Archive of Our Own

“Hey, Wolfwood, what’s the D stand for in your name? Nicholas D. Wolfwood?”

The question hit him in a heated fashion as Wolfwood glared towards the sun, running a shaking hand through sweat-soaked hair. He sighed loudly as he pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his jacket, pausing momentarily to flick the lighter several times before the red flame hovered above the old metal. He inhaled, smoke filling his lungs as he continued walking, his feet dragging through the sand as Vash followed.

Wind brushed past him, barely touching his skin as the sun roasted him under dark clothing, piercing his eyes behind tented lenses, and Wolfwood exhaled. Smoke fills his vision for a second as he grips the cigarette between his teeth, his senses dulling as haze envelopes him, calming the headache pounding behind his eyes, the anxiety sitting heavily in his stomach. It was hot. So freaking hot. So nauseatingly hot. And the headache that refused to leave, refused to lessen as they continued their endless journey through the godforsaken wasteland, was pissing the gunman off.

Bandits had tried ambushing them, stopping their car with buried tire jacks and a few pistols. One slashed tire later and threats to kill them, threats to kidnap the ever-so-polite Stampede, and he was reaching for the Punisher. A smirk settled on their faces when they saw the cross, laughter followed before Wolfwood pulled back the belted sheets, and they paled. A swift move, his weapon aimed, the green lights highlighting the metal shaft as he pointed it in the face of the leader, and footsteps scattered. An easy threat, one he didn’t need to follow through as the men took off quickly, running in different directions, and Wolfwood grinned. He’d disarmed his weapon, dropping her to his side… that’s when Vash took off. And for whatever fucking reason, the gunman foolishly followed, chasing after that stupid red coat, the Punisher gripped behind him.

Taking down the six men who tried robbing them in the middle of the desert had been easy. Should have been easy. But now, they were stuck walking through the fucking heat as the sun seared their skin, trying to figure out which direction they’d come. Trying to find their way back to the ugly green Jeep, to Meryl and Roberto, to water. But that’s what Wolfwood got for letting the Humanoid Typhoon drag him through the desert as they chased after some rough-and-tough pipsqueak that even Meryl could knock down with one punch. Freaking pathetic.  

The gunman inhales again, letting smoke fill his lungs before coughing out clouds of white. He cleared his throat, swallowing as the rough noise left him dizzy, his head swimming. He clenched down on the paper stick wedged between his lips, blinking as the dark spots slowly began to evade. He needed water. He needed to stop walking. Hell, he needed somewhere to relax, to sleep, to let his ailing body cool off, or cool down, or figure out if he was going to puke or not. He needed something to lessen his headache… but they were God knows where, with no relief, no Jeep, in sight. Besides, it’s not like Wolfwood was about to voice his situation, his condition to someone, let alone Blondie. He wasn’t that pathetic. He wasn’t that weak. He sighs loudly, smoke pushing past his nostrils as Vash repeats the question.

Wolfwood snorts, peering to his left as he readjusts the Punisher on his back again, flipping her from one shoulder to the other. He glares in the blonde’s direction as he flicks ash towards the ground. He didn’t really feel like talking. Hadn’t since this morning. Since he stupidly followed after Vash. His throat felt raw, rough, thick, and forming words through his tired mind, past the pounding behind his eyes, felt like too much effort. He inhaled slowly, “Dokonokuminomonjawaresumakinishiteshizumetarokakora.”

Vash faltered before laughing loudly, “Pft. What?”

Wolfwood continued walking, kicking sand around him as he dragged the Punisher behind him, his fingers shaking slightly. He’s quiet for a while, a grin present on his lips as he lights another cigarette. His senses dulling, the sun becoming less bright, the wind less ringing, and the heat less sharp against him, as nicotine floods his mouth. Everything was starting to become a problem for him. His senses picking up again, picking up on things that he could normally shake, normally ignore, normally dull with cigarettes or alcohol or drugs… but with his body slowly trying to bring him down, it was getting harder to block out the crushing sensations. He clears his throat, “The D stands for Dangerous.”

The desert tilts sideways for a second, and the Punisher slides in Wolfwood’s hand as he sneezes. His vision wavering, the heat pressed tightly beneath his grey shirt as his headache stabs up his neck. The sun was getting to him, or maybe his memories, or maybe his nerve-endings were jacking up again… or maybe he was coming down with something. He didn’t get sick often, the last time blurred through a feverish hell at the orphanage and Livio’s tight grasp; but he still had some aspects of morality, of being human, that got to him, that reminded him he was all too weak sometimes. Vulnerable. Pathetic.

He stumbled slightly, throwing sand out in front of him as his shoe caught the ground. The desert whirling in a nauseating swirl of tans and browns, and Wolfwood bit back a wince. He lifted the Punisher against his other shoulder as he breathed through his nose lowly. He was tired. And his head was killing him; the heat that weighted against his sweaty flesh in disgustingly thick layers wasn’t helping anything either. Not to mention, he’d spent half the night curled in on himself as his stomach threatened to bring up the little food he’d managed to choke down in order to get the other three to stop asking questions, to stop eyeing his direction. He probably could have confided in them, told them he felt like shit… but that wasn’t his style, they weren’t friends, and Wolfwood wasn’t a complainer. Besides, they had enough to deal with as it was. And you can kill some fr…

