It would be a great lie to say that the sight of the grave, the Punisher at its head, did not upset Vash. Even as his eyes took in the details (the slab, the differences in the way the Punisher was wrapped), the grief written all over the place vereberated with the memory of it from the day before, with his own memory of the state Wolfwood had been in, two years ago.

But the living, breathing man next to him help steady him, and in turn he reached to place a hand on Wolfwood's shoulder, squeezing slightly.

"You're not alone. And... even with what we will do, he is not alone, either." He was not rushing him. Merely reassuring. It was not often that Wolfwood was stopped dead in his tracks, but this was more than reasonable to do it.