Running a hand through his hair, still darkly damp from a ostentatiously long shower that his assistant had, wisely, left uninterrupted, Virgil all but limped his way toward the galley. Where Reyhan had, apparently, been welcomed to start on brunch without him. It wasn't that he'd forgot they were coming by the marina today. He'd just been entirely unable to sleep, still, even with the usually soothing creak and roll of the deck - of his yacht, moored, for the season - to help him along. What was that, now? Going on two weeks and altogether he'd got fewer hours of real rest than he had fingers? Christ.
But. The show had to go on. Rey knew that, only too well; hopefully they'd be a sympathetic audience. With an apologetic sweep of his arms, Virgil summoned a smile. "So. Are you early - or am I late?" Both seemed plausible, but. He flicked the question aside, unanswered, as he took his seat at the breakfast table. "Don't tell me, actually. Meant to be extricating myself from itinerary-based living. Doctor's orders." Yes. Had to mind his stress. "I won't even check the time. Progress." That edge-of-winter sky billowing beyond the windows wasn't giving him any hints; the light of it was harshly, barely grey, a cold sort of searing. Or maybe that was just his fucking eyes.
Virgil looked into the bottom of a vodka and orange instead, eager to wash down the taste of his morning dose of whatever the hell Cerberus had him taking these days. Better. Marginally. "Ah. How are you, then? Well, I hope." Really, truly.
@losemorals