“You sure you’re alright?” Vash asked, shoving his boots under the dirt, kicking up sand as he sheepishly glanced in Wolfwood’s direction. The gunman grit his teeth as he glared back, “You’ve asked me that five times in the past two hours, and for the last time, Blondie. I’m fine, so-”

“Piss off. Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. I know…”

The gunman smirks, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and throwing it to the ground, smothering it with his shoe. He coughs again, huffing the remaining smoke through dry lips, pulling the Punisher further against his back. If he were being honest, the day hadn’t started out great for him. Not that the night went well either. But at least he’d managed to sleep for a few short hours in the Jeep before the Bandits stupidly tried robbing them. At least the Jeep was nice, not that it was really any cooler than the air that sat against his skin… but it was shaded. He could sit down, stretch out slightly, or at least stretch out enough in the cramped space that felt somewhat comfy, and he could rest his head. At least he could sleep. Sleep off whatever the hell was wrong with him. Sleep off whatever the hell was getting harder and harder to hide.

Nico.

Wolfwood paused, his skin crawling as he jerked his head up. Vash smacked into him, and the gunman staggered for a second. He glanced over the desolate horizon, tightening his grip on the Punisher as stillness met him. He shivered, sweat dripping down his face as he scanned the desert. He felt like he was being watched. Followed. Mocked. Something was out there. Someone. Waiting. Stalking.

The gunman swallowed dryly, clearing his throat as he stifled another cough. His breathing hitched as ringing reached his ears, and he blinked against the sand blowing in his face. His senses were acting up again, coming in in sharp waves before fading back to a dull buzz, back to normal- well, his normal. That happened sometimes. Everything around him heightened in a metallic potency that made his body ache, sear, burn; every fiber of his messed-up being tuned to some kind of screwed frequency until he was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by everything; touch, taste, sound, smell… everything. Overwhelmed by pain that shouldn’t be there, that wasn’t supposed to be there… until he passed out. Until he was swallowed by everything around him.

But now, right now, his anxiety was forcing his mind on high alert. His fingers itching against the grasp of the Punisher. Her usually cool metal, now sweaty, slick, and warm, offering little to no comfort against tired fingers. And paranoia eating away at him, settling deep in his stomach, threatening to pull him under, threatening to…

“Wolfwood? Everything okay?”

“Shut it.”

“What? What’s wr-”

Another chill, and Wolfwood paused again, “I said stop talking, Tongari!”

Something was definitely off. Wrong. Watching them. Wolfwood gripped the Punisher tighter, his fingers curling around the small slot he used as a handle as he narrowed his eyes, searching the endless sea of dirt. He glanced towards the blonde and realized Vash seemed to feel it too; his stance stilled, his eyes scanning the horizon, his fingers hovering over his long colt holstered at his side.

The world tilted, his stomach churning, and Wolfwood swallowed against the gag forcing its way up his throat. He pressed a hand against his stomach, hunching slightly as he kept his eyes focused on the sandy hell in front of him. His head spun, his vision blurring, and he wondered momentarily if he was going to pass out. He felt weak. Sick. Hot. Exhausted. Hell, from the looks Vash and the others kept stealing his way the whole damn morning, he probably looked it too.

The ground shifted, sand running over his feet, and the gunman glanced down, confusion masking his features as he blinked sluggishly. Dirt covered his shoes, draining behind him, the ground shaking, and both gunmen turned slowly. Vash cursed loudly as Wolfwood sucked in a sharp breath as they caught sight of a giant worm breaking through the surface several hundred yards out.

Sand bled past them, pulled towards the worm as the center of gravity changed violently. Vash peered towards Wolfwood, their eyes meeting, before they both took off; Vash screaming as he glanced behind them, running wildly like he was some type of anime character; like he wasn’t the big bad Humanoid Typhoon, the Walking Disaster, the Stampede. A roar echoed over them, the ground shaking as the worm dived for the ground again, disappearing beneath hot sand. Wolfwood cursed, tripping, the Punisher falling from his hands, smacking against the sand as Vash continued running.

The gunman groaned, lifting his head as sand fell in his eyes, scraping a hand across the dirt as he watched Vash running chaotically. He smirked, chuckling slightly as the blonde stumbled before turning back towards him. His eyes met Wolfwood’s as the sand around them was drained towards the worm moving under the surface, and the gunman sat up slowly. He sneezed several times as sand flew up his nose; his stomach clenching, his head pounding, the sun beating against his skin dryly, and the ground moved again as Wolfwood grit his teeth.  

“Fuck this! Whoever tries to eat me, will have hell to pay!” Wolfwood yelled, scrambling to his feet as his hand blindly reached for the weapon lying at his side. He faltered for a second, brushing sand from his jacket, shaking it from his black hair before exhaling, gripping the Punisher tightly in his hand before spinning her on his back, across his shoulders, swinging her around. He winced as metal sliced through his fingers as he shoved them against the trigger. The Punisher hissed, her green lights humming across the bridge, warming against his skin as she started up.

Wolfwood grunted, resting her against his shoulder as his eyes scanned the blank desert, waiting, watching for the tiny puffs of sand to kick up in the distance. He smirked, his eyes narrowing as the worm resurfaced over the stupid dusty horizon; his fingers pressing against the trigger, blood seeping down his hand, bleeding against the cuff of his sleeve as he takes aim.

Nico.

