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‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through No Man’s Land, not a peep was heard. Well, admittedly, many a peep was heard – but in the small corner of Hopeland orphanage’s lot that was gated in, crosses and small tombstones dotted in neat little lines, it was quiet. The lights and decorations twinkled in the many mooned-light, the children in the complex just settling in for bed, waiting with bated breath for the morning to come. Not a single living soul was out by their small but hearty graveyard, despite the fresh flowers and gifts that lay scattered amongst the several resting places. The largest of them all, a rather imposing cross carved from stone, looked over the rest of the beds, as if watching out for them even after death. The children often came out to speak to the headstone like an older brother, even some going as far as to gossip with him about the others. Sometimes, he would get visitors apart from the kids, a couple wayward reporters, a few fine folks from a ship out in the desert, the orphanage workers themselves, a few strangers who always mysteriously buzzed, and even a ridiculously skittish outlaw. Each of them brought something different with them every time – new photos and stories, updates on their life, admonishments and jokes, and the scent of tobacco and whiskey, the specific kind only attributed to his tastes.
Needless to say, no one was keeping an eye on the graves – for he was already doing so. The cross kept the peace, kept stock of the ones gone too soon, stared out onto the land as if daring anyone to come close. He did usually deter a vast majority of the bandits who would seek to do any harm, if not for the imposing figure he cut, then for the odd visitors he received.
So no one was there to witness the unheard of – a hand clawing up from the sand-dirt-clay, wrapping gnarled and knobby fingers around the stone that lay parallel to the ground, shifting it slightly. No one was there to watch as the hand’s desperate twin came up as well, digging and digging and digging until – a gasping breath. No one was there to see the first shuddering inhales of a man long dead.
Wolfwood first registered the cloying pain of his rattling lungs, then the ache in every single one of his awful joints, then the weight pressing against him on all sides. He moves his arms against the pressure, his every cell screaming at him to just lie down and take the misery, let it consume him. He won’t . He refuses . So he grabs and digs through his surroundings, distantly realizing it feels familiar – but refusing to connect what that could mean in his head. It digs under his fingernails, cakes into old calluses that the serum used to take away whenever he would be forced to take it. It’s cold and damp in ways that have his heart beating out of his chest, terrified for the world in which he was trapped in.
He isn’t stupid – he’s dug graves out in the deserts of No Man’s Land. He’s felt the surprisingly wet clay under his hands, he’s watched in real time as the suns attempted to bake it. He’s watched Miss Melanie and the oldest helpers around the orphanage pull it from the ground, fashioning them into bricks and surrounding foundations of new buildings with the thick muck. He sat and watched as it baked under the suns, hardening into something stable from something so malleable, something he used to see as so simple – but as he became the one who should go out to redouble any foundations, he understood. If his hands weren’t deft enough, the clay would attempt to break under his hands; if he didn’t watch his pressure, it would clump and fall apart halfway through their makeshift baking. He knows the feel of it moving against skin, untouched by the sun for so long, soaking up the wet of the world above and below like a sponge, like a man thirsty and sunburnt, like the final gasping breaths of a starved man, minutes away from a feast in his honor.
So he dug, even as his lungs screamed for air, even as his muscles whined and protested without oxygen, without anything besides frantic fear propelling him forward. Like a well-oiled machine, he clawed out clumps of clay, felt it give under his fingertips, felt it imprint into his very soul – and he hit something hard. Something still slightly warmed from the suns, something smooth and unforgiving against his wretched fingers. He grits his teeth and pushes; his very soul bleeding out and fragmenting desperately, his hands searching, straining against the pressure he tries to swim through. He finally finds an edge of it, his fingers clutching at it desperately, even as the rough edge digs into his skin without mercy, pain arcing up his nerves, the taste and bitter feel of copper stinging bright in his mouth. His other hand meets it shortly, the both of them pushing, grasping even as everything in him begs him to just lay down and rest, to give up and let the clay envelop him, consume him – but he can’t . He can’t even begin to understand the thrum under his skin, the will commanding him to move, to claw his way out of hell, to fight for his life after he finally rested; after he finally got what he set out to achieve; the children at Hopeland safe, his brother saved from the iron grip Chapel had on him; full faith in his friend to do the rest, to protect where Wolfwood couldn’t. He had been okay with it ending. He welcomed the rest, the ability to sit down after so long of running, so long of fighting, all accumulating in a final moment of peace. There was a moment or two where he felt undeniable grief – tears streaming through grime and blood as confetti fluttered, a final homecoming and a farewell to everything he had always known. But he didn’t fight to stay, even staring into oblivion.
