted with torrents of hot red blown into the center stem. It was fluid, beautiful, and the black of the glass helped to mitigate the sickening pink of the ambrosia she poured into it. Fucking ridiculous. He should have gone home. He should have taken care of himself. But she didn't want him to die, she never had, and if he wouldn't tend to himself, then it left it up to her, didn't it? Something asked her why she cared to watch over a god who refused to watch over himself. She shook the thought aside. It hardly mattered why. She was doing it. And she was just going to have to deal with that.
Styx remembered just what it was like to have wounds like Akheron's. There was hardly no controlling one's body, and to sit up from his position would have required... too much of him. She knelt behind him instead and tugged him up, hoping that Akheron still liked pain enough to like that. It hadn't hurt when she'd done it herself... The hard line of her mouth relaxed with the thought. It hadn't hurt because he hadn't let it.
More gently than before, she set one arm around his shoulders from behind him, and shifted so that he could use her shoulder for his head if he wanted. "Drink this," she said, setting her glass against his lips. It felt odd to have his weight against her. Odd... no. No, it didn't feel odd.