driftfleet | (no subject)

Who: Coil Lenn and any innocent bystander
Broadcast: Audio and video - Fleetwide
Action: Aboard the SS Red Fish
When: Shortly after the Shuffle

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[there were too many new people on his ship; too many unfamiliar faces were making him feel anxious within the halls of what was supposed to be his home. he has been deflating under the pressure of trying to meet them all and keep track of them, wondering where they all fit and wishing that Zhas would just step up and take over like he's supposed to. he just wants to be able to stop worrying about it and get back to work. so, when the skullfaced man continues to make himself suspiciously scarce, Coil finally goes to seek him out... and his search ends in what is supposed to be Zhas' bunk.

for a minute, there is that awful sense of vertigo that comes with wondering if he's somehow gone into the wrong room. but the minutiae left behind--all of the little things that he couldn't possibly care about because none of it adds up to him--is familiar. it's the random remnant of Zhas' things, and a desperate search of the Network quickly confirms his fears.

when it does, something inside of him that still feels recently healed simply breaks apart without effort, and the rest of his crew manages to miss most of what immediately follows. the pacing and clawing and breathing so fast that he almost makes himself sick is quiet enough to go unnoticed. but anyone who happens to be home at the time might notice the eventual banging on the empty bunk walls, and the yell of voice that has never been heard on the ship before.]

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[and, since there is supposedly an eager audience somewhere, hungry for drama, of course the communicator turns on when it crashes into the wall.

so, after the image on the screen bounces around crazily until the device comes to rest in some corner of the room, anyone tuned into this particular frequency can catch the sounds of someone more or less losing their shit. the sobbing sounds of sheer, heartbroken frustration are muffled through something... probably clenched teeth and buried in arms or a pillow... but they're definitely very public.

someone is having the worst day of his recent life.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[at first, he bristles at the touch on his shoulders, recoils from the weight draping down to hang on him. it's claustrophobic and invasive, and the last thing that he wants right now is to have contact with anything existing in this horrible place. he's desperately wanting to be anywhere else right then--he wants to be home--and this is just helping to pin him right in place and root him in the present.

and then the significance hits him, striking him right in the middle of his chest.

Zhas is gone, but she remembers. this gesture might be coming from a different source, but the message is the same one. the memory falls on him and drapes around his shoulders.

so, after a minute, he crumbles under the weight of it. jamming his face down to hide his tears, he sobs into his arms--the sound tears itself out of his chest, despite how much he tries to muffle it.]

[She draws up her knees, folding her arms atop them and rests her chin on them. And that's the position she maintains while he cries, eyes looking ahead and not at him. She wants to comfort him. Seeing someone so in pain brings up the need to help in a desperate way. Still she quells it, out of respect for the distance that remains between them, philosophically.

But she won't leave him to his suffering either. She'll stay there beside him. Though she can't stay silent for long, and eventually caves to the desire to soothe a little more. She hums, softly, a melody that she would call calming.]

[for one reason or another, it works. whether because the sound reminds him of comforting bits and pieces hidden in his own memories, or is just the little grounding cue needed to pull him out of the despair in his head, he eventually calms as she hums.

it's a slow and miserable winding down. it takes him time to run out of steam, and another minute or two to even want to surface again.

when he finally does, he scrubs at his face with the back of one arm, and turns just enough to glance over at her. he can't exactly communicate with her easily, however, so it's only a look-- lost and tired.]

[She notices the change, the movement, and turns her head, lays it down on her arms. She just shares a gaze with him a moment before finally sitting up enough to talk to him.

With her hands.]

I do thing for you?

[She's still learning -or was, who will teach her more hand speak now?- but she's sure the general idea gets across.]

[there's a moment of hesitation as he finds himself distantly surprised-- had he ever noticed that she'd been learning to sign?

eventually, he shakes his head. but it's more out of not knowing what to do with the question than a sure answer.]

[She knows she's not very good yet. She'll keep practicing. Maybe just not now.]

I'm here for you. If you want to talk or hit something, or not. We could just sit for a while too. Whatever you need.

[face still smeared with tears, his expression suddenly changes. the cloud of despair must have broken enough for him to finally focus in on the fact that she is even making these offers. defensive and confounded, all at once. his brow lowers, almost looking angry again, and he forms one exasperated sign.

'why?']

Because you're hurting and I want to help ease it, if I can.

[He has every reason to doubt her. So she won't try to explain beyond that.]

[he still has this air of exasperation around him, like he just can't believe that she's acting like this-- what is wrong with her? is she really as oblivious as she seems? --but he can't quite drum up the level of disgust that he usually does.

it mostly just terminates in a sigh. and he wonders over what else to say, bringing up a hand to sign something else, but... he can't think of anything that makes sense.

and in doing so, he gets distracted by the look of his own busted-up hands. the wraps he wears around his palms did little to protect his knuckles from the useless violence he unleashed on the room, and he hadn't bothered to notice until now.]

[No, she's not oblivious. She's just very stubbornly nice, and tries to be determinedly Good. When someone needs help, she helps them.

His looking at his own hands, brings her attention there as well. She sits up a little, turning toward him. She lifts her hands, palm up towards his wounded ones.]

I can help with that. If you'll let me.

[She tilts her head down a little, to catch his eye. He's wearing her cloak, so there's no added charm to her, nothing but herself and her desire to help him. He'll let her if he wants to.]

Please.

[he looks more than a little suspicious, for several reasons. he has all the ability and supplies to tend to it himself, (it's supposedly his job on this ship, after all,) and he doesn't relish the thought of any foreign magic or ability touching him.

but, in the end, he thinks about bandaging his wounds himself... and something inside him sinks. it doesn't take long for him to realize that running through that routine would only remind him of Zhas, and all of the times they had done the same for each other.

he doesn't want to dwell on that for longer than he has to.

so, he eventually gives a shallow, reluctant nod.]

[Once he gives permission, she reaches out and takes his hands in hers. She murmurs words in a language he's not likely to understand (it's Elven), and a soft blue light radiates from her palms. It's gentle and warm, and eases into Coil's hands, knitting up the abrasions as if they had never been. But it's a healing spell and not specific for just hands, so if he's done any other minor damage to himself, that will be cleared up too; aches, soreness, headache, all gone.

Once done, she runs her thumbs over his knuckles where the wounds used to be, and satisfied, she'll let him take his hands back, if he wants.]

There. Better, I hope.

[he takes his hands back to flex his fingers and carefully inspect the work. his hands are vital to every sort of work that he does, and he doesn't trust magic that more or less opposes his own, so he's a little paranoid about these things. but the scrapes and bruises are gone, and he gets to keep his collection of scars, so it doesn't take long for him to relax about it.

some part of him wishes that he'd had some lingering sign to mark the whole event, however. all of his scars have a story behind them, after all. but... his anger hadn't made any dents anywhere else this time, so it seems silly to want to keep a part of it to carry around.

maybe he'll come across something else later on--some other, more fitting memento to mark the occasion. maybe he'll find something else to expend his anger on, and he'll keep a piece or scar from that.

...and these are the thoughts he's distracted with, when he finally signs a short 'thank you,' without looking at her.]

[Once he takes his hands back, hers go into her lap. She watches him and wonders what's going through his mind. He's one of the harder to read people that she's ever met.

She knows the sign though. And she signs back you're welcome. The silence hangs while she feels just as much at a loss as he probably does.]

Do you want me to stay awhile?

[Or she can go, give him space. But yes or no questions are easier. So that's the one she offers; to stay and not leave him alone.]