It was foreign to feel the energy rushing through his veins, the desperate frantic pull, begging him to move, to live, to take a painful lungful of fresh air instead of staying down in the tomb so lovingly built for him. Finally, the stone shifts with a lurch, and he hurries to push aside the sand and clay on top of him – the sand grating on his skin, leaving an aching pain. With each dislodged wad, he feels his mind blur at the edges, wanting for a break, a brief moment of respite before he pulls himself out of hell – but he can’t; he pushes through the misery in his muscles, the burning cry of everything in his body wailing to be at rest again – while commanding him to move at the same time. His hands now touch the cold desert air, chilled with the rise of the moons, urging him forwards if only to soothe the way his body scalds. With aa large push, teeth grinding together, he finally cracks open a small pocket of air, his lungs screaming as he takes a gasping breath, only to wheeze and cough out the sand that unwillingly comes with the small gift of fresh fuckin’ air. The rush of oxygen makes him dizzy, his hands never stopping as they attempt to carve out a bigger hole, his fingers tingling with pins and needles as his desperation is renewed with vigor. The sharp breaths and hacking coughs only grow more frequent as he slowly but surely makes the hole bigger and bigger before finally – finally – it’s big enough that he thinks he can reach up and at least get his upper body up into the night air. His hands claw at the sand and clay, attempting to make himself a good handhold – and when he starts to pull, his body lurches, thick iron bleeding from his gums as he holds in an agonizing shout. His body feels like it’s burning alive, his back, core, and arms all twinging and stinging with disuse, his very bones feeling like they’ve all been shattered, black spots dancing in his vision as he blinks blearily through the pain. He can only barely make sense of where he is – Hopeland, of course – before he’s drawing in wheezing breaths through gritted teeth. He feels heat build up behind his eyes and makes a small, helpless noise in the back of his throat, his blood boiling as it runs through his long since immobile body. He takes a break – if only to steady his breathing and wait for his blood to flow, to give him any semblance of relief from the misery coursing through every single inch of himself. The night air does him good – he’s always found comfort in the briskness of the moons, the stark contrast to the daytime heat bringing a small, barely there shift in his mind, his body, his soul. Sometimes, he could almost pretend he wasn’t doomed back then, could stand out on porches and in alleys, on cliffsides and in the mouths of caves; he could imagine he was normal, just wandering to get some money for the orphanage, to get some eyes on the world before returning back home. Usually, the thoughts would get interrupted by someone trying to start something, or gunfire sounding off across the town, or that fuckin’ dumbass getting himself into some shit – or just snoring really loud. Whichever came first, it still broke him out of the small bubble he’d crafted for himself in the darkness – and it never got any easier, waking up from that dream.
Slowly but surely, the worst of the pins and needles abated, and without waiting, he’s already digging where his legs are; in no time flat, he’s got another hole dug out, his legs feeling the chill of the air through the thin sheet his lower half is wrapped in. He’s sure he wasn’t buried naked – yet his clothes have disintegrated into the clay, only fraying bits and bobs scattered around that he can see. No clue how the sheet survived when his suit didn’t – shit was damn expensive – but at least he’s got something to cover himself until he can snag some kind of outfit. He pats his hands around himself now that he’s got the space, finding only a few buttons of his, his cufflinks he stole from Chapel’s old outfit, and his rosary, the beads a little worse for wear, but wrapped up delicately in a little handkerchief. The bitter taste in his mouth doesn’t leave, especially when he cannot for the life of him find his own damn cigarettes and lighter. Whoever buried him – probably that Needle-noggined idiot – fuckin’ nabbed his shit. Maybe he deserved it, for conking out like that (he only allows a spare moment to feel a pang of guilt–) but his sunglasses, his cigarettes, and his lighter seemed a bit excessive. Can’t kill, but can keep souvenirs from a corpse, go fuckin’ figure. He licks his lips, his mouth exceedingly dry, his nerves shot to hell and back, his eyes adjusted to the light well enough to see only a couple lights on in the orphanage – seeming to be from Miss Melanie’s office and the downstairs living room. The orphanage itself he can barely recognize – but he’d know the building even if it was rebuilt into some disaster zone, in life and (he holds back a crazed bark of a laugh) in death. Clearly, they’ve rebuilt after the fight with Chapel, the orphanage almost doubling in size somehow. Upsettingly enough though, as he’s watching, tracing his eyes over the differences, matching up what he knew with what he’s seeing – the downstairs side door opens, someone hulking stepping down the small staircase. They’re carrying a bunch of boxes, which they carry over to one of the side houses – which is too damn close for comfort, but he hopes they don’t notice the displaced grave ‘bout twenty yarz away from them.
