“You think you’re subtle.”
Hades blinks at his wife over the scrolls he’s shuffling around, trying to put some sense to - honestly, does no one around here archive properly any longer? - and he can’t understand why she has that look on her face. Or, more appropriately, The Look, because that’s the expression she adopts when she knows (or thinks she knows) something he doesn’t.
“I beg your pardon?” he says, and she grins widely.
“I can tell,” she goes on, leaning across the worktable they’re sharing, arm stretching out, fingers – touching the edge of a sheaf of papers…
The corner of his left eye may be twitching. May. “You can tell what, exactly?”
Persephone chuckles. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.” Now the twinkle in her eyes becomes mischievous. She pushes the papers toward him. “You want everything perfectly aligned and I leave things all over the place, drop them, and it bothers you. Doesn’t it?”
It’ll never cease to astonish him how she catches on to the smallest of details.
“It does not,” he replies stolidly, but he’s well aware that it’s a massive lie.
Her grin grows. “Oh, really?” she asks, and then with an inexcusable lack of care, elbows two neatly-rolled scrolls from the tabletop.
He snatches them out of the air before they can touch the ground, and when she bursts into peals of uproarious joyful laughter, he knows he’s made a mistake - and that his instincts have betrayed him. Again.
“It doesn’t bother you, huh?”
“It’s quite alright, I still love you.”
“Thank Gaia for that.”