Page 23 of Hercules

It was her turn to tense up—enough that her new pressure on the towel had Hercules flinching.

“So what you’re saying…” But then her fingers went limp, totally dropping the compress. “Reks is spinning god-level magic into his game? Using it to get…what…world domination?”

When their answering silence stretched way too long, more than her fingers slackened. As she crumpled to the floor, she gratefully looked on while Apollo spun up a clean towel out of the air and then flung it toward his brother. Hercules caught it with a grunt that matched the rough quip of his reply.

“As the groovy kids like to say, close enough for rock ‘n’ roll.”

“Well, as I like to say,” —Lois sat up but twisted around, focusing nervous energy into ripping the high heels off her aching feet— “holy shitballs, gentlemen.”

“Now you know why we’ve come to you in private.” Apollo came back over and crouched in front of her. “And believe me, we know it’s crazy to take it all in. To you, the guy is a charismatic musician, a charming boyfriend, and an attentive lover. But behind all that—”

“No.”

And of course, there went every Natasha affectation when Lo needed it the most. In their place, she spurted an interjection that channeled the worst fictional role she’d ever attempted: Madame Thénardier in her high school’s lame production of Les Mis. It was a nightmare in all aspects, not helped by her hideously nervous performance.

“No?” And it had to get worse, the second Hercules turned it into a disdainful bite. Somehow his disappointment trumped even Mom’s brave smile after the Les Miz fiasco.

“Won’t you even hear us out?” Apollo’s soft query made her feel worse, with its benevolence like whipped butter on slabs of tension toast. “Maybe you just need a few minutes to process?”

“Process?” Hercules barked. “As in, what? The fact that her boyfriend isn’t actually a pure platinum rock and roll legend? That he’s really a C-list Olympus hack who’s leveraging your magic to game the system? That in the process, he’s using her and everyone else in this realm for his own status climb?”

“Hey.” Unbelievably, Lo managed to utter it with Cosette-ish ribbons: an astounding anomaly, considering she never wished more for Thenardier’s cleaver. She knew exactly where to aim the blade, as well—at a perfect douchebag’s skull.

A jerk whom, less than an hour ago, she’d compared to a compelling phoenix. And—holy shit—a human parfait.

What the kinky freak had gotten into her?

A male who wasn’t human at all. That’s what.

“I believe you, okay?” she blurted as fast as she could, while her nerves were still intact. But at once, the boldness got downgraded to a sheepish mutter. “I have no damn idea why, but I do.” And then another equally discomfited glance between the two of them, before she finished, “But I still can’t help you.”

“Why?”

Another helping hand from the universe, with Apollo issuing it before his fuming brother could. Yes, the brother who was already making her think of flesh-and-blood parfaits again. But this time, infused with angrier fruit. Whole red dragon gourds. Some dark blood oranges. Definitely a bunch of ripe blueberries, with their murder-ready shades to match the ones in his eyes.

Never mind that she could easily devour all those fruits. Especially if they were served in a bronze bowl that had been tempered in a punishing kiln, then polished to show off the golden tints throughout—like the exact comparison she’d already made to this male’s firm skin. Just from glimpses, but still…

She refused to blow those glances into larger inquisitions. Conjectures about whether that beautiful burnish applied to everything on his big body. Guesses about the light russet hairs that peeked from the ends of his shirt cuffs, and whether they were the same in other interesting spots…

Nope. She’d already banished every possible thought like that.

Except for now.

The worst possible moment they could—and did—bloom. And threatened to spawn some more…

“I can’t help you.” It was nearly a rally cry because it had to be. Against herself. For herself. “I can’t, because…” A steadying breath, as if it even helped. “Reks Byrd isn’t my boyfriend.”

Her inhalation nearly collided with both men’s exhalations. Okay, they were more like whooshes, as if they’d been duking it out in a silent breath holding contest. But her comparison was negated as soon as they spurted a pair of follow-up chuckles.,

“Our apologies.” Apollo’s tone was indulgent, though his eyes still teased. “We didn’t mean to take liberties with semantics. If that’s not what you’re calling him yet, all the better. We just—”

Lois spread both hands across the air. If only she had some rainbow-y words to go with the double arcs. “Semantics has nothing to do with it. He’s not my boyfriend, because I’m not Natasha Korra.”

Figuring this was the turn where she’d need some backup for the whole trust-me-it’s-the-truth thing, she pulled in a hand and scooped it beneath the front edge of her wig.

As soon as she peeled it away, wig cap included, the gods in front of her exhaled hard once more.

This time, they didn’t follow with a single chuckle.