Unfortunately for him, when they set down the boxes, they seem to slump over a little before straightening – and looking directly at him. He can only pray they can’t see him, but it’s wishful thinking as he stares at what he can now recognize as Livio, wearing a large poncho, a cowboy hat hanging from his neck, resting at his back. His hair’s grown longer in certain aspects – no more shaved sides, more messy and uncoordinated – and he’s still just as stupidly massive as the last time he saw him (if not on the healthier side – more fat to even out his muscle in a way that probably helps him anyways.)
He can see how Livio looks at the cross, then down to the shifted slab of stone, then to his undoubtedly ragged appearance, half covered in clay and sand, probably still a little bloodstained somewhere – and naked as the day he was born. He, for his part, feels his cheeks redden all at once, the embarrassment winning out against his instinct to stay still as a rabbit – rushing to pull the sheet up over his chest as quickly as he can. It’s ridiculous, he knows, but good god , can he have just some dignity remaining? It doesn’t seem too much to ask, but apparently it is, as Livio takes a step closer, seemingly unsure if he’s seeing what he’s seeing. He bristles, the chill starting to fully set in – it’s too cold to be out here with nothing but a sheet now that he feels his whole body without much issue.
“Nico? Biikáa?” Livio’s voice is almost just as it was when he last heard it, if not a little more grown into. Wolfwood tries to open his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a hacking cough, wracking his body painfully. His entire body jolts with the effort, small bits of clumped sand dislodging from his mouth with the effort. His eyes squeeze shut, the tears from earlier finally dribbling down as the ache reopens itself despite never closing. Without him hearing, he’s already at his side, and at his touch on his shoulder – undoubtedly trying to help stabilize him – he flinches miserably, pain ricocheting from the small point of contact. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t – what the fuck?” Livio says on an exhale, audibly frayed at the edges. He still shudders and shakes with how his body spasms. “How– what– who–”
“Shut–” His voice is gravelly, like he’s been dragged across hot coals, been forced to drink scalding hot water until his vocal cords melted together, “Shut up .” It’s too damn painful to say anything else, and regardless, his body still continues to push him further into the coughing fit, spots coming back to his vision with how his ribs burn at every forced inhale.
Livio laughs, bright and surprised, if not a bit manic. No wonder, really, considering he found his long dead big brother had crawled himself out of his grave and was now trying to cough up a damn lung and kill himself again . Anyone would be a bit insane at that, he’d imagine. “That’s the first thing you,” His voice is unbearably thick, making guilt once again build up under his skin, “That’s– okay, okay, what the hell–” He can practically feel how he shifts the big questions back into the corner of his brain – probably letting Razlo keep them safe (he’s probably thrilled to have something to chew on while Livio deals with unearthing the dead), and how he steels himself towards helping Wolfwood out of his… predicament before he sits out here and freezes. “What do you need, what do you need, okay–” He starts scrambling, getting his hands dirty as he drags more of the clay away from him, making the hole even bigger. He takes stock of his situation rather quickly, eyes dragging over the scanty belongings that he’d tossed up on the surface of the ground, the fact that Wolfwood is fuckin’ naked with only a sheet, the filth clinging to every inch of skin he can see. He reaches out an arm, ignoring the lance of pain that shoots down his nerves, travelling to his spine and making him bite back a pained cry. He grasps his poncho, pulling at it even as his muscles protest.
