“I just think improvements could be made,” says Will, absentmindedly taking a patient’s vitals and totally oblivious to Nico’s fervent praying for death. “Like, take Sisyphus, for example. I think he would be much happier if there was a big number at the top of the mountain —” he pulls away from the increasingly bemused daughter of Venus he is meant to be treating, waving his hands about in emphasis — “that incremented with each successful rock push. You know? And also if they let him spend those points on temporary tattoos or stickers or the such.”
He opens a dinky purple plastic treasure box, fishing out a sucker for himself and then offering the bounty to the legionnaire. She hums thoughtfully, deciding eventually on a glittery sun tattoo and using a random fever-breaking washcloth to stick it immediately in the dead centre of her forehead. Will dismisses her cheerfully.
“I just think it would improve the general morale of the area.”
“That’s — no,” Nico says, dragging his hand down his face. “There’s no improving morale, it is an eternal punishment. He cheated Death!”
Will waves a hand. “Bah.”
“Wh — don’t ‘bah’ me! He bound Thanatos up with leather string! He stuffed him under a mattress!”
“Thanatos is an all-powerful any Nyxian deity,” Will points out. “If he stayed stuck under the mattress, that’s lowkey a skill issue.”
Nico sits in gobsmacked silence for several minutes. Will does not appear to notice
“Don’t — say that,” Nico hisses, glancing around. “Christo, Will, you’re going to get smited.”
“I don’t think anyone will smite me. I’m not important enough. If I was important enough, they’d listen to me, vis-a-vis improving the Underworld vis-a-vis improving Sisyphus’ condition. Here, drink this, it’ll make you feel better.”
“What is your fascination with that man,” argues Nico weakly, accepting the drink and taking a wary sip. “Oh, huh, bubblegum.” He drinks half of it in one go. “That’s not too bad.”
“Yeah, I know you, di Angelo. You’re not mysterious.”
Nico’a jaw drops, and drops further at Will’s snickering. “I — am so.”
“Well I would be more mysterious if you didn’t lock me in here four times longer than you said you would!”
Will slows down, sets down his suture needle, walks away from his patient — this time Conor Stoll, who holds closed his gaping leg wound with practiced patience — and walks over to Nico’s bed, hands on his hips, eyebrows raised to the mighty heavens.
“People who disappeared into the shadows and had to be dragged back by sheer force of Will — I mean that exactly as it sounds — do not get to complain to me.”
Nico settles back into his stupid infirmary bed cushions, bright red and scowling. As if it’s his fault the shadows tried to devour him —
“It actually is directly your fault, Mr. I Want To Valiantly and Dramatically Sacrifice Myself to the Nether Instead of Listening to my Doctor so I can Avoid That Foolishness.”
Nico ignores him, chugging the rest of his bubblegum-flavoured whatever-it-is, until he rolls his eyes and returns to Connor, who has at this point fainted from blood loss. Will flicks him on the forehead with impressive force and grace and he snorts right back awake. Nico catches himself feeling impressed and shoved it immediately away with a glower.
“Hmph. Go back to Sisyphus. You were less annoying when you were advocating that one of the mortal sinners be pardoned.”
“Gladly! Do you think Sisyphus would be sad if they took away his rock and gave him a functionally identical one —”
“Oh my gods I take it back youre the most annoying person on Earth —”
“I can see the Doors of Death, I think,” comments Connor absently, and is ignored.
“It’s not annoying to care about the afterlife!”
“Focus on your own! How about that!”
Nico throws up his hands. “You’re an emergency field medic! Your life is depressing!”
Will snorts. “True,” he concedes. He pauses for a moment, and then Nico can tell, by the twitch of his stupid shoulders, that he is making that stupid smirking expression — “Although you know what would make it less depressing —”
“If the word ‘Sisyphus’ leaves your mouth I am going to leap out of this prison bed and maul you to death —”
“— I’m not kidding Solace —”
“— that the state of my fellow dead man —”
“— I’ll be at your fucking judgement day, asshole, don’t test me —”
“— would be one of one of blissful, deserved relief.” Will glances backward, grinning. “By fellow dead I mean my homegirl Sisyphus, if that was in any way unclear.”
Nico brings up his hands and mines strangling the infernal son of Apollo. It makes him laugh, dimple-cheeked and wide-mouthed, and Nico’s stomach flips.
“You’ll die by my hand, Solace, I mean it.”
“Yeah, yeah, di Angelo, I’m real scared of a five-foot —”
Connor’s heart monitor lets out a long, continuous beep.
“Oh, shit, my bad. Clear!”
