The small joke managed to get the smallest of laughs out of him, and he mumbled out an affectionate little "asshole" whispered in reply. He supposed at least he could be satisfied with that much, though. He'd been an idiot, terrified of the kindest, gentlest person on the planet, yes, but he'd also learned to get past it, and ended up in the complete opposite end of the spectrum. So...that stood for something, he supposed, even if it was still hard to openly admit that he was right if only because it would mean giving himself a bit of forgiveness for something he'd done wrong. He masqueraded as a holy man, yes, but he had never really been in the habit of offering absolution, especially not to himself.
And then he fell quiet again, remembering how Vash had been when he'd found him with Sheryl and Lina three-or-someodd years ago, how even having to deal with bandits and perverts intent on ruining the little life he'd managed to eke out for himself, he'd seemed...if not happy, then at least content. Recovering, at the very least. And then doing it all over again just a few short months ago, when he'd found Blondie in such a similar situation, hair different, yes, but undeniably mirroring the events that he had already lived through in his own world.
There had been a part of him then that, even though he'd barely known Vash for a few hours before learning to be absolutely terrified of him with the Fifth Moon incident and then having to go look for him anyway, had honestly felt bad for having to take him away from that. He'd been dangerous, yes, but he had also been the man who stood between Millions Knives and his goals, and even then, there had been something about him that just felt...right to Nicholas.
Even as scared as he was of the Humanoid Typhoon, when he looked at him, he'd never seen a cruel man, not like he had with so many others. Guarded, shy, churlish if you got him in a bad mood even, but underneath that, he'd been able to see kindness. It had been bruised and hurt and abused, and if he lost control of himself, he could still kill everyone around him. But he'd still known. Vash was just a sad, kind man wanting to be left in peace.
"D'you think...if we'd let you stay with Lina? Could Eriks have been happy? Could the breaks have gotten better?" He wasn't really sure he wanted to know the answer. On one hand, if yes, then it meant he'd taken them away from one of the few places they might have been able to find happiness. On the other hand, if no, then it just showed how deep those breaks must have been, to be so irreparable.
Not that Knives would have allowed it to continue for very long, either way. But the thought still lingered in his head.
Still, it was shuffled away for later thought when Vash reassured him about being able to take care of the grave on his own, and was instead replaced with the return of the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and the overbearing weight of the thought of the man in the grave. He simply gave a small nod before he turned and shuffled inside, in his search for clean water to wash his hands off with.
Luckily enough, the first thing he noticed when he entered the kitchen was the first aid kit, sitting on one of the lunch tables and various bits and pieces scattered out around it. Someone must have been injured, though he supposed that made enough sense. Vash had taken a few hits of his own in the fight. He'd probably patched himself up afterward. What was most important at that moment to Wolfwood, though, was the bottle of rubbing alcohol sitting amongst the pile.
It wasn't soap and water, no, but it was honestly probably better than for what he was doing. He carried the bottle over to the sink and popped it open, pouring some of it into his palm and using it to scrub off the majority of what was still left on his hands. It was weirdly slimey and burned under his nails and the tiny places where his cuticles were cracked that he hadn't even noticed before, but it did what he wanted it to do. Then, thankfully, when he turned the knob on the tap, the pipes rattled to life with a groan and began dribbling out the smallest trickle of water. Not much, but it was enough, and he made quick work of washing his hands the rest of the way.
When Vash saw him again, he had come back to sit outside on the steps of the porch with a chipped bowl filled with water, and the bar of soap, the bottle of alcohol, and a tea towel, and there was a cigarette burning between his teeth He stood when he approached, a distant look on his face as he chewed on the filter of the cigarette, and held out the bottle of alcohol for him to take.
"Before we go, is it-...Can I...I...want a couple of minutes alone...with him. Is that alright?"
They really shouldn't be wasting much more time, and he knew that the man in the grave would have been just as carefully reburied as he had been the first time. There wasn't anything better he could do for him. But...he couldn't stop thinking about the fact that...somewhere out there, his partner might be alone, risking his life to keep everyone else safe, and how much it had hurt when he'd thought he was bound for that same grave, knowing that there wasn't anything he could do to keep him safe or make up for what he'd done.
