Zeus had heard<i>plenty</i>about Demeter's opinion of the others. When there had only been six of them, only Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, Demeter, Hera, and Hestia, oh, the gossip had been rampant. Mostly from Demeter. Poseidon was too<i>damp</i>all the time, so unsightly, and did he ever wash that horrid greasy beard? And Hades always seemed so cold and so aloof, surely he must be better than the others--and he could use a trim, too, the scraggly old cretin. Hera, so unladylike, doesn't she know what it truly means to be a woman? And Hestia--<br/><br/>He had never let her continue her lamentation past that point. Zeus would not hear a negative word against Hestia, not before her sacrifice, and not after. There had just been something vulnerable about his eldest sister, despite her ability and her quiet competence. If he had paid more attention to her, watched more for subtle signs than waiting for the obvious, then who knows? Dionysus might never have had to ascend.<br/><br/>He pushed the sad thoughts away. Mourning what was no longer wasn't why he was here. Indeed, if there were any reason, it was the opposite. He watched her close their booth away and wondered briefly why even a fancy restaurant like this would have curtains like that, but perhaps he wasn't used to fine dining. Once she sat back down, though, and made her comment, he laughed, low and rich and deep, like jolly thunder. He leaned forward, too, and lifted one hand to caress her cheek. "My wife, it is not a challenge, but a promise. I have been too long from your arms, from your warmth. I am desperate to rediscover the comfort of both." He punctuated it by leaning in to kiss her opposite cheek, letting his lips linger on her soft skin for a long moment.