"Careful," he warned her, but his voice was thick with exhaustion, and the warning was a soft one, because it was Erato, and for her he would be soft. Despite the utterly drained, hollow (terrifying, actually) feeling pooling in him, he reached up to try and steady her scratching hands, so no stray, treacherous nail of hers would risk damaging that perfect face. Her fingers had already tugged at the bandage when he covered his hands with hers, though, and he cupped her face in his hands, tilted it toward him to examine his work with his own, now-bleary eyes. "Erato?" he asked, hoping to Zeus she could see him.