“Dumbass,” He croaks, pausing to spit up a wad of reddish gunk that has both of them stiffening, “Fuckin’,” His fingers ache where they clutch the fabric, “ Water, Christ–” The words are rushed as he doubles over again, finally gagging for the first time. His entire body roils with it, and this time he’s unable to bite back the high-pitched noise that climbs out of his throat and only serves to make his throat burn even more. He can’t even keep his eyes open anymore, too agonized to try pretending. Livio jumps into action, detaching himself and brushing off the clumps of sand, eyes wide, breath fast. Without any preamble, he rushes over to the house he had been about to enter, the door unlocking with a small click that is barely heard over his guts trying to revert themselves. It feels like an eternity before he comes back out, a jug of water in his hands, sloshing around as his footfall echoes. Realistically, he knows that’s just his perception going wonky – but with how frantic his movements are, he wouldn’t question if he somehow figured out how to make it happen.
Livio crouches down, quickly uncapping the glass jug, holding it forward. “Drink it slow, don’t–” Wolfwood relishes in the cooling effect it immediately has on him, hands shaking as he grasps the sides of it, “Don’t overdo it– Nico!” He leans back, taking a harsh inhale before running his throat threadbare once more. The balm the water gave him leaves just as quickly – but he needs more of it before he can even think about getting out of the hole. When he reaches for the jug next, he tries to be slower, and manages to drink this time without it going down the wrong pipe. Once he feels like he can survive the next five minutes without almost drowning himself, he redirects his attention to taking stock of his body. The pins and needles are practically all gone. His legs are mostly free – a lot of the packed clay having been jostled loose from his desperate reflexes.
“You try bein’ buried for–” He curses under his breath, leaning back, staring up at the sky. The moons look back down at him, almost emotionless if not for the light they bathe him in. “How long’s it been?” It’s a genuine question, one he’s not sure he’s ready for the answer to yet. Livio doesn’t give him an answer immediately, leaving him hanging, the first embers of something other than the need to survive igniting in his chest, aching. It’s like he’s back before, watching him stay by Chapel’s side, mouthing off at his heels when he tried to knock him out of their bullshit – like he’s just waiting for the safety to click off. Considering the little graveyard built around his own damn coffin, he’s too afraid it’s been longer than he would prefer it – though that asks the question – what would he prefer? “Where’s–” He licks his lips, swallows thickly, “Where’s the old man?”
He’s brought back into the present when he feels arms hook underneath his armpits, pulling him back gently – but as firm as you can get. He twitches a little in his hold, holding his tongue. He can’t gripe at the kid five minutes after crawling out of his damn grave; especially for somethin’ so simple as helping him out of the thing. It doesn’t stop the complaints from grumbling up in his throat anyway, just keeps his mouth from yapping. Melanie did try to raise him with manners, even when he snuck behind her back to smoke and do other mindless shit. Didn’t keep him from bein’ a damn killer either, but that’s not her fault really. Who knows if Livio told her about the Eye; if they’re even still around. Hopefully with Chapel gone, Hopeland’s off their radar, abandoned into the outskirts of December like it was supposed to be.
That thought does give him a certain restless giddiness, building in his chest – he’s dead, ain’t he? Went out pissed as hell, betrayed a million times over. He knows he’s down there somewhere, knows that despite the cozy emptiness Wolfwood was in for the past however-long-it-was, he knows Chapel’s down there, burnin’ his ugly beard off. A sharp laugh leaves his mouth, more a bark than anything, leaving Livio to pause where he’s finally got him mostly out of the hole, leaning on the side where he’d clawed his fingers raw. It’s like an old wound aching, stinging with new movement, the hurt only a reminder of how far he’s come from being “adopted” out, being shoved into cold rooms and uncomfortable clothes, a heavy gun in his hands and a tight grip on his shoulder. It’s a twinge, a muscle pulling, straps digging into his skin, the burn of vapors and serums entering his body still there if he thinks hard enough. He could still imagine Chapel’s look on his face when he shot him – too low down to be lethal, but Wolfwood didn’t want to stick around to check. It was a frantically thought out event, days spent picturing him whenever he shot a target, yet when he actually did it, he couldn’t believe what he’d done until blood was pooling on concrete, until his legs were carrying him away, bearing a new suit and a new name, keeping an ear along the grapevine for when Chapel would be required.
