[Rhys is doing so badly. But he needs to keep himself together. John and Beckett are, he can't be the weak link that encourages despair. Can't let his battered mind be drawn to it. So he focuses on the things he can offer. Like the soap the other Rhys had traded - practically gifted - him. He does intend to indulge in one of its few uses, but he'll offer it to his companions first.]
I have soap, if it will help or if anyone wants to bathe while we have hot water. It isn't much, but it's something.
During(character nudity in this prompt, of course)
[Whatever's left of the soap, he takes for his own shower. It's been a long time since he's bathed - his experiences with Clayton and his unfortunate lack of shoes on arrival have taught him to be warier than is strictly necessary of frostbite. He thinks it will help him. Make him feel better, and more useful for morale if nothing else.
Coming from a life largely lived with communal bathing, he finds himself wishing he had invited John or Beckett to join him because being alone under the water, however warm, isn't a comfort. It leaves him to his thoughts, about how he had spoken to Angel before her fight with Rhys. How he could have tried harder to get her out of there. If he'd just picked her up and carried her, her hallucinations of Jack surely couldn't have stopped him.
It's his fault. Her death, Rhys's condition, he could have prevented it all. Perhaps in an earlier month, in the time when he actively pursued and fought Jack when they were in danger, he would have. He looks down, and for the first time sees how much more weight he's lost now that he's gone to half-sized meals. The metaphor for his weakened, withered spirit is too apt. He sinks against the back of the shower, sliding to the cold floor with both hands over his face, muffling the sobbing he can't stop, didn't even see coming. He spends a while in there, unable to bring himself to get up, to move out of that confinement he's put himself into. Out of the warmth that is no comfort, back to the company that is too good for him. He just can't.]
After
[Eventually, whether it was because someone came into the bathroom or not, he does get out of there, and his misery is on full display. He huddles in a corner, shivering from not properly drying himself beneath his - admittedly warm - blanket. The yin-yang-patterned one, that the collective gave him when he had basically given up. He had thanked them for their generosity, but, much like the shower, it had been of less comfort than was ideal. He's staying far away from the bedroom with the bloodied mattress, as if his pain is contagious, though occasionally his reddened eyes stray that way, like he could somehow check on him without getting up. Pathetic as it is, this low has completely blindsided him. He was supposed to feel better...]
shower meltdowns, because more angst! (pre-mercy killing obvs)
[Rhys is doing so badly. But he needs to keep himself together. John and Beckett are, he can't be the weak link that encourages despair. Can't let his battered mind be drawn to it. So he focuses on the things he can offer. Like the soap the other Rhys had traded - practically gifted - him. He does intend to indulge in one of its few uses, but he'll offer it to his companions first.]
I have soap, if it will help or if anyone wants to bathe while we have hot water. It isn't much, but it's something.
During (character nudity in this prompt, of course)
[Whatever's left of the soap, he takes for his own shower. It's been a long time since he's bathed - his experiences with Clayton and his unfortunate lack of shoes on arrival have taught him to be warier than is strictly necessary of frostbite. He thinks it will help him. Make him feel better, and more useful for morale if nothing else.
Coming from a life largely lived with communal bathing, he finds himself wishing he had invited John or Beckett to join him because being alone under the water, however warm, isn't a comfort. It leaves him to his thoughts, about how he had spoken to Angel before her fight with Rhys. How he could have tried harder to get her out of there. If he'd just picked her up and carried her, her hallucinations of Jack surely couldn't have stopped him.
It's his fault. Her death, Rhys's condition, he could have prevented it all. Perhaps in an earlier month, in the time when he actively pursued and fought Jack when they were in danger, he would have. He looks down, and for the first time sees how much more weight he's lost now that he's gone to half-sized meals. The metaphor for his weakened, withered spirit is too apt. He sinks against the back of the shower, sliding to the cold floor with both hands over his face, muffling the sobbing he can't stop, didn't even see coming. He spends a while in there, unable to bring himself to get up, to move out of that confinement he's put himself into. Out of the warmth that is no comfort, back to the company that is too good for him. He just can't.]
After
[Eventually, whether it was because someone came into the bathroom or not, he does get out of there, and his misery is on full display. He huddles in a corner, shivering from not properly drying himself beneath his - admittedly warm - blanket. The yin-yang-patterned one, that the collective gave him when he had basically given up. He had thanked them for their generosity, but, much like the shower, it had been of less comfort than was ideal. He's staying far away from the bedroom with the bloodied mattress, as if his pain is contagious, though occasionally his reddened eyes stray that way, like he could somehow check on him without getting up. Pathetic as it is, this low has completely blindsided him. He was supposed to feel better...]