[When the quiet lingered and Wolfwood's footsteps put a little distance between them, Vash wilted, his arm dropping slowly to the ground before he pulled it underneath him and let the adrenalin start to fade, the pain to start to kick in, and his lungs to finally start remembering how to work properly. And oh yeah, it hurt, a lot. His face burned, he could taste the blood from his split lip, and even after he'd figured out how to get air back into his lungs, his chest ached. Nicholas was in no way a weak man when he threw his punches.
That wasn't what kept him down though, trying to collect himself before he made his way back to his feet. More than that, it was the shame, mixing with the grief that at times he could push aside, but could never really be free of. It couldn't be pushed aside, now, and so instead, he had to give himself a couple minutes to let it settle into his bones, feeling like poison, making the pains from his hundreds of scars that never fully went away flare up and sap the energy out of him. It would have been so easy, to just lay there, curled up in a ball, until he'd cried himself out and passed out under the suns to wake up in a day, feeling drained and numb.
But he had a job to do, didn't he? He couldn't wallow in it, no matter how much he wanted to. So finally, he sniffed down his tears, pushing them back as he slowly made his way to his feet. Reached down, his movements slow, to grab the strap on his duffel bag and lift it from the ground. His cheek was already swelling, but the look in his eyes was hollow sort of detachment, and he refused to look over at the other man. When he reached his free hand up to press against the ache in his chest, it wasn't across the place he'd been hit, it was higher, rubbing mindlessly at the middle of his chest before pressing flat against the small, flat metal object he kept tucked in his pocket.]
'M sorry.
[It was barely rasped out, and nothing more was said as he lifted his bag back over his shoulder. And then he was walking again, back in the direction they'd been headed before the whole scuffle had happened and slow enough that it was clear he wasn't trying to get away as much as just put the whole thing behind him and get back on their way, as if it had never happened.]
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That wasn't what kept him down though, trying to collect himself before he made his way back to his feet. More than that, it was the shame, mixing with the grief that at times he could push aside, but could never really be free of. It couldn't be pushed aside, now, and so instead, he had to give himself a couple minutes to let it settle into his bones, feeling like poison, making the pains from his hundreds of scars that never fully went away flare up and sap the energy out of him. It would have been so easy, to just lay there, curled up in a ball, until he'd cried himself out and passed out under the suns to wake up in a day, feeling drained and numb.
But he had a job to do, didn't he? He couldn't wallow in it, no matter how much he wanted to. So finally, he sniffed down his tears, pushing them back as he slowly made his way to his feet. Reached down, his movements slow, to grab the strap on his duffel bag and lift it from the ground. His cheek was already swelling, but the look in his eyes was hollow sort of detachment, and he refused to look over at the other man. When he reached his free hand up to press against the ache in his chest, it wasn't across the place he'd been hit, it was higher, rubbing mindlessly at the middle of his chest before pressing flat against the small, flat metal object he kept tucked in his pocket.]
'M sorry.
[It was barely rasped out, and nothing more was said as he lifted his bag back over his shoulder. And then he was walking again, back in the direction they'd been headed before the whole scuffle had happened and slow enough that it was clear he wasn't trying to get away as much as just put the whole thing behind him and get back on their way, as if it had never happened.]