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While Slate worked on lathering himself up, Porsha continued on his hair. The majority of it came free of the braid fairly easily, but some was still tangled, and she had to be gentle, carefully freeing as many of the snarls as she could manage with her hands. The rest would be a job for the shampoo and a healthy application of conditioner to get the bright red back to it's usual softness. It was such a contrast to his brother's thick and unruly mane, but then again, so much about them was.

She'd just finished when Slate spoke up again, asking over his brother, and Porsha was grateful that she not only knew the answer to that question, but that it was one that wouldn't cause the younger man more distress. "He doesn't know," she answered softly, taking the luffa from his hands and tapping his shoulder to get him to sit up a little. "He's been out in the woods since a couple of days before you disappeared,and we've had no means to contact him." He would have been there, had he known. Their relationship might have been strained, but she was at least sure of that.

His shoulders were clean, so as he sank down a little further in the water, Po rinsed the luffa. They would probably have to replace the water when they were finished getting him all cleaned up. Give the poor guy some clean water to soak in, and let all the dirt and pain and strain just circle down the drain.

More questions, and these weren't quite as easy to answer. "You've turned everything around, dedicated yourself to serving Metallia and the Negaverse, that's all you can do." She didn't think he was still being punished for past mistakes, but she understood how it weighed on his mind.

Leaning over him, she lay a kiss on his cheek, then stilled as he asked if she'd like to join him. Another easy one. Porsha smiled before answering. "Let's get you all cleaned up, then I'll refresh the water and we can soak together." It sounded like a fine idea to her, all things considered. She seemed unable to go for very long without touching him, reassuring herself that he was still there. Climbing into a warm tub and lounging against him sounded like a great end to a stressful evening.

She lay another kiss on his brow before straightening again, a comforting hand smoothing through wet hair as she offered back the luffa. HisIt didn't seem like enough, bad as it was. Like the damage should have looked worst, if only to mask the pain she knew he was feeling beneath the surface. It wasn't just physical, not even close.

Fingertips stroked his nearest shoulder as the smile slipped around the edges a bit. She'd failed to keep him safe. it was something that would haunt her for some time. Weighing on every decision and choice she made from that point onward. Any one of her soldiers could have been taken, but they'd taken him, the one member of her flock that was the least combat savvy, the easiest to hurt. It couldn't stand. Porsha would find them, the ones responsible, and she would make them hurt every bit as much as the agents kept under their care.

And then she would rip the seeds from their chests.

She blinked as he started to sit up, snapping out of her thoughts to bring her focus back to the present. Slate needed her here and now, revenge could wait. "Alright." The hand on his shoulder slipped away, and she got to her feet finally. She'd give him a moment, get them both some ice water, then they could change out the water. Maybe she could find a few candles as well, turn the lights low. Make things as relaxing as possible...

His voice called her back, and she turned automatically, brows arched as she made a curious noise. Just in time for the sprinkle of hot water to hit her in the face. "Hey!" The hand towel beside the sink fixed the problem, and she stared down at him, lips twisted and features pinched in amusement. "Watch it. Don't make me pour cold water on you while you're in there."

Slate only laughed at her response. It felt good to laugh; it felt healing. „I haven’t been able to do that to someone in a long time.“ The moment passed, though it did not leave him weary for it. Slate picked up the luffa and started work on his own legs as he reflected to times when he splashed his brother in those rare, inopportune moments. Porsha was the easier for it, of course, but he missed that dynamic to his relationship with his brother.

Care was taken when he reached his ankles, knowing that they were bound taut for days. Thankfully the silk left few marks of its own with the brunt of its damage done by pressure. They hurt, certainly, and the bones hardly forgave him for being pent up for so long, but they weren’t lacerated. Like his wrists, he wouldn’t be getting infections there. Given the minimal damage he came out with, his stay in the run-down jailhouse felt surreal. He knew every moment spent in there, all the psychological damage incurred, and yet in a few days at most these gestures of torment would leave him behind. The outside would no longer match the inside. Was he yearning for that?

It didn’t matter, he told himself. All that was behind him and there’s no way to revisit it but in memory. He would grow stronger from it, as his brother often reminded him. Strength was forged in the crucible of pain. And while he found the belief system bizarre and off-base, he couldn’t deny that healed scars were stronger than new skin.

His nose started to bleed, and he wiped away the wet warmth without a second thought.