His lips turn down visibly at trash and toxic slime, a vaguely grossed-out expression he doesn't even realize he's making. It's automatic, instinct, because somehow despite being a hunter that gets routinely covered in blood and viscera, he's still kind of a little bit of a germophobe. The word slime makes his fingers twitch subconsciously, and he absently wipes them on the fabric of his swimsuit like he's wiping away the imaginary sensation of touching it.

Gross. Why did he agree to do this again?

Oh yeah, because he ran around like a jackass for several months, and he's trying to make up for it. Ugh. Stupid community service.

"Unfortunately, I left my aquatic backhoe in my other onesie pockets back home, so let's maybe just stick to doing this the old-fashioned way." Some things can just be tools and hands. "I'll clear off the rocks, you plant the thing, we pack it in with sediment?"