He could see that stubborn streak when it came out; the way he ducked his head, looked around, something about the square of his shoulders that made it obvious even if he wasn't looking him square in the face. It was too much like the harder, angrier man he knew back home, the one who hadn't been able to hold onto the sense of innocence this man clung to, and it almost made him grin. There he is. That's the man who can stop Millions Knives. He was just able to hide it better than the Vash Wolfwood knew where he was from.
But he also knew how that stubbornness could just as easily be directed at the wrong problem, when Vash got an idea in his thick head, and the momentary worry that he was going to have to wrangle him out of town in a headlock for his own good was enough to keep the grim, smug satisfaction from fully manifesting. So when he shifted again, conceding the moral high ground, Wolfwood visibly relaxed just a bit, giving a small nod.
"Your brother has 'em. An' I'm not just talking one or two here and there, like last time you faced 'im. I mean all of 'em."
He let the information sink in, let Vash take a moment to register the gravity of what he was implying before nodding again. He had just enough time to tense the muscles needed to turn his body and begin walking away before Vash leaned in, touching, subtle enough that anyone around them wouldn't have even noticed it had occurred. But for Nicholas, it was like a jolt of electricity, a shock that nearly broke through the barrier he'd been building up over the past few minutes to prepare himself for the reality he was certain he was now facing.
He froze, his body leaning closer, his head dipping low. Touch was rare between them, even between him and his man back home. There was too much for them to deal with, too much guilt and pain and anger, and he knew that for all his kindness, Vash carried his own demons that made him pull back from accepting any of that kindness being given back to him in return.
Damn him, but they were too much alike in all the ways they hurt themselves the most. So that contact alone said so many more words than speaking could, and it hurt. It twisted with the voice inside of him that snarled that he didn't deserve the kindness, tangling his emotions into knots as another voice, a newer voice that was not his own rumbled back at him from his memory, twinged with a terrifying, comforting, otherworldly tone that had only come out when Vash had done that...thing, reaching into his head and contradicting the awful, undeniable truths the first voice said when Wolfwood was at his own breaking point.
It took him a moment before he was able to recover from the shock of it, and another moment still before he found the ability to lift his hand up from where it hung, trembling, at his side, and shifted just enough that he could curl his fingers around Vash's bicep, just above where it met the metal bracket keeping his prosthetic attached under his clothes. It was tentative at first, barely firm enough to even feel the heat of his skin through the fabric, and for a moment, he leaned closer, turning his head as if he wanted to hide his face against that red shoulder.
But then he jerked, as if coming out of a trance. He chewed the inside of his lip, forcing himself to bury the moment down inside of his chest, and let the hand on his arm finally take a gentle grip as he turned to pull him away from the bar. Shift around, move to the other side of him as he steered Vash in the direction of December so that he could drape the arm not carrying the Punisher over Vash's other shoulder. It gave the semblance of comradery, just a couple of friends walking down the street, and let him stand close enough that he could continue to speak softly enough that no one could hear.
"If this is like back home, he's usin' em as his own personal...batteries. Weapons. Bit'a both, I guess you could say. But he's not stayin' in one place, either. Has himself a great, big ship he's flyin' around, takin' the Plants, usin' their power to wreak havoc. Last I knew, before...comin' here, they'd been collecting all the refugees in Octovern. You - you back home - were supposed to be headed there, too. You were supposed to be dealin' with him there, 'cause we knew it was only a matter of time.
Me, I went to December. Had some business to take care of, an' one...one group of...refugees wasn't worth distractin' you from what you needed to do. So I left without tellin' you. But ya showed up, anyway." He laughed, a bitter sound, because he should have known. He couldn't help remembering, even if it was a hazy, drug-addled memory at best, that he'd said as much to this man once before, two years ago.
He supposed it was only a matter of time before they had to talk about what had happened before, properly.
"That's...the last time I saw 'im." His voice cracked, he struggled to force the words out through his whispers, gnawing on the end of the cigar in his mouth. He drew in a puff on it through one side of his mouth and let the smoke out of his lungs through the other side after holding it for a moment, hoping it would settle his nerves. "I'm...I'm worried your man is there. If we're back home, if he took my place..."
He had to pull his arm away to hurriedly wipe the tears that rebelled against his attempts to keep himself composed, and when he let it drop back down, it was only to press it gently once against Vash's shoulder and then pull it back away. He wanted the contact, felt like he needed it, but the older voice in his head barked that no matter what anyone said, if he was right about this, then it was his fault this man had lost his friend.
"I still don't know why I ended up here with you, Blondie. I should be dead. He-...if they sent him back in my place...there'll be a grave. You always bury the bodies. Even the sorry sons of bitches who don't deserve it."
And damnit, if that didn't twist something in his chest in a way he couldn't explain, the thought that there was someone who cared enough about a fucked up, washed up killer like him, to give him a proper grave. It was more than he deserved, but he knew that man too well to think he wouldn't have gone out of his way to do it, and probably would have even made the effort of doing it right.
And now some other fucked up, washed up killer was probably laying out there in his place. In a weird way, no matter how little sense it made, he couldn't feel the same hate for Nico that he felt for himself. He deserved a chance to do better, to try and make up for the things he'd done. It wasn't his fault that Nicholas had come to the end of his road because of his own stupidity. It should be him in that theoretical grave.
