First there was a trail of stuff lying around - as if the sea has washed up a collection of items.
A gauntlet here, a kneepad there. Then an enormous, angular combat boot, which looked as if it belonged to a goth who decided to murder the dancefloor.
The aubergine scarf, as soft and ragged as always; you might or might've not stop to pick it up and take a whiff.
The other boot.
Finally the tell-tale helmet itself, dropped in the bathroom's doorway. The door itself has been left wide open.
You found him in the shower stall, which was also unshut; sitting on the floor with those endless legs bent and forearms resting on his knees.
He only barely fit in there. Water poured on his hair. It lost its trademark pointed shape; damp tendrils stuck to his forehead and swayed softly around his face.
He didn't seem to care. Or notice for that matter.
He looked miserable.
You tentatively put one foot in front of the other, not sure what you should do. Sure, the five of you shared a common roof.
Sure, you were his older brother's girlfriend (Death wrinkled his nose at such a trivial term, but those were the facts.)
Sure, you've romanced his little brother War and he was one hundred per cent aboard that ship.
But Strife himself…Strife was another creature altogether.
He irked you almost as much as you irked him, apparently. You two engaged in playful jabs on the daily.
He was brilliant, quick-witted, mercurial like quicksilver. You couldn't keep up with his mood swings.
He pulled your leg with his endless shenanigans, got away with it and always, always had to have the last word in a fight.
He drove you up the wall. You seriously couldn't tell whether the sharpshooting Horseman took a liking to you - or if he hates your guts.
And now there he was, naked, angsting in the shower.
You hunched on the wet floor - the water really was everywhere - and touched his hand. It was just a brush, but he flinched all over.
You met his gaze; wide open, full of swirling gold.
"Hi, princess", he said with a flat voice.
"Strife. Are you okay?"
The Horseman shrugged. His wide lips curled upwards in a strange un-smile.
"Um, no. The answer to that question is nope."
You swallowed.
"Can I help you in any way?…"
"You could get inside", he said without losing a beat. His tone was as lifeless as before, but the eyes…those damn eyes already started to twinkle.
Holy crap, you thought. I'm really way over my head.
"I don't think there's enough space for me to fit in there with you, you know", you said with a tight voice. "It's impossible."
His stare held yours with such sudden intensity, you started to feel lightheaded.
"Nothing is impossible."
"Okay", you breathed and crawled into the shower stall as you were, dress and all.
The humidity latched onto your hair almost immediately, but you didn't pay much attention to it.
Not when a very much undressed Horseman was accommodating his long limbs for you to fit in.
"There you go. Between my legs."
"That's so…inappropriate", you giggled breathlessly, doing as he told you.
Strife's arms embraced your midsection. His pointy jaw rested between your neck and your shoulder.
"Huh? Yeah. How about we worry about the impropriety sometime later tho?"
His hot breath grazed your ear; that damn tendril hair started to stroke your cheek as if they were tiny curious creatures.
For all that you knew Strife's magical coif could've had a mind of its own.
He gave out a long, contented sigh and started to purr like a cat.
"Strife!.."
"What? I'm all better now."
"You are?…"
"So much better", he said with emphasis.
You couldn't see his face like that; and even if you would, the most fickle of all Nephilim would always find a way to play you for a fool.
You decided to take this strange, strange man at his word.
"So what happened?" you murmured while he held you.
Strife gave out a long "aaaahh" and tossed his head back.
"Nothing happened, pumpkin. We were on a mission, my siblings and I. It got ugly. But everything is all right now. We won."
The bitterness lacing his words was almost palpable.
"Did you do something you'd rather…not do?…" You barely rose your voice above a whisper.
He held you tighter for a while; or was it an involuntary contraction of muscle?
"…Yeah."
"Strife", you started, turning your head as far as you could to look him in the eyes, "Whatever it was, I'm sure that it was necessary…"
"How does he do it?" That was less of a question and more of an exhausted sigh.
"Who?"
"Death. How does he do what has to be done? He goes in, he goes out, leaving no survivors. He doesn't care. He never doesn't bother him, or, as he likes to say, it does not concern him" Strife did a very good imitation of his brother's most standoffish drawl. "How can he go on like that, leaving his heart on a shelf?"
'Strife," you said with utmost conviction, "He doesn't leave his heart anywhere. He doesn't."
The gunslinger looked perplexed - but said nothing.
"Just trust me on this. Why do you think he sleeps so little?"
Strife opened his mouth, closed it - and opened it again.
"You might have a point, buttercup." He took a long swig of air and nuzzled your cheek, smiling all the while.
"Thank you for sitting here with me, even though I don't have any pants on."
You let out a careless titter; you felt more at ease with him so close that it seemed wise to let on. "Anytime."