The loss of everything he’d known before that day hurt – oh it hurt. It was a knife buried into his ribs, coated with god knows what, but it’s like his skin is being scorched still; it twisted, pulling and wrenching at his flesh, jagged and cruel. Even when the knife was gone, the blood would still seep out, the scar would still be marring his flesh, his skin would still pull and pinch from the hardened tissue. He didn’t know if he would ever get back–
But Chapel was dead. And he hoped, prayed, begged , that it fucking hurt. That he broiled in his own anger, that he was scalded by the fact that the life he’d ruined had come back to get their penance. Wolfwood hadn’t wanted to kill him, at the end – but he knew that Chapel would have stopped at nothing to hurt him, his crazed possession over him becoming even more deadly as it festered. In the end, he didn’t pull the trigger; wasn’t that awful? He wanted to make a point, wanted his blood to boil, seeing Wolfwood refuse to be a killer, wanted the anger that would undoubtedly make him sloppy – enough for him to slip up somewhere – which he did. He did and he died , all his threats falling apart as his heart slowed to a stop, leaving the world with an unjustified rage in his veins, rage that had no sense being allowed to continue, rage that anyone would dare to go against him. No children would be hurt just because Wolfwood betrayed him, none of his loved ones would suffer just because they knew him – and thus committed the greatest sin of living peacefully (or as close as you got in No Man’s Land.) The man had dug his own grave the second he decided Hopeland was going to be his source of all of his adoptees . If not Wolfwood, some other kid would have hopefully splintered under his thumb – and they would have dug it in deep enough to hit bone, to have him seething and angry so it would be easier for them to squeeze his heart until muscle and tissue split apart, until he was a lifeless sack on the ground, waiting for buzzards and strays to feast on him until his bones were stripped clean, scratches and teeth marks engraved into them until they rotted.
It does have him thinking, as Livio finally hauls him fully up, his legs giving out the second he’s standing, leaning entirely on him, the burning of pins and needles returning, almost enough to have him shouting in frustration. What happened that day? How did it end? He knows he got buried, and assumedly the world didn’t end – Knives didn’t succeed – but where did that leave him? Was Chapel buried? Were the insurance girls all right? Home and their people, all saving the kids and keeping them from seeing his final moments? Vash? Livio was here at least, so one question was more or less answered – the middle part was just fuzzy and unknown, and for now that was fine, at least until he could walk on his own without falling apart like a newborn fawn again.
“Y’never answered my,” He sucks in a sharp breath when his foot catches on one of the graves, a sharp, bright shock racing up his leg, “My questions. ” The last two words are wheezed out, but he manages alright anyway. Livio doesn’t answer for a moment, just hefts him out of the graveyard, more carrying him than anything. He knows he’s trying to be gentle, trying to keep him even, steady, but each movement brings a new aching pain to the forefront of his mind, his stomach roiling with how empty it is apart from the water.
“I don’t really know, actually.” He says, muted. It’s clear he’s avoidin’ half of it, but he can give him a pass just this once. Wolfwood sighs, leans his head up against his shoulder.
“Good enough–”
“I think Zazie might’ve eaten him, though.” He’s got a hint of a smile on his face, a bewildered laugh itching at the back of his throat, audible in his voice. Wolfwood, however, does bark out a laugh, sharp and jabbing, his lungs spasming after the sharp noise. Livio shifts him again, enough to pat his back gently as they walk. “Don’t actually know, though. Could’ve been lying.”
“What’d they say to make you think it?”
“Left a card in one of the Punisher’s straps, talkin’ ‘bout how the old master had been irritating them at the end.” He finally gets to the door of the side house, moving his hands around to get the key in the lock, twisting and turning until it clicks and he manages to swing the door open. “Said that they didn’t like how he acted all pompous, and well–” He tugs and pulls, as gently as he can, Wolfwood slowly but surely getting over the small lip, “They also said that if he wasn’t goin’ to be usin’ his body anymore, it might as well go somewhere useful if we weren’t goin’ through with buryin’ him.”
“Christ alive.” He wheezes out, his ribs pushing in, crushing him as he jostles through the entryway. Or, not quite an entryway , as it just opens straight into a great room, only a couple doors on the back wall to show that it had more to it than just this room. Wait. Wait. “V’sh didn’t bury ‘im?” He buried everyone, he tucked them all away, irritatingly enough, and then gave a small mixed-faith prayer if he had time. So, wouldn’t…? His head swam with blood and misery-inducing pains, unable to keep up fully, everything too damn dizzying and confusing.
