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Who: Signless and the Disciple
Where: Disciple's house.
When: April 7th ish.
What: Signless shows up at Disciple's house.
Warnings: Some injuries and some suicidal ideation.

He leaves a speckled blood trail when he enters, his wounds still seeping blood through his body suit. The gaps in the bio material haven't yet had the chance to heal, and neither has his body. It doesn't seem urgent, and so he ignores it, the idea that he's bleeding only a passing thought as he searches the house for the Disciple. He can't feel her anywhere.

She must be gone.

It doesn't matter, he thinks. He came and that's all he needs to do, isn't it? This was his destination, and now that he's here...well, he doesn't have any more planned. This is as far as he's gotten.

He eventually curls up on the couch, trying to rest away the exhaustion of electrical injuries. If she shows up, she does. If not...it doesn't really matter. It doesn't.

Its chill without his cloak, having discarded it in the fight, but by the time she returns he's asleep.

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He scratches his claws across the flesh of his wrists, where the red tattoo markings encircle his arm. He wants to severe them sometimes, but can never get that far. The marking have been there since he was brought back and though he doesn't know where they came from, he has the instinctive sense that they were important.

He hears her talking, his ear flicking back to listen as he words become more pained. His own breath quickens, as if in panic, but the sensation doesn't quiet reach his head. He doesn't care about the wounds, really. Some part of him just wants to hurt badly enough that he can die again.

He crawls across the floor so he's no longer in front of the door. He stares at the blank plain of wood for some time before he finally flicks the lock open with a small psionic trick.

He averts his eyes immediately. He's pushes his suit down to his waist, and he's been crying, even if his expression has once again become hazy.

When she hear the lock, she tentatively reaches a hand up to turn the knob, as if she half expects him to put it back on. When the knob turns easily, she lets it go, not opening the door just yet. Instead she forces herself back onto shaky feet to retrieve the first aid kit and glass of water she left behind. It's only then that she slowly pulls the door open, looking at him.

It's hard to see him like that, but she doesn't avert her eyes, and as promised she doesn't say a single word. Merely makes her way over to him and sits by his side. She opens the first aid kit, taking out everything that she needs. Gingerly she reaches out for his hand to take care of the cuts there first.

The only wounds there are the ones that he's given himself with his claws, over the tattoo'd lines around his wrists. They aren't very deep, but they do leak trace amounts of blood in places. He can feel her emotions more powerfully when she's close like that. Right now, it's almost too much to bear.

She goes about dressing those wounds quietly. The marks on his wrists make the memories of that awful day flash through her head--the burning cuffs almost as bright as his blood. It nearly makes her shudder and she has to squeeze her eyes tight and take a deep breath before she can continue.

She uses the sink and some towelettes to help with the clean, wiping up the small traces of blood. When done she carefully wraps them up in a bandage. With the minor wounds completed she picks up the glass of water and holds it out to Signless, hoping he'll take a drink before she tends to the more serious injuries.

When she looks up from her work, he's staring at her, his deep red eyes pleading her for something he can't say out loud. The sorrow in them is clear enough that they nearly have empathic resonance.

He doesn't take the glass, like he's too distracted to even consider it. There's a pronounced emptiness in his thoughts, with her this close. Some kind of balance he's achieved where he doesn't feel the need to fight her.

There are still wounds on his shoulder, and side. The shoulder is a long abrasion, as if from hitting concrete at speed, that spreads down his back. The side looks like a seeping electrical burn.

It's more than she can handle, seeing such an expression on his face. The glass is set down and Disciple doe something she's wanted to since his death.

She leans over and wordlessly hugs him, wrapping her arms tightly around him. How she wishes she knew what she could do, how she wishes there was something that could wash away the pain and anguish in his eyes, to give him the direction he needs.

She loves him so. She loves him so damn much. It hasn't lessened in the slightest over these years, and it hasn't lessened in the slightest despite what he has said and done.

And it's killing her by inches to see him like this, but Disciple will do what she does best: listen, and stay by his side.

He can't fully manage to hug her back properly, even if some part of him instinctively wants to. The rest's reaction is to feel like he should be lashing out at her if he's this close - the idea that she shouldn't be allowed to live is ever present.

But he doesn't. Instead he lets himself rest against her body, his skin strangely hot to the touch, as it always has been.

When her skin comes in contract with his blood, though, it comes with an empathic snap of his own emotions. A still image of the conflict in his head, and of his feelings of being trapped. It's not as clear of a reading as he could take from someone else, but it's more than one would have expected.

It may not be clear compared to what he can receive from others, but it's more than clear enough for Disciple. It's a little startling to receive information in such a manner and while she comes to the conclusion that it's from Signless it's a little difficult to parse through those emotions and thoughts.

But she does, holding onto him all the while, partly to comfort him, partly to comfort herself, and partly in hopes of maybe receiving more information.

When she finally pulls back it's with more understanding in her eyes, and acknowledgment that she hadn't been taking Signless' words literally enough. She holds his gaze for a moment before dropping to the gash on his shoulder. It's a nasty wound, but she has seen and tended to much worse and begins to do just that, unflinchingly.

"When I said you could stay here," she begins, voice quiet as a mouse, "I meant it. If you wa--if you. Can. I'd..." She shakes her head uncertain of how to phrase her words.

His body tenses under her touch, and at those words. His immediate reaction is that he can't, of course he can't. He has things he needs to be doing, and a purpose to fulfill, and she's lucky that he hasn't done what he's threatened to already.

