"Are you going to play nice this time or do I have to remind you of that rule about not shooting messengers?" Hermes bonks his brother on the head with the rolled up envelope of olympian meeting notes before offering them to him, a usual eyebrow wiggle given as he grins. A signal, he hopes, that he comes in peace.
The windows are open, the window unit shut off and his shirt unbuttoned and hanging from his shoulders. Given his way, of course, Dio would be wearing significantly less, but he is expecting company later. Not the company that shows up, of course, but company nonetheless. His little New York City penthouse is a collection of the eclectic, an oasis of the odd, a shifting time capsule of nearly everything the laughing god has lived through—and is supposedly proofed against any divine being who isn’t him.
He’ll be having some words later with a certain two-bit lying witch. The bitch.
For now, Dio turns with a scowl towards Hermes. He holds an irritated hand out for the sheath of papers…and frisbees it into the nearby wastebasket without a glance, exactly where every other sheet of oh-so-important Olympian paperwork has ended up since the fall of Rome. He picks up the packet he’d been going over before his paper-based assault and goes back to flipping through it.
“There: message delivered, messenger un-shot. Now unless you’re gonna do something actually useful here, I’m sure you can find the door on your own.”