Oh, the look Vash gave him didn't make him feel any stronger. Instead, it mixed with the weird cocktail of dissociation and dread and horror in his head to make him want to cling, like he was only eight again, like Vash was one of the carers trying to wrangle so many children and this was all some nightmare that he could tuck himself into the tails of that coat and hide away from.
He shook his head, turning to face him and stepping close enough that it almost felt like he would try, but instead he simply dropped his forehead onto his shoulder, to give himself a moment to let the feeling pass. He wasn't a snot-nosed little brat anymore, he could do this.
"I do, though, I do. I just...he's your friend. I don't want you havin' the last memory you have of him to be him layin' there, lookin' like that, if it's him under there. I'm sorry I'm makin' you do this."
He sucked in a ragged sniffle, pulling away and wiping his eyes on his sleeve and shook his head, and then stepped away again. Took off his jacket and draped it over the top of Nico's Punisher, rolled up his sleeves, and turned back to the grave.
He had to do this. He could handle it. Even if the entire ordeal happened in the blur of a dissociated panic attack.
"...Sorry, Nico." Even if it wasn't Vash's friend, the same man he'd spent the last two years traveling with. He was still 'Nico' to someone. Just like Nicholas had been, the last time he was here. "I really am. We'll put it back the way it all was before, when we're done, I promise. "
His relationship with religion had been tenuous at best before the Eye had gotten their hands on him, and it had only gotten shittier from there, but he was still more familiar with the rites and rituals surrounding it than even most normal people. So he crossed himself before he started, because it felt wrong not to. And then he crouched down, gripping the heavy stone and lifting it. It wasn't much heavier than the Punisher was; heavy enough to protect the body beneath, but no problem for Wolfwood, and it was hardly any effort at all to heft it up under his arms and walk it a few yarz away and set it gently back down in the soft sand.
This whole thing was bringing back a lot of emotions he hadn't ever wanted to feel again, memories of the day he should have been buried here, and the strange couple of hours that had passed for him in the aftermath, when he'd been delirious enough to think Vash had been an angel, or a figment of his own dying mind. The strange combination of sorrow and acceptance, relief that he was finally at the end of his suffering and could rest but racked with the guilt of knowing he had caused so much pain for someone so dear with his passing. He hated it so much, not lease of all for the way it made his vision swim with unshed tears as he forced himself to ignore all of it as best he could and look up and around the play yard for whatever Vash - the other Vash - might have used for a shovel.
Blinking the tears away just made them roll down his face and onto his shirt, but at least he was able to finally see, not far away, the old rusted shovel propped up against the wall of the orphanage. He moved to grab it, picked it up, stared down at the shape of it, and...grimaced at the spade-point of the spoon.
Imagined pushing the thing down into the sand, down into fresh, decaying flesh, and the thing dropped from his hands as he felt a wave of nausea hit him suddenly and hard. He leaned his forehed on top of one of his arms against the wall with a groan, regretting not for the first time just how dumb he'd gotten with the alcohol the night before, but after a minute or so he was able to move away from the stucco with a slow, shaky breath.
The shovel was off the damn table, then. He glanced around them, at the few toys that had survived the warzone, and finally found one of the small, chipped sand pails he remembered playing with from time to time.
It was good enough.
He grabbed it, headed back, dropped to his knees next to the outline of the gravestone, and was thankful for the soft, shifting sands as he began shoving handfuls of it into the pail before twisting his body to dump the little piles few feels away.
no subject
He shook his head, turning to face him and stepping close enough that it almost felt like he would try, but instead he simply dropped his forehead onto his shoulder, to give himself a moment to let the feeling pass. He wasn't a snot-nosed little brat anymore, he could do this.
"I do, though, I do. I just...he's your friend. I don't want you havin' the last memory you have of him to be him layin' there, lookin' like that, if it's him under there. I'm sorry I'm makin' you do this."
He sucked in a ragged sniffle, pulling away and wiping his eyes on his sleeve and shook his head, and then stepped away again. Took off his jacket and draped it over the top of Nico's Punisher, rolled up his sleeves, and turned back to the grave.
He had to do this. He could handle it. Even if the entire ordeal happened in the blur of a dissociated panic attack.
"...Sorry, Nico." Even if it wasn't Vash's friend, the same man he'd spent the last two years traveling with. He was still 'Nico' to someone. Just like Nicholas had been, the last time he was here. "I really am.
We'll put it back the way it all was before, when we're done, I promise. "
His relationship with religion had been tenuous at best before the Eye had gotten their hands on him, and it had only gotten shittier from there, but he was still more familiar with the rites and rituals surrounding it than even most normal people. So he crossed himself before he started, because it felt wrong not to. And then he crouched down, gripping the heavy stone and lifting it. It wasn't much heavier than the Punisher was; heavy enough to protect the body beneath, but no problem for Wolfwood, and it was hardly any effort at all to heft it up under his arms and walk it a few yarz away and set it gently back down in the soft sand.
This whole thing was bringing back a lot of emotions he hadn't ever wanted to feel again, memories of the day he should have been buried here, and the strange couple of hours that had passed for him in the aftermath, when he'd been delirious enough to think Vash had been an angel, or a figment of his own dying mind. The strange combination of sorrow and acceptance, relief that he was finally at the end of his suffering and could rest but racked with the guilt of knowing he had caused so much pain for someone so dear with his passing. He hated it so much, not lease of all for the way it made his vision swim with unshed tears as he forced himself to ignore all of it as best he could and look up and around the play yard for whatever Vash - the other Vash - might have used for a shovel.
Blinking the tears away just made them roll down his face and onto his shirt, but at least he was able to finally see, not far away, the old rusted shovel propped up against the wall of the orphanage. He moved to grab it, picked it up, stared down at the shape of it, and...grimaced at the spade-point of the spoon.
Imagined pushing the thing down into the sand, down into fresh, decaying flesh, and the thing dropped from his hands as he felt a wave of nausea hit him suddenly and hard. He leaned his forehed on top of one of his arms against the wall with a groan, regretting not for the first time just how dumb he'd gotten with the alcohol the night before, but after a minute or so he was able to move away from the stucco with a slow, shaky breath.
The shovel was off the damn table, then. He glanced around them, at the few toys that had survived the warzone, and finally found one of the small, chipped sand pails he remembered playing with from time to time.
It was good enough.
He grabbed it, headed back, dropped to his knees next to the outline of the gravestone, and was thankful for the soft, shifting sands as he began shoving handfuls of it into the pail before twisting his body to dump the little piles few feels away.