'We all do it,' was what he needed to hear more than anything.
And the hugging - he needed that, too.
With the two strangers having cleared out, and Nightwing there being all supportive and Cassie hugging him, he couldn't hold it back any longer, and quite frankly, he didn't entirely want to. He felt like something ugly was trying to claw its way out from inside of him and that crying it out was a less violent way for it to escape than letting it tear apart his insides.
So the shaking turned to weeping, and the leaning turned to clinging, as he hugged Cassie back. Cassie had never exactly been a cuddly person while he was on the team, but she had been fiercely protective and if he couldn't have protective hugs from his mother, Traci, or Brenda, this was definitely not a bad runner up.
The crying was not pretty crying. It was definitely ugly crying. Snotty, soggy, hyperventilating, hard enough that if his pain wasn't being suppressed, it would have made his body ache.
He had a lot to cry about. He cried for himself, for his own fear, for his own terrifying not-death and the pain he'd gone through and how close things had come to his family losing him. He cried for the scarab, knowing his friend had felt him slip away. He could still feel the lingering knife's edge of worry and concern and disturbed anger it had caused Khaji Da, as if they were his own. He cried for the people he'd never even had a chance to save: the little kids propped up with wire, the parts that had once made whole people, the woman whose hand he'd stepped on that still had its wedding band.
And he cried for the wife or husband out there that'd lost her. With that many people dead, how many other people out there had lost them? Mothers and fathers and sons and daughters and sisters and brothers? Just like his parents had worried and grieved when he'd disappeared, preparing for the worst but hoping against hope he'd show up alive, the families of those people had probably gone through the same thing. Only they wouldn't come home like he did.
He knew what it did to a family to lose someone and in his family's case, they'd been lucky enough to get him back, but now for the loved ones of those people, there'd be a hole in their lives that'd never get filled, a pain that would never truly go away - especially when they found out how horrifically and tortuously their loved ones had died.
He couldn't stop picturing his mother and the way she would've wept and broken down if he'd gone missing for a year and then in the end she found out he was some stuffed sick doll propped up with wire.
So he cried. For quite a while.
Then finally the flash flood started to ebb down to a trickle, and the body-shaking sobs stopped, and he just leaned his head against Cassie's shoulder, sniffling, finally getting it under control but not quite ready to lose the contact yet.
"I think I snotted on your shirt," he said bashfully. "Sorry."
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And the hugging - he needed that, too.
With the two strangers having cleared out, and Nightwing there being all supportive and Cassie hugging him, he couldn't hold it back any longer, and quite frankly, he didn't entirely want to. He felt like something ugly was trying to claw its way out from inside of him and that crying it out was a less violent way for it to escape than letting it tear apart his insides.
So the shaking turned to weeping, and the leaning turned to clinging, as he hugged Cassie back. Cassie had never exactly been a cuddly person while he was on the team, but she had been fiercely protective and if he couldn't have protective hugs from his mother, Traci, or Brenda, this was definitely not a bad runner up.
The crying was not pretty crying. It was definitely ugly crying. Snotty, soggy, hyperventilating, hard enough that if his pain wasn't being suppressed, it would have made his body ache.
He had a lot to cry about. He cried for himself, for his own fear, for his own terrifying not-death and the pain he'd gone through and how close things had come to his family losing him. He cried for the scarab, knowing his friend had felt him slip away. He could still feel the lingering knife's edge of worry and concern and disturbed anger it had caused Khaji Da, as if they were his own. He cried for the people he'd never even had a chance to save: the little kids propped up with wire, the parts that had once made whole people, the woman whose hand he'd stepped on that still had its wedding band.
And he cried for the wife or husband out there that'd lost her. With that many people dead, how many other people out there had lost them? Mothers and fathers and sons and daughters and sisters and brothers? Just like his parents had worried and grieved when he'd disappeared, preparing for the worst but hoping against hope he'd show up alive, the families of those people had probably gone through the same thing. Only they wouldn't come home like he did.
He knew what it did to a family to lose someone and in his family's case, they'd been lucky enough to get him back, but now for the loved ones of those people, there'd be a hole in their lives that'd never get filled, a pain that would never truly go away - especially when they found out how horrifically and tortuously their loved ones had died.
He couldn't stop picturing his mother and the way she would've wept and broken down if he'd gone missing for a year and then in the end she found out he was some stuffed sick doll propped up with wire.
So he cried. For quite a while.
Then finally the flash flood started to ebb down to a trickle, and the body-shaking sobs stopped, and he just leaned his head against Cassie's shoulder, sniffling, finally getting it under control but not quite ready to lose the contact yet.
"I think I snotted on your shirt," he said bashfully. "Sorry."