A chill runs down his spine, and Wolfwood gasped as he caught movement out the corner of his eye. He whipped the Punisher to his right quickly, his fingers shaking, his balance wavering as he almost drops her, and the gunman jerks his head back down, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. The world sways, and Wolfwood gags. The ground shifts, sand rushing past him, making it difficult to walk, to stand as everything suddenly drains towards a center of gravity behind him. Something flew past the sun, the shadow cast across dirt, blocking out the light, shielding the ungodly heat from his body. Wolfwood glanced up briefly, glaring as the sun filtered through a darker lens before his stomach lurched.

The Punisher slips from his grasp as he doubles over, pressing a hand against his mouth as he takes a few shallow breaths. He shuts his eyes as the sand moves, clasping a hand against his knee as he lurches again, swallowing several times. He felt like shit. His head was killing him. His body, dizzy, uncomfortable, too warm. But there was no way he was puking in front of Blondie. No way he was puking right now.

The ground shakes again, and Wolfwood almost loses his balance as the dirt under him shifts. He opens his eyes, squinting against the bright light piercing behind his tented lenses. He lets out another shallow breath as his stomach settles and straightens his posture as the nausea passes. He shuddered, wiping the sweat painted against his face with his shoulder as he peered towards the right, where the movement had been. His eyes meet empty space, and he feels disoriented and unsteady. The desert heat rising in clear waves over the vast wasteland.

“Wolfwood! Behind you!”

Wolfwood flinched as he turned on his feet. The worm’s open mouth hanging above him. Hot disgusting breath against his body. The smell of rotting flesh. The acidic burn of black oozing salvia melting tiny holes in his black jacket. Sand rushed past him, the ground rumbling, shifting as it threatens to pull him in, threatens to bury him under the desert. Threatens to let him slip past millions and millions of tiny pieces of grains…

He cursed, instinctively reaching for the Punisher at his side, kicking her up with his foot. The metal hot in his hands, boiling against his already warm flesh, shaking slightly as he twists her under his arm. He throws the shaft of the gun over his shoulder, his fingers cutting further against solid steel as he forces the cross down. The metal clicks, lights shooting up the metallic barrel, green against black, and Wolfwood tilts as he points the heavy gun upward.

The laser rips through the sky, splitting the worm down the middle as it lunges above him. A loud screech, blood rains over him, steam rising from the barrel of the Punisher as she cools, and Wolfwood lets her fall from his grasp. She hits the sand with a solid thud, smacking against his shins as he turns, dazed and staggering as his heart slams against his chest. The world, leaning, swaying, hot, thick. He stumbles backward, losing his balance as he slams against the sand, his knees giving out and his body pulling him down as he tumbles down the small dune. He lands at the bottom of the hill with a loud groan. The sun hanging above him in a merciless brightness, his eyes burning as sand fell against his lashes. Wind rushes past him as he huffs. The desert sucked. The heat. The endless nauseating ocean of sand and dirt and rocks. The birds. The worms. The people… yeah, the desert really fucking sucked sometimes.

The gunman moved slightly, throwing his arms out on either side of him as he stared towards the cloudless sky, letting the sun roast his body as wind barely brushed past the sweat plastered against him. Wolfwood blinked several times, dust stinging his eyes as he glared at the sun. Despite the sand burning against his flesh, the dry heat eating him alive… lying down, lying still, felt better. It made his head feel better, his body, his fingers, his stomach… everything. He wasn’t as dizzy. As Disoriented.

A breeze drifted over him, and he sighed loudly as the cool air offered a temporary relief from the sweat covering his body. He glanced to his right, grimacing as his reflection met him in the huge black lifeless eye of the worm. He didn’t know these things had eyes…. Then again, he’d never really thought about it before. You pathetic wo…

Wolfwood turned his head in disgust, closing his eyes as he let the sun burn him. He didn’t want to see his reflection. He never did. Too many things rushed to the surface every time he passed his own image. Every time he saw the face he didn’t recognize, his face, his body, himself, staring back at him. He had too many nightmares that haunted him. That kept him up at night. That forced him from sleep, shivering, panicking, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. He had too many memories. Too many sins. Too many demons.

And yet, he couldn’t let himself forget. He couldn’t block it out. But… he couldn’t think about it either. Otherwise, if he stopped, if he dwelled on it, he’d probably end up like Livio with a goddamn bullet in his brain… not that he hadn’t tried. Death just didn’t take. At least, not in the way he wanted. Not in the way he’d hoped, prayed. And now, he was just too stubborn to die.

The sound of sand crunching under boots pulls him back, and Wolfwood rolls his eyes. If he had any self-pity, he’d tell Vash to just leave him here. Leave him to wallow in whatever was slowly trying to kill him from the inside out. To let the sun fry the remaining moisture against his skin. To let the intense headache eat him alive. To let himself swelter in his own dizzying misery. But self-pity was stupid. Weak. And that wasn’t really his style. Besides, he’s pretty sure the damn guy wouldn’t let him die alone. At least, not in some godforsaken desert.

Wolfwood reaches for a cigarette as he exhales slowly, “Damn, Needle-noggin, can’t a guy just roll down a sandbank without you coming-”

The gunman lifts his head towards the movement as the footsteps grew louder. Quicker. Harder. His breathing hitches, his eyes wide as he meets the gaze of Livio running towards him, his gun aimed towards his chest. Wolfwood curses, flinging a hand beside him, reaching for the Punisher, but coming up empty. He jerks his head to the left, shoving himself in a sitting position as he realizes the weapon’s gone. The world shifts, and his stomach churns violently at the movement, and the gunman glanced around, Livio still coming towards him, his weapon still aimed. Wolfwood spots the Punisher standing firmly at the top of the sandbank, and he chokes out a laugh. He should’ve known he’d be abandoned in the end. He should’ve known she’d leave him. Again.

