#I had planned to do some modern ghost Nadia content as a follow up to this but now its the end of the month and here we are...

[wishing4nuclearwinter]

O Grave, Where Is Thy Victory?

Whumptober 28 — Anger Born of Worry | Punching the Wall | Headache [ft. Nadia and Varmint modern AU]

Warnings: corpse description, death, religious themes

AO3 link

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?

The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law.

The pew groans something woeful as Varmint leans back. He drapes an arm over the hard wooden back, his casual display betrayed only by the other hand balled white-knuckled in his lap. 

There is no one to witness it anyway. He’s tucked himself away in the furthest corner, emergency exit sign haloed above his head. 

At the front of the sanctuary, a preacher who looks too young for the silver marking his hairline blathers on. He seems earnest, maybe overly so, but his somber tone is the first thing that hasn’t felt like a mockery since Varmint stepped over the threshold. 

He wonders if he knew her or if it’s merely the weight of it all that hangs on his words. 

“— cannot understand why Nadia was taken so young, but we need only place our trust in the Lord’s divine plan—”

Every syllable clangs in his ears, driving nails through his skull. He’s beginning to regret leaving his sunglasses in the car with his suit jacket, even if they might have drawn attention to the less than concealed hangover. But it’s easier to forgive red puffy eyes among a crying crowd and Nadia’s father doesn’t need another excuse to forcibly remove him.

As it stands, Zachariah’s mediation is all that has held him at bay. 

“I invited them, Dad, don’t make a scene. They have as much right to be here as anyone else.”

Varmint had had to bite his tongue, offering a smile somewhere between apologetic and sheepish. He has far more of a right to be here than most of these bastards.

Somebody several rows ahead coughs. The preacher’s microphone whines quietly as he shuffles the papers on the pulpit. 

Squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to calm the heartbeat echoing behind them, Varmint misses her father’s introduction. He misses the eulogy that comes after it more purposefully. 

Her mother and sister follow, giving what was meant to be a joint speech. Her sister can’t get more than a sentence and a babbled apology out before breaking down. She’s all but sobbing on stage while her mother speaks for the both of them. 

A prickling, diluted pain drags over Varmint’s knuckles as last night’s scabs split open. He imagines the cruelty of mourning for the little sister she’d turned out onto the winter streets. He imagines the small wells of blood on his knuckles smearing with the fat tears running down her rosy cheeks.

Clenching his jaw, he wrestles down the lump in his throat. Nadia had once said his anger was ugly. That hers was too. She said that’s what happens when you neglect it. She would have been pissed at the fist shaped hole he’d left in their living room wall. 

As much as he willed it, he couldn’t be better for her any more than she could for him. 

It doesn’t matter now. 

Zachariah is the last of the family to be called up. He looks wrong, signature tan blazer replaced with starched formal wear and greased hair slicked flat against his head. The facade can’t disguise the bags beneath his eyes nor the blonde roots beginning to peek out beneath jet black dye as he so rarely allows them to. He dutifully plays the part of the mourning big brother.

It’s genuine. 

Varmint’s chest aches. 

“I, uh, didn’t prepare any kind of speech.” His gaze splits through the small audience, distant and unfocused. “I think she’d try and haunt me if I stood up here gettin’ all teary eyed.” He cracks a grin and nobody laughs. 

“When she was a kid we’d drive out into the desert at night with a bunch of old CDs and just…” the hesitation carries something unspoken, like if he shares those moments aloud they’ll lose their holiness. Varmint knows them only by Nadia’s own stories. 

“…We’d just listen. This is from one of them.”

He locks eyes with Varmint from across the sanctuary for the briefest second before moving to the grand piano perched at the edge of the stage. It’s a tune he’s heard, faster and more animated than any traditional hymn, though Zach’s croon is no less mournful. 

Seven lonely days and a dozen towns ago

I reached out one night and you were gone

Don't know why you'd run, what you're running to or from

All I know is I want to bring you home

As he sings, Varmint finally finds himself unfurling. The hand in his lap opens to cradle the tiny silver cross it has hidden since the viewing. He’d gotten a moment alone with her at least, though he struggles to call the desecrated corpse they displayed Nadia Loving, regardless of the name engraved into the plaque.

The dress they’ve sewn her into certainly wasn’t hers, nor were the dainty earrings they’ve replaced her studs with. Layers of makeup corrected her more masculine features and covered her tattoos— Varmint tries not to imagine the fatal injuries they hid. The overly thick blush against her pale skin was almost clownish. 

She looked like her mother.

Varmint wonders if the family feels victorious, finally presenting to the world the daughter and sister they’d always wanted. 

Was it worth it?

There was a hint of smugness in the lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke they’d failed to fully cover even under the embalming chemicals and perfume. 

They’d left her necklace on her, the one she’d worn everyday since childhood. The thought of it being buried with that unrecognizable shadow of herself had discomfort burrowing under Varmint’s skin.

When no one was looking he’d ripped it off of her. 

It’s sweaty in his palm and he’ll have to replace the broken clasp, but it’s more sacred than anything in this church. 

As the last three ivory chords are drawn out the room rings in silence. He finally notices the threat of hot unfallen tears at the edges of his vision. Forcibly blinking them away, he slides the necklace into his pocket so that he may take her home.

Now is not the time or place to mourn; not for him and not for her. 

Varmint rises as quietly as he can and slips out the back door.