"It's not a vacation."

"...but...I don't know what it is."

"Then how do you know it's not a vacation?"

"Have you met him?"

He's worried about him.

She turns and walks silently over to the freezer; twists the ice tray to pop out the cubes; fills a glass and offers it to -- apparently -- Satan's personal assistant.

“...thank you,” he says, evidently caught a little off-guard.

He sips it quietly in the corner.

She sits on the bed to take her shoes off.

"You got a name?"

“Cato.”

Sip.

"Like the Elder?"

He makes a face.

“Like the Younger, if I have to pick either.”

"I don't actually know much about either beyond carthago delenda est."

“The Elder banned women wearing more than one color and the Younger was a stubborn asshole. That’s all I have off the top of my head.”

"--oh, and Dante made the Younger a virtuous pagan. Put him in Purgatory and everything."

Shoes on the shoe rack. Socks balled up and tossed half-heartedly in the general direction of the laundry basket.

...

...

He walks over to drop the socks in the basket.

She takes her shirt off and tosses that just short of the basket, too.

He puts that in the basket, too.

Bra.

Basket.

(Really?)

"Huh."

She pries herself off the bed long enough to set the air conditioner to arctic.

“...can I sit in your chair?”

"...is this a polite thing, or a vampire thing?"

“It just...feels weird. To use your furniture. Without asking.”

"Uh. Go ahead, I guess."

She sits back down on her bed, and wraps herself in the blankets for insulation from the blasting air conditioner.

He sits down, huddles in a little on himself.

“Thanks.”

"So ... what's it like? Being, uh, Satan's PA?"

"It's a nightmare."

Sip.

"But I wouldn't do anything else."