“Well–” Livio grunts, bypassing all of the furniture to lodge one of the doors open, “I think Razlo kind of wanted to, but then I was out and I was,” He pauses to bring Wolfwood into the new room – a bathroom by the looks of it, thankfully not plastered fully white, a nice pale yellow meeting his tired eyes, “A bit preoccupied, and when I woke up he wasn’t there anymore, so I just thought Vash had taken care of it, but then we got the letter from Zazie.” The information has his head spinning, but finally Livio sets him down on a chair, reaching over for the faucet for the tub, turning the knob and filling the room with the sound of it filling. It’s a good white noise – even as his ears throb with it. He wishes he could string together a thought, coherent, but since getting jostled out of the grave, it’s been so damn hard to keep his wits about him. He pulls the sheet tighter around him, trying to retain any warmth he can get while Livio fusses around the tub. Soon enough, it’s filled – when did that happen? He just turned the tap on, didn’t he? Livio sets a hand in, nodding matter-of-factly. “C’mon, the bath will help,” He says, motioning him closer.
He nods, lifting a foot after another. It’s awful, how weak he feels, how much he shakes, the unsteadiness as he steps into the warm water – and oh , isn’t that a dream? He quickly sheds the sheet, leaving it on the back of the chair, eager to be less at the mercy of the cold No Man’s Land night. Once he’s submerged, he relaxes, feeling how all his muscles and bones unclench, thawing into the eucalyptus scented bath. With the relief comes a clearing of his head, bringing back words he wanted to say earlier. He looks up at Livio, finally able to see him again without seeing triple, his little brother now fully grown and worrying over the soaps in the cabinets. “How’s you ‘n Razlo then?” He asks, sinking a little deeper into the warmth. Livio jolts a little – bringing back with him a toothbrush, comb, and washcloth. He sets them all on the chair next to the bath, obviously waiting for Wolfwood’s choice.
“We’re uh–” He hems and haws, turning back around to sort through a shelf over next to the sink, full of toiletries and such, bringing back a clean towel and laying it across the back of the chair, “He’s better now that he’s got a healthier outlet, you know? Now that he’s not– that we aren’t gettin’ pitted against each other.”
“That's good.” He says, and he means it. He reaches for the washcloth, plops it down into the water, watches it soak up the liquid. “Glad you have ‘im.” Livio shuffles around, unsure of what to do with his hands, how to keep himself busy. Wolfwood picks back up the washcloth, sudzing it up with a bar of soap, the thick scent of artificial fruit filling his nostrils. “Y’have someone lookin’ after you, at least.” He starts the arduous trek of cleaning himself, massaging and scratching at his skin, sinew, and muscles through the washcloth, the water getting steadily more muddy as he goes. It’s only when he gets to his hair, letting his head fall back into the water, his eyes closed, that he feels a nagging suspicion that he’s being looked at. He cracks open an eye, finding Livio over by the door with a fresh change of clothes, a miffed expression on his face. “Who pissed in yer cereal?”
He crosses the threshold, plopping the clothes down unceremoniously, before turning back to Wolfwood – rapidly bending down before he can think. His hands get caught up in his hair, dislodging wads of clay as he splutters under the harsh treatment, splashing water onto him in an effort to get him to quit bein’ a jackass to no avail. “I don’t need someone lookin’ after me–” He grumbles, detangling and tugging at the hairs, “I look after myself, y’know.”
“ Quit tryin’ to drown me, will ya?” His words are half muffled by the water he keeps fighting against, hands coming up to grasp at Livio’s own – uncaring if he scratches.
“I’m just tryin’ to get the clay out of yer hair!” He gripes, almost uncaring for his plight – though he does ease up a little, making it much easier for him to keep his head steady while he fixes his hair up, lobbing the clay into a dish he’d set out earlier when Wolfwood wasn’t paying attention. “Like I was sayin’,” He says pointedly, “I’m not a baby anymore. Raz stuck up and looked after me when I needed it, for better or worse, but I can do it myself now perfectly fine.” Wolfwood lets him take care of his rats nest of a bed-head, closing his eyes again to let the words fully sink into his skull. It’s hard. It’s ridiculous. It’s like he’s stumbling around again after the first round of experiments, unfamiliar with the limbs he now holds. The loss from earlier rears its ugly mug, leaving him feeling worse – like he hadn’t just clawed himself from the grave, but also got run over by a damn truck, eaten alive by vultures from back on earth, torn apart bit by bit. Now, he’s just grasping himself together, and the lack of oxygen in his lungs, the lack of a pulse – it’s only sinking in again.
