"You seem distressed."
Dean looked at him with the hollow fury of a man who had suffered too much to tolerate that sentence.
"Don't you think," he demanded, "that the past twenty-four hours gave me the right to be?"
Arion said nothing.
Dean sat up a little more on the pillows, coffee abandoned somewhere near his thigh, and spread one hand in offended emphasis. "I still have a bite mark on my butthole, Arion."
Silence.
Complete, immaculate silence.
Arion blinked once.
Then, with the composure of a man who should have been arrested on principle, he said, "That is a very specific grievance."
Dean made a strangled sound. "Because it is a very specific injury."
Arion grinned, shameless enough that Dean could actually see the pride in him, and that alone was offensive.
"Now," Dean said, pointing at him with deep suspicion, "leave Nero and his emotional war crimes aside and tell me about your… sigma thing."
Arion's grin stayed. "You'll receive the official—"
