Elidibus speaks, and Emet-Selch frowns, grudgingly opening his eyes once again to look at him. In addition to the unexpected feeling of wet cloth being rubbed over parts of his body, there had been familiar, reassuring sensations, such as being held tightly by robotic arms, and the press of a face against the top of his head. It had certainly made the whole waking up process that much more confusing, but as the seconds ticked by and reality settled into this strange version of itself, there was nothing he could do but face it as it was.
That he had called him Elidibus rather than Ardbert: a deliberate choice, if one taken in an instant, without checking particularly hard for whether there was anyone else in the room besides the three of them. But Emet-Selch was recently dead and currently tired; keeping up too many pretenses didn't appeal whatsoever. That, and he can well guess as to why the Emissary was here, and it wasn't out of an urge to strip him down and wash him alone. Their conversation would be suspicious enough for anyone expecting the Ardbert persona anyway.
Lacking the energy to waste on waving off Elidibus' claim of simply adapting to the situation he'd found himself in, he's struck next by the realization that the Emissary seemed... entirely intent on continuing, now that he was awake. But that there was a hint of some manner of emotion there- it's that alone that keeps Emet-Selch from immediately arguing against this course of action. Well, that and the utter surreality of it all drained him, kept him languid against the bed, barely accepting that this was all happening to him in the first place. But at the request for him to somehow detangle himself from Mettaton- that only has his frown deepen. He would do no such thing, especially not to satisfy curiosity. If Elidibus was determined to keep cleaning him, he could feel around whatever part of the puca he was currently pressed to.
But before he can reply, there's a greater stirring, through Bond and body of his companion, something more than that welcomed burrowing and clutching (all things that Emet-Selch relaxes sleepily into, as though long-accustomed to all of this contact). Alarm, aggression- flashes of instinct that are clear even through their badly damaged Bond stir his pulse, but he didn't need their souls tied to recognize what Mettaton was doing. Guarding him against a possible threat.
With surprising speed considering the weakness he knew Mettaton shared with him, Emet-Selch finds himself hunched over, the interloper warned against further contact. Throughout, it's a reaction he remains entirely calm for, apart from an initial startle at Mettaton having so quickly roused. With a small sigh, he reaches up to pet gently at the monster's side with his better hand (not that his arm liked being lifted like this at all), a reassurance that he was fine (well, that he wasn't being threatened). That he was in no need of defense.
But it's soon that Mettaton comes to that realization himself, that this was someone that he knew (or at least, had met before), and certainly someone that his Bonded knew. The pout in his direction gets a brief half-smile, very faintly amused, as Mettaton settles in his relief, moving himself back where he had been on the bed, greeting Elidibus in a far more normal way.
What's clearest of all, perhaps, is that Emet-Selch sees nothing problematic or unusual in the puca's possessive and protective instincts; why wouldn't he favor a monstrous defense of his welfare? But the puca hadn't actually attacked Elidibus, and had recognized him quickly enough and backed down- so it was all fine, as far as he was concerned.
"He did not," Emet-Selch sighs, shifting back against Mettaton's body, before belatedly remembering that he didn't actually know that for certain, having not checked his watch in... however long it had been since he'd sent those messages out. Maybe the other Ascian had sent plenty of warnings. "Well, I didn't invite him, anyway." That much he could say for certain.
But when did Ascians ever wait for invitations to turn up anywhere?
"While I won't deny the value of a hands-on experience," he looks back to Elidibus then, a mild reproach evident in his tone, as much for show as for anything, "I would've thought a verbal accounting would have sufficed. Are you truly so eager to tend to my wounds...?"
After another thought, another realization (another point of utter strangeness), he reluctantly adds: "Though you've improved your technique. Perhaps 'tis a job not unsuited to you after all."
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Date: 18 Feb 2021 15:24 (UTC)That he had called him Elidibus rather than Ardbert: a deliberate choice, if one taken in an instant, without checking particularly hard for whether there was anyone else in the room besides the three of them. But Emet-Selch was recently dead and currently tired; keeping up too many pretenses didn't appeal whatsoever. That, and he can well guess as to why the Emissary was here, and it wasn't out of an urge to strip him down and wash him alone. Their conversation would be suspicious enough for anyone expecting the Ardbert persona anyway.
Lacking the energy to waste on waving off Elidibus' claim of simply adapting to the situation he'd found himself in, he's struck next by the realization that the Emissary seemed... entirely intent on continuing, now that he was awake. But that there was a hint of some manner of emotion there- it's that alone that keeps Emet-Selch from immediately arguing against this course of action. Well, that and the utter surreality of it all drained him, kept him languid against the bed, barely accepting that this was all happening to him in the first place. But at the request for him to somehow detangle himself from Mettaton- that only has his frown deepen. He would do no such thing, especially not to satisfy curiosity. If Elidibus was determined to keep cleaning him, he could feel around whatever part of the puca he was currently pressed to.
But before he can reply, there's a greater stirring, through Bond and body of his companion, something more than that welcomed burrowing and clutching (all things that Emet-Selch relaxes sleepily into, as though long-accustomed to all of this contact). Alarm, aggression- flashes of instinct that are clear even through their badly damaged Bond stir his pulse, but he didn't need their souls tied to recognize what Mettaton was doing. Guarding him against a possible threat.
With surprising speed considering the weakness he knew Mettaton shared with him, Emet-Selch finds himself hunched over, the interloper warned against further contact. Throughout, it's a reaction he remains entirely calm for, apart from an initial startle at Mettaton having so quickly roused. With a small sigh, he reaches up to pet gently at the monster's side with his better hand (not that his arm liked being lifted like this at all), a reassurance that he was fine (well, that he wasn't being threatened). That he was in no need of defense.
But it's soon that Mettaton comes to that realization himself, that this was someone that he knew (or at least, had met before), and certainly someone that his Bonded knew. The pout in his direction gets a brief half-smile, very faintly amused, as Mettaton settles in his relief, moving himself back where he had been on the bed, greeting Elidibus in a far more normal way.
What's clearest of all, perhaps, is that Emet-Selch sees nothing problematic or unusual in the puca's possessive and protective instincts; why wouldn't he favor a monstrous defense of his welfare? But the puca hadn't actually attacked Elidibus, and had recognized him quickly enough and backed down- so it was all fine, as far as he was concerned.
"He did not," Emet-Selch sighs, shifting back against Mettaton's body, before belatedly remembering that he didn't actually know that for certain, having not checked his watch in... however long it had been since he'd sent those messages out. Maybe the other Ascian had sent plenty of warnings. "Well, I didn't invite him, anyway." That much he could say for certain.
But when did Ascians ever wait for invitations to turn up anywhere?
"While I won't deny the value of a hands-on experience," he looks back to Elidibus then, a mild reproach evident in his tone, as much for show as for anything, "I would've thought a verbal accounting would have sufficed. Are you truly so eager to tend to my wounds...?"
After another thought, another realization (another point of utter strangeness), he reluctantly adds: "Though you've improved your technique. Perhaps 'tis a job not unsuited to you after all."