He swings his head back towards Livio, and he sucks in a sharp breath as his eyes meet nothing but sand. He blinks, his stomach cramping, his head throbbing, his hands shaking as he looks around. The gunman swallows thickly, shuddering at the sick taste in the back of his throat and the heated air pushing past his lips in uneven breathes. He felt sick. Nauseous. Detached. Sweat sitting heavily on him, under his clothes, chilling against hot skin. Livio was gone. Or maybe he was never really here. Maybe Wolfwood’s mind was getting to him, the memories, the guilt… maybe the sun was playing tricks on his mind. Maybe he had a fever. Maybe he was slowly losing it. Maybe-

A hand grasps his shoulder, and the gunman jumps as a small yelp leaves his throat. He glances up as something looms above him. He blinks several times, trying to concentrate on the dark figure blocking out the sun. Glaring in its direction as he clenched his hands against his thighs to stop them from shaking. A second later, Vash’s face filled his vision as the blonde cautiously squatted next to him, “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was calling your name, but… you feel okay? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you freak out before.”

Wolfwood grumbled, “Yeah, well, anyone who’s seen your face in the sunlight would freak too.”

He pushed the blonde’s hand away as he ran nervous fingers through his black hair. He grimaced as he pulled his hand back, flexing his fingers as he noticed they were covered in disgusting chunks of worm, blood… sweat. Beside him, Vash made a small noise, and the gunman grit his teeth as he glanced over, annoyed. The blonde was still crouched next to him, an amused smile toying on his lips. And Wolfwood groaned loudly, “Oh, God, what is it now?”

“You’re covered in worm guts,” Vash laughed, running a hand over the back of his blonde hair as the gunman growled, “Yeah. That’s what I get for saving your ass. You know, a thank you would-”

That’s when the smell hit him, and Wolfwood gagged harshly. He turned away, his stomach lurching violently, shoving a hand in the sand next to him as he forced himself to stay sitting. As he forced himself to focus on the hot dirt beneath him versus the bile rushing up his throat. A hand pressed against his shoulder again, and the gunman shoved Vash away roughly as he pushed to his feet.

The desert tilted as Wolfwood staggered a few feet, stumbling as far away as he could before his stomach cramped again. He retched loudly, bringing a hot hand to his stomach as he doubled over. Vomit splattered across his shoes, and the gunman winced as Vash asked something behind him. He shivered, retching again as stomach acid spewed past his lips, and Wolfwood coughed. He pressed his hands against his knees as he glanced down, his black shoes sticky and wet with either the worm’s insides, or his.

He let out a shaky breath as he gags, gritting his teeth together as he breaths through the remaining nausea. His fingers tighten against his knees, and Wolfwood scowls as his eyes trace over them, concentrating on something else besides the sick feeling weighing in his stomach. His hands are fucking disgusting. Black ooze from the worm, mixed with blood and guts and whatever else had sprayed over him when he’d killed the thing, painted across them, embedded under his nails, covering them. Hell, from the smell, Wolfwood was probably dripping from head-to-toe in the nasty shit. He forced the back of his hand across his mouth as he spit and peered up, his heart skipping as he locked eyes with an 8-year-old Livio.

Nico.

Livio looked so young. Exactly how Wolfwood remembered him. As a child. Innocent. Pure. A few feet away. His sandaled toes digging into the dirt anxiously. His eyes on him, watching his movements, a feared expression plastered against pale features as he runs a thumb under the sleeve of his white shirt nervously. He looked like he was about to cry, tears sitting on his long lashes. Wolfwood swallowed hard, sweat pooling down his face, and he sputters, lurching again as he vomits more acidic bile into the sand, clenching his eyes as he wills himself to stop. This was fucking pathetic. You consider him a brother, right? Then, help the poor guy!

He listens to the wind around him, specks of dirt hitting his face, heat grazing his flesh, boiling his skin under dark clothing drenched in foul-smelling contents. This was so stupid. He was so weak. Useless. Destructive. A hawk screeches overhead, and Wolfwood opens his eyes, shoving a hand across his chin again, smearing blood, vomit, and black goo across his face. He blinks slowly, his heart pounding against his chest as he meets the open air. His breathing hitches. His brother was gone. Always and forever. Gone. And that was on him.

Wolfwood exhales forcefully, his body shaking as he pulls himself up from his hunched form, spitting towards the ground. He sways slightly, and he curses as the wasteland swirls, running a hand through his hair, pulling fingers back to find them coated with something he didn’t really want to think about. Sand dusting his hand, seeping into the cuts wrapped around his fingers, dried blood still caked down his wrist, staining the sleeve on his black jacket. He turns his hand over, inspecting it in the sunlight as his vision begins to clear. Deep sharp cuts, bleeding and small, present against tanned skin. It didn’t really hurt… nothing did. Not anymore. Then again, that was thanks to his fucked-up nerve endings. A dream come true, yes?