LOL Just randomly like "WTF???" got transported to another city and is SO CONFUSED
But he also knew how that stubbornness could just as easily be directed at the wrong problem, when Vash got an idea in his thick head, and the momentary worry that he was going to have to wrangle him out of town in a headlock for his own good was enough to keep the grim, smug satisfaction from fully manifesting. So when he shifted again, conceding the moral high ground, Wolfwood visibly relaxed just a bit, giving a small nod.
"Your brother has 'em. An' I'm not just talking one or two here and there, like last time you faced 'im. I mean all of 'em."
He let the information sink in, let Vash take a moment to register the gravity of what he was implying before nodding again. He had just enough time to tense the muscles needed to turn his body and begin walking away before Vash leaned in, touching, subtle enough that anyone around them wouldn't have even noticed it had occurred. But for Nicholas, it was like a jolt of electricity, a shock that nearly broke through the barrier he'd been building up over the past few minutes to prepare himself for the reality he was certain he was now facing.
He froze, his body leaning closer, his head dipping low. Touch was rare between them, even between him and his man back home. There was too much for them to deal with, too much guilt and pain and anger, and he knew that for all his kindness, Vash carried his own demons that made him pull back from accepting any of that kindness being given back to him in return.
Damn him, but they were too much alike in all the ways they hurt themselves the most. So that contact alone said so many more words than speaking could, and it hurt. It twisted with the voice inside of him that snarled that he didn't deserve the kindness, tangling his emotions into knots as another voice, a newer voice that was not his own rumbled back at him from his memory, twinged with a terrifying, comforting, otherworldly tone that had only come out when Vash had done that...thing, reaching into his head and contradicting the awful, undeniable truths the first voice said when Wolfwood was at his own breaking point.
It took him a moment before he was able to recover from the shock of it, and another moment still before he found the ability to lift his hand up from where it hung, trembling, at his side, and shifted just enough that he could curl his fingers around Vash's bicep, just above where it met the metal bracket keeping his prosthetic attached under his clothes. It was tentative at first, barely firm enough to even feel the heat of his skin through the fabric, and for a moment, he leaned closer, turning his head as if he wanted to hide his face against that red shoulder.
But then he jerked, as if coming out of a trance. He chewed the inside of his lip, forcing himself to bury the moment down inside of his chest, and let the hand on his arm finally take a gentle grip as he turned to pull him away from the bar. Shift around, move to the other side of him as he steered Vash in the direction of December so that he could drape the arm not carrying the Punisher over Vash's other shoulder. It gave the semblance of comradery, just a couple of friends walking down the street, and let him stand close enough that he could continue to speak softly enough that no one could hear.
"If this is like back home, he's usin' em as his own personal...batteries. Weapons. Bit'a both, I guess you could say. But he's not stayin' in one place, either. Has himself a great, big ship he's flyin' around, takin' the Plants, usin' their power to wreak havoc. Last I knew, before...comin' here, they'd been collecting all the refugees in Octovern. You - you back home - were supposed to be headed there, too. You were supposed to be dealin' with him there, 'cause we knew it was only a matter of time.
Me, I went to December. Had some business to take care of, an' one...one group of...refugees wasn't worth distractin' you from what you needed to do. So I left without tellin' you. But ya showed up, anyway." He laughed, a bitter sound, because he should have known. He couldn't help remembering, even if it was a hazy, drug-addled memory at best, that he'd said as much to this man once before, two years ago.
He supposed it was only a matter of time before they had to talk about what had happened before, properly.
"That's...the last time I saw 'im." His voice cracked, he struggled to force the words out through his whispers, gnawing on the end of the cigar in his mouth. He drew in a puff on it through one side of his mouth and let the smoke out of his lungs through the other side after holding it for a moment, hoping it would settle his nerves. "I'm...I'm worried your man is there. If we're back home, if he took my place..."
He had to pull his arm away to hurriedly wipe the tears that rebelled against his attempts to keep himself composed, and when he let it drop back down, it was only to press it gently once against Vash's shoulder and then pull it back away. He wanted the contact, felt like he needed it, but the older voice in his head barked that no matter what anyone said, if he was right about this, then it was his fault this man had lost his friend.
"I still don't know why I ended up here with you, Blondie. I should be dead. He-...if they sent him back in my place...there'll be a grave. You always bury the bodies. Even the sorry sons of bitches who don't deserve it."
And damnit, if that didn't twist something in his chest in a way he couldn't explain, the thought that there was someone who cared enough about a fucked up, washed up killer like him, to give him a proper grave. It was more than he deserved, but he knew that man too well to think he wouldn't have gone out of his way to do it, and probably would have even made the effort of doing it right.
And now some other fucked up, washed up killer was probably laying out there in his place. In a weird way, no matter how little sense it made, he couldn't feel the same hate for Nico that he felt for himself. He deserved a chance to do better, to try and make up for the things he'd done. It wasn't his fault that Nicholas had come to the end of his road because of his own stupidity. It should be him in that theoretical grave.