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She’s got a gash across the bridge of her nose, a busted lip, a couple bruised ribs and a half empty bottle of whiskey dangling from her grip. Her other hand is preoccupied with holding a bloodied cloth to her nose to stem the bleeding, and her head is tipped back, resting tiredly against the tile wall of her shower where she’d practically dumped herself. Her legs dangle over the edge of the bathtub, and just over her feet she can see her Hunter’s cloak on the floor of the bathroom, her cracked helmet just outside of the door where she’d basically thrown it to the ground.
“Gil..” She mutters, and her ghost buzzes alight from where it’s perched upon the counter top, it’s little light illuminating her small bathroom. “Get’a hold ‘f Eos, need Ellie.”
She gets no reply, but she knows the distress call has already been sent to her friend without any confirmation from her ghost, so she closes her eyes and breathes as deeply as her aching ribs will allow her. She sips from the bottle of whiskey every once in a while when the pain begins to make it’s presence known again, swallowing thickly and trying not to think too hard about how horrible the burn of the alcohol and the metallic taste of blood feels on the way down.
“I still don’t understand why you won’t let me heal you, Guardian.. You aren’t making any sense.”
She blatantly ignores her ghost, not wanting to snap at it any more than she had in the past hour. They’d already gotten into an argument about how rash she’d been, how completely idiotic and dangerous it was to pick a fight with the enemy out of blind rage, and she didn’t have it in herself to keep bringing up excuses. She knew she’d been wrong, she was just too scared to admit she was becoming the person her ghost feared that she would. So she chooses to stay silent, instead.
“Elias is on his way,” her ghost speaks again, softer this time, before going idle where it resumes it’s position on the counter top.
She hums, more to herself than to her ghost, and begins to doze.
//
Her mind is slow, her thoughts flowing in and out like molasses, and her body is just on the brink of calling it quits for the night and resorting to sleep when she hears the door to her apartment creak open. She doesn’t need any sort of sign to know that it’s Elias, she just knows , and soon enough he’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom, his optics emitting a soft glow in the darkness that surrounds them. He flicks the light on and it doesn’t take long for her eyes to adjust, her gaze immediately falling on his broad figure.
She’ll never truly get over just how big he is, in and out of his armour, and he holds himself in such a way that it terrifies her, yet she always finds comfort in knowing he’s someone she’s come to care about.
Too tired to use her voice, she drops the towel that she’s been holding to her nose and sets the bottle of whiskey down, before weakly signing to him, ‘Welcome to the party’ .
‘Kai, what..’ He stops mid-sign, and slowly walks into the bathroom to access the damage (the only damage really being herself). She takes a wild guess at what’s running through his mind, probably something along the lines of ‘ who, what, where, when, why, and how ’ scrambled into one big question mark.
He wastes no time in kneeling down, the clunk of his armor seeming loud enough to move mountains in the silence of her apartment. He reaches his hand out hesitantly, and when she doesn’t flinch away he grips her chin gently, tilting her head upward and side to side to examine her face. When he lets go, question evident in his actions as he stares at her in what she can only assume is confusion and shock, she cracks him a disoriented smile. It only holds for a second or two before she feels her face crumbling, suddenly overwhelmed by her emotions and the genuine concern this gentle giant before her has.
“ ‘S not tha’ bad,” She croaks out, and he’s grabbing for her hand, slowly pulling her out of the tub to sit on it’s edge, and before she knows it she’s thrown her arms around him tightly, holding on for dear life.
She doesn’t mind the hard edge of his armor or the burn of her ribs as she leans into him, but relishes in the comfort and safety he has to offer her, instead. And that scares her more than anything; that she’s become so close and attached and open and vulnerable with this person. That she cares so profoundly and has found that he does the same, and the uncertainty of that lasting or being yanked away is always lingering.
So she cries, and she cries hard, her face tucked into his shoulder and her nose burning and her ribcage screaming with every sob that wracks her body and he just lets her. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t ask any immediate questions, just lets he break before he can help piece together whatever’s broken inside of her. And when the seconds, minutes, or maybe even hours pass and she quiets down, it’s then that he slowly pulls back and asks if she’s alright.
She takes a moment to answer, seeming to gather the strength for what she’s about to say, and the minute the words leave her mouth is when he truly understands.
“Don’ you ev’r fuckin’ leave. Ever.”