He swallows loudly, fishing a cigarette out of the pack in his jacket pocket, cramming it between his lips, crumpling the fragile paper between his teeth. He winced as he grasped his lighter, the nail on his thumb bending back slightly at the force; his eyes scanning the desert. Every movement, every noise, sending him on high alert, on guard, as chills washed through him. He felt wired, his senses heighted, tuned to a thousand as they scanned everything. Everywhere. This was useless. Annoying. He felt like he was being watched again. Taunted. He needed to calm down. Calm his nerves. Otherwise…

His fingers shook against the lighter, flicking it several times as he tried to get his bleeding thumb to click the metal gear. Pathetic. The lighter flicked several times, sparking then dying. Sparking then dying. Dust eating against a flame that barely lit, the open wound on his thumb gushing, and the gunman cursed loudly. He couldn’t get the lighter to click, couldn’t get his fingers to cooperate… his hands were shaking too goddamn much. His head hurt too goddamn much. 

“Wolfwood…”

Wolfwood grit his teeth as he heard footsteps behind him, realizing Vash had caught up. He cursed again, throwing his hand towards the other man’s direction, flipping him off before slinging his hand back towards the lighter, flicking it several more times. Sparking. Sparking. Sparking. Sparking. This was frustrating. Insufferable. He was a mercenary, an Executioner, a goddamn Undertaker… and he couldn’t even light a fucking cigarette.

Cool fingers grasped over the lighter around his, and Wolfwood stilled, his thumb aching against the metal gear, bleeding flesh rough and numb. He glanced up, Vash standing in front of him, his blue eyes following the urgency plastered across the gunman’s features before smiling softly. He pried the lighter from Wolfwood’s fingers carefully, a prosthetic thumb scratching over the gear, flicking the lighter as a red flame sparked before lighting. I won’t pretend to understand your love, but I pray you’ll understand ours, Nicholas.

Wolfwood leaned in, letting the solid flame burn against the crumpled cigarette before inhaling the smoke filtered through the paper stick. He let the nicotine haze wash over him, calming his nerves, the shaking in his hands slowly evading before sighing loudly, smoke pushing past his lips. He closed his eyes, stepping back, blocking out the endless desert as his senses dulled, his paranoia fading… he was starting to feel more like himself now. More… human. But even that was a fucking lie.

Because he wasn’t human, he wasn’t a person; he was a weapon… a test subject. Outshined from other kids, the other experiments, because he’d refused to give, he’d refused to break. He still had his sense of self, his mind, his determination, his fight. Most of that was thanks to Livio; the thought of seeing him again, of saving him even if it meant he’d sacrifice himself in place of his little brother. That fucking motivation. But Livio was gone now. He was dead. And Wolfwood? Well, he wasn’t really sure how much of himself he had left, because it didn’t feel like much.

He felt like he was slipping, falling from fingers that refused to grasp him, hold him. Every time he wielded the Punisher. Every time he drank the shitty vial of blue liquid so he could heal even though his mind warned him not to. Every time he painted a body in bullets or sliced through flesh. Old Drunkle had been right when he pegged Wolfwood as the type of guy who killed with a smile on his face. Because he’d done things, things he couldn’t come back from, things no one could; he’d shed so much blood it felt like he was fucking drowning sometimes. His hands stained red with the impure realization that not even the holiest water could wash him of his sins. Not even the purest person could save him. Not even Vash. Trust me. I can tell, those are the eyes of a good guy…

But that was the joke. His whole fucking life. All twelve or something-odd years of it scarred over his body, plaguing his nights with visions of the dead. No one was coming to save him. No one could. Not even God. And that was fine. Because he didn’t deserve to be saved. His Aunt had made sure he knew that from day one.

Unclean, she’d called him. A child born out of hate in a loveless marriage, a reminder… a parasite, a worm. A thing that needed to be dealt with. It was his fault his father was shot preaching in a burning church. He’d been abandoned by God the moment he took his first breath. A lost cause. And he needed to be redeemed… cleansed, or so she said. He didn’t fit among society, and instead, bore the mark of sins he couldn’t wash away; burn, drown, cut… forget. 

She’d been right. He hadn’t fit into the rest of the world. He’d been different… he’d been different than the other kids. They hadn’t wound up in the orphanage because they’d murdered their only living relative at age seven. They hadn’t punished the punisher. And when that got out, when people found out, well… turns out no one wanted to mess with a kid they thought was a monster. So, he was on his own. By himself. Which had been fine. Easier. He didn’t need anyone. He never had.

And then Livio happened. The stupid brat who was scared of everything. Who couldn’t stop crying when he got started. Who hid under the blankets when his feelings were hurt. Who cowered next to him when it stormed, and who would only sleep if Nico had slept beside him. The kid that was so damn attached to him, it made the older boy feel sick. Irritated him to no end… and yet, he’d give anything to go back. To have it back. Have him back. But in the end, Nico had done what he did best. He always did. And Wolfwood paid the price. He’s someone important to you, right!? You’ve left yourself wide open. Again…

Wolfwood exhaled, opening his eyes as everything around him dulled, and removed the cigarette from his lips briefly to flick ash towards the ground. He reached for the pack tucked in his jacket, pulling another crushed smoke from the casing, lighting the new cigarette with his old, pressing it to his lips. He let the old one burn against his fingers for a few minutes before dropping it in the dirt, smothering the flame with heel of his foot. Smoking helped some. A small high he could chase. Alcohol was better… drugs were better, but those were hard to come by these days. Hell, even a pack of cigarettes cost him.

The gunman ran a slow hand through his hair as he glanced towards Vash. His blue eyes still watching him, washing over his features behind tented orange lenses, the lighter folded gently between metal fingers. Wolfwood tsked, turning his head to look up at the Punisher, still planted firmly in the dirt, casting a shadow across his face. He ran a slow hand through his hair, pinching the bridge of his nose as pain sat heavy behind his eyes. He swallowed, touching the bottom of his glasses before turning back towards Vash.