Livio used to be so stupidly small. He used to be too nervous to reach out for shit. He used to look at Wolfwood with such a bewildered, pitiable expression, and Wolfwood chewed him out every time, but still guided him when he could. Then he vanished, after something that had been unexplainable at the time – and soon after, Wolfwood was taken away in the fancy car. Then, he couldn’t afford to remember, to look too closely, keeping all of his closest secrets guarded as can be.
Now he’s got his too big, callused hands pulling clay from his hair, and he practically carried him into the damn house. His hair is no longer all done up with shaved sides, hanging long like it used to sometimes when he was little. He’s a damn brick shithouse too – cutting a downright scary shadow in the middle of the night. It’s fucked up, is what it is. “Stop thinkin’ so loud.” He mutters, flicking him in the forehead, causing a ricochet of mind-numbing pain to shock through his system. He jolts without thinking, water getting tossed everywhere as he sits up with a yelp, his hands coming up to hold his head still. “Shit–” He says through his teeth, keeping a hand on his back but reaching around for something with his other. “Sorry, sorry,” He whispers, the gesture only leaving Wolfwood to wince and grimace through the searing, pulsing pain running through his head. He attempts to open his eyes, quickly closing them again when his entire world spins on its head.
“ Aleéshte –” He hisses, tears slipping from his eyes as his ribs feel like they’re about to cave in, “ Fuck–” His stomach roils, a gag building only a second before he’s leaning over the side of the tub, hacking and heaving up an awful mix of burning bile and water. At least this time there’s nothin’ red or brown coming up. His eyes sting as he tries to open them blearily, shivers wracking through his body as his wet back gets exposed to the chilly air.
“Okay–” Livio’s voice is only vaguely audible over the blood rushing through his ears, but he notices the absence of his hand near him, “Hold on, just,” There’s the sound of clamoring, and then almost terrifying silence. His head hangs, his limbs all aching again after their fresh jostling. He becomes aware of water dripping from his hair and arms onto the floor, his gagging finally coming to a slow end. The stench of bile mixes with the soap still hanging in the air, leaving him wishing he lost his sense of smell. His stomach still spasms despite it all, and his head still pounds and feels much like he’s balancing a jug of gone off milk on his shoulders. His breathing is ragged, deafening in the small bathroom. He risks opening his eyes again and immediately shuts them when another wave of nausea rocks through him. It’s a long, awful moment before Livio returns, setting a few things onto the chair. “Nicholas, is it any better?” He asks. It takes too long for him to muster up anything beyond a low groan – and Livio seems to understand this fully. “Biikáa , let me help, please.” He sounds at his wits end, and Wolfwood feels a cold drop of shame settle in his chest – but he tries to not flinch when Livio helps him out of the bath, the slight shiver turning into a full-body ordeal. He gets pat dry with one of the softest damn towels he’s ever felt, his skin burning despite how the fabric feels. It’s damn mortifying, but he can’t find it in himself to care – he’s too busy trying to be able to keep his eyes open without immediately wanting to be sick all over again. Before long, he helps him into a too-big bathrobe, tying it in the front and guiding him back out into the main room as slow as he can go. He sets him down onto a plush armchair once he’s able to, fussing and buzzing around.
The first words Wolfwood can get out are mumbled, slurred around the stale taste in his mouth. “S’rry ‘bout the bath.” He clears his throat, trying and failing to hold back how it makes his head ache worse, “It w’s good ‘til it wasn’t.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Livio says – somewhere off to the left of him. “We’re gonna try gettin’ you settled again before we get you back in there.” There’s an apology in his voice still, tangible enough to Wolfwood to visualize his hunched shoulders in his mind. He wants to tell him it’s not his fault, but – he can’t rightly say that now. He’s so, so used to lyin’, whether by omission or just lyin’ to someone’s face, a redirection even – and yet he can’t even dredge up anything to make him feel any better. “Maybe get you some epsom salt too, while we’re at it.”
Wolfwood winces, curling and uncurling his fingers where they crumple up the robe. “Shit’s expens’ve.”
