It wasn't as if Skwisgaar hadn't seen him like this, or every other way Miniver could be. He knew what he was in for when having a Talk with the poet. He scooted a bit closer, moving the long fall of black curls out of Miniver's face and over his shoulders, just in case the hippie needed to throw up. He rubbed Miniver's back and quietly shushed the shorter man, pouring out soothing words in both their common languages.
If he were twenty-five years younger, the thought wouldn't have even dared cross his mind. Even the threat of tears would have had him out the door and in his room before he even knew what he was doing. Now, however, he had two nieces and a 'niece' under his belt, a hormonal, pregnant wife, and two instances of one son to be Father to. At this point, soothing wasn't yet second nature, but it was easier than it had ever been for him.
He still thought of it in the terms of 'what do I get out of it', but that answer was simple. He'd get peace. He'd get a friend he'd worked damn hard for. And he'd finally, for the first time in the long history the two of them had together, get his way.