“Hands off, Spikey,” Wolfwood grumbled, snatching the lighter from the other man’s hand, pocketing it before shoving past him towards the Punisher. He heard Vash laugh nervously and grit his teeth as he trudged up the hill, his shoes slipping in the sand, trying to grasp against limited traction. His stomach clenches as he huffs smoke past his nostrils, his fingers already itching for a new cigarette as he pushes his hands in his jacket pockets, pulling the damp fabric around him.

Wind brushes against him as the sun hangs overhead, beating down on him in unforgiving waves, drying the smell of rotting flesh and blood against moist skin. Wolfwood shudders, skipping up the hill slowly. The Punisher tilts sideways as he reaches her, and he groans inwardly as his fingers grip the makeshift handle. He struggles under the weight for a second before finding his footing, pulling her on his shoulder slowly.

She wasn’t heavy… well, she wasn’t that heavy. Wolfwood was used to the weight of the metal cross like a fucking shadow he couldn’t shake. She was always there. A gift. A curse. A sick reminder of his past. Three hundred pounds of solid metal, eight 2043 grader pistols, a laser, and the look of fear shot through faceless bodies that haunted Wolfwood’s nights. So, yeah, she was always with him… and yet, he’d never abandon her. She meant too much to him. Because she was his only saving grace. His only companion. His only salvation. The Punisher was going to help him bring down Chapel, the Eye of Michael, and all those goddamn bastards… even if it killed him. Even if it broke him. Even if it shredded the last string of humanity he had left. He was going to kill them all. You’ve somehow managed to maintain your will, your mind. How wicked…

Wolfwood sucked in a dry breath as he glanced behind him, making sure Vash was following before pressing forward, his feet barely scrapping past the copious amounts of sand. He swallowed against the roughness in his throat as he re-lit another cigarette against the previous, trading it and letting the smoking bud fall to the ground. He would’ve tried the lighter again, but his fingers hurt, burned, pain eating away at the tiny cuts and dried worm under his nails. It hadn’t hurt before. But that’s what happened. His senses coming and going. His nerve-endings all jacked up. Between puffs of smoke and the flick of a lighter.

If he was being honest, it took a lot to hurt him, physically. Bullets were more of a nagging inconvenience as they shot their way under and through his flesh. Sometimes he felt them, but most of the time he didn’t. The pain receptors in his brain were all fucked, so most of the time, he didn’t feel pain. Not like a normal person. Not when it came to wounds, to injuries, to burns. Sometimes the graze of a bullet, the slice of a knife through flesh, pierced skin, his body slamming against a solid surface… would get him, and he’d feel it. An intense ache, and nothing more. Pain was a distant memory to him most of the time.

However, sometimes… pain was too much of a companion. Laced between tensed muscles and barely audible breathes pushed past cigarette smoke that felt too sharp against his lips. Sometimes, pain was all he had. Hovering over him in agonizing dark waves, making the stupidest, most miniscule things, feel like living was impossible, unbearable… excruciating. The feeling of clothes rubbing against his skin. A piece of paper sliced across his palm. Cool sheets pressed against him. Sand brushing across his face. Water washing over scarred flesh. The light touch of someone’s fingers ghosting over him. Things that shouldn’t hurt, that logically made no sense to be painful, sometimes were. Sometimes made his skin itch, made him feel on fire, made him flinch, made him want to scream… because his body was screwed up, his brain, his nerve-endings. All thanks to his past, thanks to the experiments. The trials… a gift from the Eye of Michael.

Despite his feelings, despite his thoughts, his own mortal identity; the experiments had made him anything less than human. They’d amplified his senses. Strengthened his muscle mass… crafted a body that could take a punch, could take a beating, that wouldn’t break under pressure, that wouldn’t break. Ever. They’d killed who he once was. The kid he used to be. He’d buried Nico while they birthed Wolfwood. A weapon of mass destruction. The bringer of death. An Undertaker. A Godless priest. Or perhaps, a God without a priest, a man without hope. Without a future.

Wolfwood coughed, trying to clear his dry throat as smoke clogged his airway. He flicked the cigarette to the ground, coughing again, shoving his heel against the tiny bud as he pressed his fingers harder against the surface of the Punisher, letting the cold metal dig into his hand, into the flesh. His stomach churned, and he kicked sand up as he continued forward.

The air burned against his skin, sun pressed too tightly under clothes that were supposed to protect him, and sand caught in his throat, drying any moisture Wolfwood might have had. His head was killing him. His eyes hurt, pain embedded across his cheekbones, running over the bridge of his nose to his jaw. He’d felt like shit before the day had even started, but now, blistering under the sun, smelling like some backwoods alleyway, he felt worse.

Nico.

Wolfwood fumbled, glancing up as he kicked dust up around him, breathing slowly as the same chill from earlier returned. He clenched his fingers harder against the weapon, peering back at Vash to see if the Walking Disaster had felt it too. The blonde man stumbled slightly, digging his boots under the sand as he trudged along, following the trail of cigarettes that littered the ground. His eyes were fixed on Wolfwood, blue under orange, an unnerving expression melted on his face before he caught the gunman’s gaze, and he smiled, raising his prosthetic hand awkwardly, waving.