“The plant down the road don’t mind any.” And all at once, he’s hearing footfall approach the chair again. “Got you a cup of tea.”
His expression crumples up like a can. “Don’t like tea.”
Livio sets something down on the table next to him, sharp noise dulled by some kind of cloth. “It’s got honey and lemon in it.” He tries to open an eye again, finding Livio stirring the little mug (misshapen, clearly made by little hands) with a small wooden spoon, being careful not to hit the sides too much. Seeing his eye open, he beams (still with an undercurrent of regret and shame – something that he’ll have to talk to him about later) and picks back up the mug, holding it out. Wolfwood inhales, preparing himself for whatever may happen – and his hands wrap around the mug, the warmth soothing an ache in those muscles at least. Bringing the tea around, he inspects it a little – it looks to be a kind of black tea, what clearly was once a couple dried lemon slices drifting on top of the liquid. He sniffs it, letting the familiarity simmer into his skin.
“When didja get started on this?” He mumbles, staring down into his reflection. He’s deathly pale – ha – and looks too damn miserable to stand. He glances up, only to find him back at the kitchenette, filling up a little jar and picking up another one, mismatched. “S’that for?”
“Rinsin’ yer mouth.” Ah. Would probably be nasty if he just drank it now, huh? He sets the mug back down, waiting patiently for him to bring over the two jars. He sniffles, his other eye slowly coming open, his muscles tensing in case it makes his mind turn into goo again. The light in the room thankfully only comes from the kitchenette and a floor lamp off by the couch across from him, not hitting him when he’s down by blinding him. There’s a big blanket laid out across the thing, fringe lining the edges and draping off the sides. The jars enter his vision and he makes quick work of getting the lingering burn out, the task monotonous and easy to do. Once he’s good for now, Livio takes the jars back to the kitchen, and the sound of him washing them both fills his ears with a pleasant white noise. “While you sip on that, I’ll fix up the bathroom ‘n the kids’ presents, alright?” He calls, trying to be as quiet as he can, yet still be heard from across the room and over running water. Wolfwood rolls his eyes as a reflex and feels the dull throb double up again. Christ alive.
“Don’t need my p’rmission.” It's more than a little catty, but Livio at least thinks it’s a bit funny, if the small laugh is anything to go by. “S’that what ya were comin’ out to do?” The train of thought has him wanting to curl away – like it’ll break everything if he mentions how he interrupted their plans, how he’s taking up time away from the kids’ needs. He doesn’t even know how he’s back, but he’s too frazzled to care for now; it seems Livio is as well, by the looks of it.
“Yeah, just putting the final touches on their Christmas gifts.” Wolfwood hums, picking the mug back up and stirring it slowly, carefully. Christmas time, huh. He could’ve come back at worse times, he guesses. It at least explains how strangely silent it felt, how it felt like he was intruding. Missed his birthday too, then. “And once yer feelin’ alright, Miss Melanie will want to see you, so,” The running water stops, abrupt.
“Miss Melanie?” He says, bringing the lip of the mug up to his mouth. The tea burns his tongue a little bit – but it does soothe something that had been loose for… a while. He can’t even pinpoint when it came loose, just that when it gets plucked back into place, it feels strangely empty for a moment.
“Then, once the holidays are over, we can try figurin’ out why yer back,” Livio pauses, voice stretching from assumedly the bathroom. Wolfwood sighs, leaning his head back, going over the ceiling ten times over, desperate, as if the answer would just plop down in his lap if he just stares hard enough.
“Couldn’t we just ignore it?” There’s some bustling noise from the other room. Wolfwood lets everything wash over him, lets himself melt into the armchair more than a little bit. For the moment, he indulges in the stillness, breathing in the aroma, his lungs aching just a little less than prior. Resting would help, and it's not like he can do anything at the current moment, but it still sits on the back burner in his brain – the urge of needing to do something. He drums his fingers along the mug, feeling the texture underneath his nerves. It’s a really chunky looking mug, tiny patterns of misshapen birds scattered around the pink-ish orange glaze.
Livio’s face pops into his peripheral, hair now tied back into a low ponytail, eyebrows furrowed. He’s got a wad of fabric in his arms, setting it down into his lap. “Nope.” The blanket – a woven piece of work, in blues and greens and yellows, striped all the way down – unfolds a little with the movement. “Just rest right now, okay?”
And he could do that, for now.