That Elidibus had been inspecting this cult however closely was something that Emet-Selch wasn't aware of. But it wouldn't surprise him; whatever they had been doing was probably worth looking into, and if there was information to be found that might be of some overall use, why wouldn't Elidibus be after it? And with Mirrorbound having been requested to investigate, there would be nothing strange about another one doing just that. Emet-Selch, however, had wanted nothing to do with the cult. He'd been kidnapped once before, and if this group had anything to do with the recent disappearances (and it was now clear that they had, with the victims recovered), he did not want their attention.
And yet he'd died anyway, for reasons related if not directly so. He hadn't been kidnapped by the cult, after all.
That there was information to provide that would be better spared the potential insecurity of texting- sure. He could accept that. A meeting in person was something Emet-Selch suspected would be inevitable, unavoidable. But for Elidibus to have turned up with such immediacy... he couldn't decide entirely what to make of it. Were it someone else, he might have readily assumed concern, but- well, maybe it was, in its own way. Along with, of course, the practical. The pragmatic.
Perhaps he should have waited a few more days before sending out that message. Or waited until he was out of the hospital entirely.
Then again, he was getting something of a wash (Something that had already been partially undone by a few renewed smears of blood, thanks to Mettaton's aborted aggressive stance, though this too is something that Emet-Selch just accepts. He's had to; the puca was filthy, they cuddled anyway, therefore he became filthy.). Unfathomably strange as it was, it wasn't unpleasant, the promise of being slightly cleaner, and it was technically better than some stranger having such access to him.
So in the end he sighs; his shoulders twitch in something likely intended as a shrug (it's followed by a small wince; neither arm wanted to move much). "I suppose you'll have to do, now that you're already here," even accepting, Emet-Selch could still grumble about it, "having worked your way past my guard's defenses."
It still wouldn't have necessarily been enough to get him to shift very much- but then Elidibus makes his offer to Mettaton. To wash him. An offer the robot, naturally, reacts to with delight (not that he could blame him; it had been a frustration, to have had to live with their current state of grime, lacking the strength to do anything about it themselves). The Ascian, however, is skeptical at this sudden magnanimous offer, no matter how practically stated (Part of him is just caught on the idea of watching Elidibus, of all people, bathing Mettaton. The only person more absurd in that role would be Lahabrea.).
But it was something that needed done, and that they would both appreciate. Questionable motives aside, it would be a hard thing to turn down. Just about to verbalize his allowance, his tolerance, he's struck short as Mettaton turns back to him, asks for his opinion directly.
--The use of his name. It's enough to have him still, if just for a moment, giving Mettaton a somewhat blank stare, before his gaze unwillingly darts sideways back to Elidibus. Of course Mettaton knew his name and used it, and in a circumstance like this, it wasn't a surprise that he wouldn't be at his most careful. And as people went, the other Ascians were the ones Emet-Selch minded the least to have hear it (apart from Irhya, of course, but then he knew the two of them used it between each other if they spoke of him). After all, they knew his name. They- should know his name, for all that personal designations hadn't been used amongst them for thousands upon thousands of years. With Elidibus in particular....
Well. Like it or not, he supposed he'd find out if the other man recognized it at all. Sighing more softly, he only nods at first, in acquiescence of Mettaton's beginning struggles to untangle himself from him. "If you'd care to take advantage of Elidibus'... thoughtfulness, I've no objection. I doubt we'll receive a better offer."
It's easier accepted than done. Legs clumsily unlock from one another, arms wriggle free from where they'd been wrapped. The bed was still small, so they were still in contact, of course (and Emet-Selch was still disinclined to not at least have his side or hip pressed to Mettaton anyway), and altogether it's a rather awkward, pitiful struggle to achieve even partial separation. Mettaton had a heavier body to move, and Emet-Selch had been partially eaten; it is an incredibly sad display of dexterity and dignity.
When possible, Emet-Selch slumps back fully against the bed, annoyingly out of breathe for such meager work. Dying had never been so much of a hassle.
no subject
And yet he'd died anyway, for reasons related if not directly so. He hadn't been kidnapped by the cult, after all.
That there was information to provide that would be better spared the potential insecurity of texting- sure. He could accept that. A meeting in person was something Emet-Selch suspected would be inevitable, unavoidable. But for Elidibus to have turned up with such immediacy... he couldn't decide entirely what to make of it. Were it someone else, he might have readily assumed concern, but- well, maybe it was, in its own way. Along with, of course, the practical. The pragmatic.
Perhaps he should have waited a few more days before sending out that message. Or waited until he was out of the hospital entirely.
Then again, he was getting something of a wash (Something that had already been partially undone by a few renewed smears of blood, thanks to Mettaton's aborted aggressive stance, though this too is something that Emet-Selch just accepts. He's had to; the puca was filthy, they cuddled anyway, therefore he became filthy.). Unfathomably strange as it was, it wasn't unpleasant, the promise of being slightly cleaner, and it was technically better than some stranger having such access to him.
So in the end he sighs; his shoulders twitch in something likely intended as a shrug (it's followed by a small wince; neither arm wanted to move much). "I suppose you'll have to do, now that you're already here," even accepting, Emet-Selch could still grumble about it, "having worked your way past my guard's defenses."
It still wouldn't have necessarily been enough to get him to shift very much- but then Elidibus makes his offer to Mettaton. To wash him. An offer the robot, naturally, reacts to with delight (not that he could blame him; it had been a frustration, to have had to live with their current state of grime, lacking the strength to do anything about it themselves). The Ascian, however, is skeptical at this sudden magnanimous offer, no matter how practically stated (Part of him is just caught on the idea of watching Elidibus, of all people, bathing Mettaton. The only person more absurd in that role would be Lahabrea.).
But it was something that needed done, and that they would both appreciate. Questionable motives aside, it would be a hard thing to turn down. Just about to verbalize his allowance, his tolerance, he's struck short as Mettaton turns back to him, asks for his opinion directly.
--The use of his name. It's enough to have him still, if just for a moment, giving Mettaton a somewhat blank stare, before his gaze unwillingly darts sideways back to Elidibus. Of course Mettaton knew his name and used it, and in a circumstance like this, it wasn't a surprise that he wouldn't be at his most careful. And as people went, the other Ascians were the ones Emet-Selch minded the least to have hear it (apart from Irhya, of course, but then he knew the two of them used it between each other if they spoke of him). After all, they knew his name. They- should know his name, for all that personal designations hadn't been used amongst them for thousands upon thousands of years. With Elidibus in particular....
Well. Like it or not, he supposed he'd find out if the other man recognized it at all. Sighing more softly, he only nods at first, in acquiescence of Mettaton's beginning struggles to untangle himself from him. "If you'd care to take advantage of Elidibus'... thoughtfulness, I've no objection. I doubt we'll receive a better offer."
It's easier accepted than done. Legs clumsily unlock from one another, arms wriggle free from where they'd been wrapped. The bed was still small, so they were still in contact, of course (and Emet-Selch was still disinclined to not at least have his side or hip pressed to Mettaton anyway), and altogether it's a rather awkward, pitiful struggle to achieve even partial separation. Mettaton had a heavier body to move, and Emet-Selch had been partially eaten; it is an incredibly sad display of dexterity and dignity.
When possible, Emet-Selch slumps back fully against the bed, annoyingly out of breathe for such meager work. Dying had never been so much of a hassle.