Wolfwood huffed, rolling his eyes towards the horizon, readjusting the Punisher as he continued. He wasn’t entirely sure they were going in the right direction nor which direction they should be going. But he’d chosen a path, and he was going to follow it. For now.

A breeze drifted over him, and he sighed loudly as the cool air offered a temporary relief from the sweat plastered against his face. It was hot. The desert was so fucking hot, and the fact that he was lugging around over three hundred pounds of armament metal, wasn’t helping. The sun wasn’t helping. It made everything feel heavier. Feel hotter. Dryer. Worse. And it was screwing with his mind.

Sand crunched under his feet, and he sneezed several times as dust flew past his face. He and the other children at the orphanage used to believe there was something living under the sand. Under the dirt, embedded and waiting to eat you whole. Swallow you. Grind your bones until there was nothing else. Until you, too, were just tiny grains of sand crunching beneath someone else’s toes. They thought the sand devoured everything. The dirt, nothing more than the lost and decaying corpses of those who couldn’t tough out the desert. But those were just childish ghost stories.

Pain flared through his wrist, and the Punisher swooned to the left momentarily as Wolfwood bit back a wince. He cleared his throat, grasping again at the weapon, readjusting her against his shoulder as the sudden ache subsided before trekking back down to his fingertips permanently, solidified, piercing, and irritating. Maybe he’d get lucky. Maybe the chemicals in his brain would readjust, replenish, or maybe his nerves would reroute… and he’d be spared the dramatic theatrics of dying. But he was never that lucky. Ever.

Odds were, it was only going to get worse. That’s the way it went… that’s how it always went. Until he found himself laid out in the sand or on some cheap bed at some dingy inn, choking down air that threatened to crash over him, sharp and heavy. Moving wouldn’t help. Touching wouldn’t help… even the accidental knocking of his fingers against the sheets, against each other, felt like torture. Felt like he was a kid again, being given another injection, another test… another whip across his chest or back with a leather belt. And there was no salvation. Nothing to take pain that shouldn’t be there. The pain of his clothes cutting at his skin. Or the sheets scolding his flesh. Or the shrieking in his ears. The air panted through a halfway open mouth as it ate away his insides, raw and bleeding. Nothing could help him then. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think… he could barely breathe. It was too painful. His senses cranked up so everything screamed at him. Blared in his direction until his ears rang and his eyes burned before his vision blurred. And he felt everything. Every. Fucking. Thing. Until he blacked out.

It was stupidly pathetic.

The wind picked up around him as he dragged the Punisher behind him, letting her trail as he reached into his jacket pocket again, pulling out another cigarette. He had a bad habit. But it didn’t matter much. He’d be dead soon. That’s why smoking six packs a day didn’t matter to him. He aged faster than a normal person. So very fast. At this rate, he’d be dead before his sixteenth birthday… or in a few years, whichever came first… whichever hadn’t already passed. He didn’t really have a great sense of time. So, he didn’t really know how old he was. He didn’t really care.

Wolfwood paused as he lit the cigarette, his fingers grating against the cold metal lighter, opening the cut on his thumb again as he willed it against the small gear forcefully several times. He held his breath, sparking the dumb thing over and over before a small red flame appeared. It was weak, barely visible, but it would do. He inhaled as he flipped the lid, flicking the lighter in the air a few times before returning it to his pocket, and continued walking.

The air was getting harder to breathe now. His vision getting harder to control. His feet getting harder to drag through thick sand. The desert sucked. Despite having a small fraction of immortality, heat could still get to him. Could still threaten to burn his insides, sucking the moisture from his body, making the air riding on white cigarette smoke, hot and weighted. And right now, it was. It was only in those aspects, those stupid and frustrating aspects of potential sickness or sunstroke or limb loss or death, was he reminded that a small, miniscule portion of himself, was still human. Something in him still bore a resemblance of humanity, of being human, even if he no longer saw himself as such.

Nico.

Wolfwood stopped. He shivered slightly before dropping the cigarette, mashing it into the ground with his heel as he puffed out the remaining smoke occupying his lungs. He ran a steady hand through his hair before letting it fall at his side, clenching his fist as he moved the Punisher around next to him. His breathing hitched as he shoved her firmly in the sand, dirt puffing against his shoes, splattering black with tan. He took a shaky breath. He was being watched. Followed.

“Hey! Look! There they are!”

Vash pushed past him excitedly, pointing towards the Jeep in the distance. Wolfwood narrowed his eyes, planting his feet, as the blonde man rushed past him, his pace picking up as he ran towards the other two. Roberto was kneeling in the dirt, changing the tire slashed by bandits, his silver flash lodged in the sand next to him. Meryl sitting beside him, her arms crossed over her knees, leaning against the door of the Jeep, an annoyed expression across her face. The gunman smirked as he watched the blonde trip. And you can kill some friends. Your favorite past time…

Nico.

He felt another chill wash over him, and he swiped a grimy hand across his face before turning around as he glanced down, his eyes meeting Livio. The child stood there, amber eyes worried, scared, wide-eyed, fixed on him as Wolfwood towered over him. Sand brushed past them, grains sticking to white hair, fingers clasped around the sleeves of his white shirt, and Livio reached a small hand towards him tentatively.  

“You know, you’re really starting to piss me off, kid,” Wolfwood growled, his hand tightening over the Punisher protectively. The 8-year-old took a step back, fear flashing across his face, dropping his hand, and the gunman felt guilty. He grumbled something under his breath, running a hand over the back of his head, his fingers brushing through black strands before muttering a half-assed apology. He exhales as glances behind him, Vash still trekking towards the Jeep, his hand waving wildly in the air as Meryl jumps from the sand, waving back.

