Hypnos didn't know what to do. He thought the standard procedure in cases such as this was to pace, but he did not do that well. There was too much motion required, and it just seemed like a terrible amount of effort to demonstrate one's listlessness. The problem was, he had never been put in a position such as this before; this was new and different. While Hypnos didn't necessarily dislike new and different things, the uncertainty in this situation was making him somewhat cranky. And he didn't know what to do with that either.

This wasn't at all like last time. The last time he'd had feelings like this for a goddess, she had been the one to approach him. Actually, she had controlled the entire encounter, and he'd simply followed her lead. Which led him not to where he'd hoped, but rather ended with him fleeing from an angry god that liked to throw lightning bolts. Were it not for his mother, he would not only be crispy and blackened, but he'd have given up on females in general. That was how bitter he'd become after the last time. He'd actually sworn off any sort of relationship with women other than familial.

( And then he'd seen her. )

The Underworld was not a cheerful place. It could be beautiful, and it could be thrilling, but cheerful it was not. Bright colors fought hard to survive, voices had a slight shadowy quality to them, redolent of mist. It was much larger than could be conceived by the mind, spanning from the entrance where the psychopomps entered to deliver their charges and to the deepest layers of Tartarus, the pit where the damned and deadly were confined. Between those two points there was enough to fill a world. One with a population that was constantly expanding, never diminishing. The Underworld, after all, was a final resting place, not a destination spot. ( Very few who went in ever went back out.  )

A long, long time ago. Ancient times.

Rarely was there a job Iris considered refusing, bur Hera didn't generally send her to seek an Underworlder. That was unless her employer had very specific things she needed from said Underworlder. Which, it seemed, applied this time. The Messenger didn't dislike Hypnos. She really didn't have an opinion on most Underworlders, however, she didn't like the required journey to have audience with him.

Hypnos was, to be blunt, a homebody and one that took his duties perhaps a little too seriously. She couldn't very well summon him to audience in the middle of the day in Athens, let alone Olympus. He wasn't the type to appreciate that, nor was it proper to ask him to meet her somewhere when she was asking a boon from him. No, decorum stated that she come to him.

( Drat. )

With his arms lifted over his head, Hypnos rolled forward onto the balls of his feet and stretched out all the muscles in his body. Then, just as fluidly as he lengthened his body, he let it relax and fall back into a more natural position. This was followed by a long, slow yawn. Once that was complete, he glanced at the small pot that was on the hanging bar over the fire.

( Nope. Still not boiling. )

Hypnos rolled over on the well padded couch and sighed. This was simply not working, and that caused him some frustration. He was not a god that handled frustration well. It generally led to poor decision making on his part, and in this case particularly, he did not want that to happen. There had been discussions about responsibility and making the right choices, and repercussions for actions. He remembered most of it. He thought. He'd have to ask Pasithea again later.

In the mean time, he was forced to do something he rather loathed. ( He got up. )