That, on top of the guilt he felt for disturbing his resting place, made him want to sit for a little bit. Say his own sort of good bye, even if he hadn't known this version of himself. To maybe try and find some way to make amends for the thing he'd done today. The man in the ground deserved that much, at least, instead of Nicholas just riding off into the desert on his motorcycle after defiling his grave, without so much as a "Sorry, man. Tough luck."
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And then he fell quiet again, remembering how Vash had been when he'd found him with Sheryl and Lina three-or-someodd years ago, how even having to deal with bandits and perverts intent on ruining the little life he'd managed to eke out for himself, he'd seemed...if not happy, then at least content. Recovering, at the very least. And then doing it all over again just a few short months ago, when he'd found Blondie in such a similar situation, hair different, yes, but undeniably mirroring the events that he had already lived through in his own world.
There had been a part of him then that, even though he'd barely known Vash for a few hours before learning to be absolutely terrified of him with the Fifth Moon incident and then having to go look for him anyway, had honestly felt bad for having to take him away from that. He'd been dangerous, yes, but he had also been the man who stood between Millions Knives and his goals, and even then, there had been something about him that just felt...right to Nicholas.
Even as scared as he was of the Humanoid Typhoon, when he looked at him, he'd never seen a cruel man, not like he had with so many others. Guarded, shy, churlish if you got him in a bad mood even, but underneath that, he'd been able to see kindness. It had been bruised and hurt and abused, and if he lost control of himself, he could still kill everyone around him. But he'd still known. Vash was just a sad, kind man wanting to be left in peace.
"D'you think...if we'd let you stay with Lina? Could Eriks have been happy? Could the breaks have gotten better?" He wasn't really sure he wanted to know the answer. On one hand, if yes, then it meant he'd taken them away from one of the few places they might have been able to find happiness. On the other hand, if no, then it just showed how deep those breaks must have been, to be so irreparable.
Not that Knives would have allowed it to continue for very long, either way. But the thought still lingered in his head.
Still, it was shuffled away for later thought when Vash reassured him about being able to take care of the grave on his own, and was instead replaced with the return of the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and the overbearing weight of the thought of the man in the grave. He simply gave a small nod before he turned and shuffled inside, in his search for clean water to wash his hands off with.
Luckily enough, the first thing he noticed when he entered the kitchen was the first aid kit, sitting on one of the lunch tables and various bits and pieces scattered out around it. Someone must have been injured, though he supposed that made enough sense. Vash had taken a few hits of his own in the fight. He'd probably patched himself up afterward. What was most important at that moment to Wolfwood, though, was the bottle of rubbing alcohol sitting amongst the pile.
It wasn't soap and water, no, but it was honestly probably better than for what he was doing. He carried the bottle over to the sink and popped it open, pouring some of it into his palm and using it to scrub off the majority of what was still left on his hands. It was weirdly slimey and burned under his nails and the tiny places where his cuticles were cracked that he hadn't even noticed before, but it did what he wanted it to do. Then, thankfully, when he turned the knob on the tap, the pipes rattled to life with a groan and began dribbling out the smallest trickle of water. Not much, but it was enough, and he made quick work of washing his hands the rest of the way.
When Vash saw him again, he had come back to sit outside on the steps of the porch with a chipped bowl filled with water, and the bar of soap, the bottle of alcohol, and a tea towel, and there was a cigarette burning between his teeth He stood when he approached, a distant look on his face as he chewed on the filter of the cigarette, and held out the bottle of alcohol for him to take.
"Before we go, is it-...Can I...I...want a couple of minutes alone...with him. Is that alright?"
They really shouldn't be wasting much more time, and he knew that the man in the grave would have been just as carefully reburied as he had been the first time. There wasn't anything better he could do for him. But...he couldn't stop thinking about the fact that...somewhere out there, his partner might be alone, risking his life to keep everyone else safe, and how much it had hurt when he'd thought he was bound for that same grave, knowing that there wasn't anything he could do to keep him safe or make up for what he'd done.
That, on top of the guilt he felt for disturbing his resting place, made him want to sit for a little bit. Say his own sort of good bye, even if he hadn't known this version of himself. To maybe try and find some way to make amends for the thing he'd done today. The man in the ground deserved that much, at least, instead of Nicholas just riding off into the desert on his motorcycle after defiling his grave, without so much as a "Sorry, man. Tough luck."