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He knows it’s wrong. No, scratch that. He knows there’s an immeasurable amount of wrong, and he’s barely threading water in it. And yet, he finds himself drawn to the chain-link fence, to stepping over it and sinking into the ground in front of the modest headstone, again and again.
He knows he shouldn’t, in the same way that he knows he shouldn’t lean over the bed, retching and counting every nick littering his body—reminding himself that each tiny cut represents a thousand lives, and the curling sneer of a reminder on his cheek caps off them all.
You can’t do a job like Cecil’s and not hate yourself to some degree.
There’s a grave, Cecil had said. Not that any of you would want to visit, he’d added. What he didn’t say is that he knew it was there because he’d stood in front of it, crouched down, his fingers ghosting against the name ensconced in history.
Nolan always joked that Cecil was married to his work. He’d always ruffle what remained of Cecil’s hair, a bottle of expensive liquor shared between them that was only hitting Cecil, and Nolan would say that Cecil was the someone who made the hard choices to do what was right—and he’d make it sound like he admired him.
Like Nolan—Omni-Man—respected Cecil Stedman. And for a moment in time, Omni-Man had Cecil Stedman fooled, hook, line, and sinker. Throw it in the fucking fire. The world doesn’t know that Cecil exists, and they won’t know when he’s gone—and they won’t know how his body is littered with everything he didn’t manage to save, that he’s shaped much more of their world than they’d like to think for a nameless greying head, balding on top.
The dirt is soft, staining his knees, and he knows that he must keep doing what’s right without losing his humanity—he knows he must keep his memories tucked securely against his chest, locked up and swallowing the key. He doesn’t want to believe that Nolan took a part of him into space, even if he knows it to be true.
He lets Mark go, even if he knows it’s against his directive—he lets him go because he sees Nolan’s smile in his eyes, and he can barely look at him. He lets him go because Mark’s just a kid who hasn’t chosen any of this shit, because that Cecil gave himself a kink in his back, leaning over Mark’s bed as he flittered in and out of consciousness, wondering how he’d come to this.
And now he’s in front of Nolan’s grave again, because he doesn’t know what’s better than liaising with your old friend. If he has questions about Mark, who’s the best person to ask? The boy’s own father, or at least the grave of Cecil’s memory of Nolan.
He asks about his choices, about whether they were the right ones even if Cecil has always known that if he lives a legacy either vilified or completely unknown, then that’s all right by him. If the world’s in a better place because of it, because of his choice—the sacrifice he refuses to name—so be it. Cecil will always do what has to be done.
Always.
They’re mortals protecting their planet from what are gods compared to them, you don’t win by playing nice. Cecil knows this. He’s always known.