He grits his fangs. He doesn't feel like killing her, he keeps thinking. It's not important. Who cares about what she's doing now? It won't make a difference.

"I'm not staying anywhere," he says, his words slurred and unfocused. "Not until I've ended this...ended it."

Signless had said that he couldn't come to her place before, yet here he was. In terrible shape, and seeming more muddled and conflicted than ever, but he was here.

"You're stronger than you think." She murmured. Di thought straighter when she wasn't around him. On both of their previous meetings, it was always afterwards, with a clear head that she could think back on what had happened and what had been said to try and understand. Right now there were still things she was confused about, things that her frantic and emotional state made hard to see, but she did understand that Signless was fighting against something powerful.

"So if you ever change your mind..." She wrapped up his shoulder and moved to the last wound. "But. You should still remainuntil your injuries are better, at least." She almost timidly suggested.

His gaze wanders as she works, staring into space more than anything now. God, he's tired. He hasn't slept much at all for a while now. The idea of just curling up here and not moving is appealing, even as he finds himself speaking.

"I won't hide from them for long," he says. "I'm...not afraid of it. I've earned punishment."

"You've already been hurt more than anyone ever should be." She refused to say punished. A punishment implied that his pain was deserved.

When done patching him up she takes the wet towel and cleans the rest of him up, wiping the cool cloth down his chest, arms and then to his face. What exactly had he done to get hurt like this? It was a question that had burned in the back of her head, but she had promised there would be no more questions.

As she cleans him off, towards her coming to a finish, he reaches up and grabs her by the wrist, holding her hand at the side of his face. It could almost be seen as a physical objection to her touching him, but the grip is comparatively soft. As his fingers shift, it's almost like he's just holding her hand.

He looks at her, his expression more hardened than it has been in his encounter thus far.

"If I don't see you again," he says, "then nothing will have to happen."

Di stilled when at that motion. A gentle touch that seemed to contrast against his expression. What exactly did he mean by that? Did he mean who wouldn't have to be punished anymore? That didn't quite make sense, seeing as how he hadn't gotten rid of her yet. Perhaps he was referring to that--that he wouldn't have to kill her?

She moves her own hands to try and lace her fingers with his.

"I don't want to leave you, Signless. I don't want you to ever have to face something alone, again."

"You're going to leave either way," he says. "Just like the first time."

If she stays with him, she'll die, and if she leaves him she'll be gone. Either way, she won't be there.

That cuts through her like a knife, and guilt and shame bleeds out of her like a noxious fume. Her expression falters and she bows her head, and like so often she finds herself thinking that she shouldn't be here, that she should have died with him, how she wished she had.

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't," he rasps, pushing her hand away now and starting to stand. He doesn't look at her, even though his expression is contorted with frustration. He can feel that guilt wash over him, as real as the air he's breathing.

"I've always been alone," he growls quietly. "That hasn't changed."

That hurts almost as much as what he'd just said and she scrambles to stand as well, afraid that he plans to leave.

"Alone? What about Psionic? What about your mother?" And them? What did that mean about what they had had?

"The Signless wasn't a person. He was a symbol. You're alone when no one really knows who you are," he says, refusing to look at her. "The troll you knew never really existed."

"You were more than a symbol, Signless. Certainly there were many people who elevated you and there still are many," If anything more now than ever with the almost religious way some trolls had come to view him, "I was guilty of that myself when we were young, but you were a troll and were a friend to many beyond our family. You were and still are Geshua." She insisted.

He shakes his yeah slowly, his gaze distant and aimless. He touches his bandaged shoulder, but only as a subconscious motion.

"Nothing that you're looking for is still there," he says faintly.

"If there was nothing of the you I knew there, then you would not be so conflicted." Di stubbornly refused to believe that the Signless she knew was a lie. In this moment, why would he be keeping from following orders? Why would he be so confused, lost, and coming here for answers?

"I'm sorry that I made you feel alone before." Di really hoped that that wasn't actually the case, that it was just his confusion speaking. Yet she would take his word, for if there was even an inkling of truth than she wanted make amends for that.

"But you don't have to be alone anymore. I'm here, Signless." She stepped closer and gingerly steadies his chin so she can look him in the eyes. "I'm here, and I want to be with you no matter what, and I want to help you figure out what you need."

Her touch draws his gaze to hers, though is own expression remains hollow. Inwardly, he feels heavy, like those promises carry a physical weight. He doesn't know what she thinks she's doing, talking like that. She's not with him. If she really was, something would feel different. He watches her in silence for a long few moments, though, before reaching up to take her hand and push it away.

It's not clear if it's a rejection. The motion is more gentle than he has been in the past. He looks away like nothing he's seeing right now is real and slowly departs back to the living room. From his pace, it seems less like he's trying to escape and more like something has distracted his attention.

He stares out the window he came in through, his ears flicking upwards in attention. Part of him wants to try to tell her what is worrying him now, but he knows that it will just cause unecessary trouble.

"I'm probably not going to come back," he says, finally. This time, not necessarily of his own choice.

At first she's just saddened when he pushes her away, but that quickly turns to concern and confusion. She trails after him, not calling out and instead focusing on his movements. She watches as he stares out the window, and as his ears perk up as if he is hearing something that she can't. She strains her own, pushing back her hair but picks up nothing.

Her brow furrows as his words sink in.

"What's wrong?"

He just shakes his head slightly, and then looks down. He's not surprised, really. He just lost track of himself for a while and forgot that it was an inevitability.

"I went against orders, before," he says. "To spite her, I guess."

cw: some suicidal ideation

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