Bia took the glass of ice from Asterion with a quick smile. "Back atcha. Thanks, bro." She pressed the chill surface of the glass to her cheek as Antigone spoke, not entirely surprised by what she had to say. She'd told Bia that night they'd met at the bar that she had beef with some rapist perv of a god, too powerful and connected for her to touch. That she was drinking because confronting him would only get herself killed. So, what, did she have a death wish now?
Seeing the sharp twist of pain flash across Antigone's face as she tried to move her injured hand, Bia set down the glass and moved with a purpose to crouch at her side. "Here. Lemme take a look." She caught Asterion's eye. "You got a first aid kit in here, man? Might need some splints."
Then she fixed Antigone with a hard look. "Listen, that fucking sucks about your housemate. But this, right here? This doesn't help her. You getting pulped? Doesn't help anyone."
Nike would have pissed herself laughing, to hear Bia of all people counselling somebody to think before they threw a punch. But punching first was kind of a part of Bia's job description (or at least if it wasn't, it should be), and she had the distinct advantage of being able to take on pretty much anything she threw herself at. The rules were different for civilians. If Antigone threw herself at Ares, she'd break.