Nico.

Something shoved past him, sand smacking against his clothes, and Wolfwood flinched, stumbling slightly as his knees threatened to give out before once again turning to face Livio. He swallows, the air thinning around him as he locks eyes with himself, from a few years ago; the child he was before the Eye of Michael took him. Before they tortured him. Before he was who he is. Before he was Wolfwood.

Nico hugged Livio tightly, his eyes glared in the gunman’s direction as his arms embraced the 8-year-old protectively. He stuck his tongue out in Wolfwood’s direction, and the gunman reached for another cigarette, his lighter shaking between his fingers as he failed to light the stupid thing. He huffed, clenching the lighter in his hand, the unlit cigarette wavering between his teeth as Wolfwood took a slow breath. This was stupid. So freaking stupid. The desert really fucking sucked. He hated it. Such brotherly devotion… such affection. It’s disgusting, honestly.

He was ten when they took him, trained him, experimented on him. A gift they’d called it. Being able to heal faster. Age faster. Having superhuman strength and senses blessed by a divine spirit. Blessed by God. Being anything but human. Being a monster. Then again, unlike the others, he’d maintained his own mind, his own free will. If you could even call it that. If you’d even want to. Wolfwood used to think having his own free will, retaining his own being, his consciousness, after everything, was the one thing he could be thankful for. The one thing that made him worth something in this desolate hellhole. But that was a long time ago. And the part of him that thought that, that thanked God for it, had been dead for some time.

“It’s time you two stopped following me around,” He muttered, the threat coming off as weak, barely audible past the crumped unlit cigarette wedged between his lips. He felt dizzy. Disoriented. Stupid. Weak. The air was harder to breathe. Harder to take in. His heart beating, slamming against his ribcage past sharp sporadic breathes. It was hot; the sun beating against his skin, heating the black fabric on his shoulders and back, burning it. Part of him wanted to run, to turn, because logically, he knew Livio and Nico weren’t there. Weren’t here. And the fact that they were, the fact that his mind, for whatever screwed up reason, was playing tricks on him, was making him see things, sent violent shivers down his spine. Sent panic coursing through his veins and set his senses to overdrive. But he’d never hid under the blankets when he was scared as a child, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Nico huffed, his arm still snaked around Livio, “How do you know we’re the ones following?”

Wolfwood’s stomach lurched, and he kept a steady hand on the Punisher as the world around him leaned sickeningly. He swallowed, the stale taste of vomit sitting on the back of his tongue, his head spinning. He couldn’t breathe properly. The air was too warm, too thick, too nauseating. He was having a harder time standing, his body pressed dangerously against his weapon as the ground spun beneath him. Fuck, his head hurt. He coughed roughly, eyeing the 10-year-old, taking a step forward, “There is no we, kid. Me and you, we’re not the same. Not anymore.”

“You sure about that?”

Nico’s words struck him, and Wolfwood stumbled, trying to grasp the Punisher against him before she slipped, falling at his side with a dull thud. The gunman blinked slowly. Everything was hot. So very hot. Too hot. Hard to piece together. Dizzying. Disorienting. The sand around him, fuzzy and biting, dusting against his flesh, his clothes, trailing painfully against his nails, fingers, wrists, piercing up his arms, resting on young shoulders that looked so old.

Air pushed past his throat, coming out in a wheezing clarity as Wolfwood’s body struggled to hold him up, struggled to grasp where he was and what was happening. He felt wrong. Sick. Detached; pulled in two directions, his mind struggling against the two parts of him that still fought to exist. His stomach heaved, and Wolfwood swallowed down the sick feeling rising in his throat as he panted past the crumpled cigarette clasped between his teeth. And he felt himself slam against someone.

“Hey, I gotcha…it’s alright. I have you.”

Strong arms laced gently around his torso, pulling him up on legs that refused to stand. His world shifting as the desert sand began to fade, and it took several long minutes to realize he’d fallen, realize he couldn’t stand on his own. Fuck, he could barely walk on his own, his feet dragging through the heavy wasteland as gravity threatened to pull him down, and his head spun in a revolting swirl of tans and reds. This was pathetic. Irritating. Disgusting. He didn’t need to be mollycoddled like a child. And yet, he wasn’t strong enough to stand on his own. He’d never been. Nico had never been. That’s why he was weak. So very weak. You pathetic worthless…

Nico.

Wolfwood flinched, his dark sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, the unlit cigarette falling from his mouth as he grasped a hand against Vash’s red coat, pulling it down slightly as he tried to keep himself upright. A useless attempt to save himself. There wasn’t much of a point. There never was. His legs weren’t cooperating; hell, his body wasn’t cooperating. Shaky, unforgiving, and destructive. So very destructive. Just like his mind. Just like the past he tried so hard to forget. That he wanted to forget. That he needed to.

Because it was easier than admitting he was still that same scared little kid. The same kid who never found love. Compassion. Forgiveness. Who never found family. Acceptance. The same kid the world had hurt so badly. Had tormented. Experimented. Abandoned. The same kid forced into evil doings against his will… the same kid without a childhood. It was safer. Because it hurt too much. And it wasn’t fair. But that was life. His life. All twelve or so fucked-up years of it plastered on a body much older than his mind.

Nico.

He groaned loudly as the desert blended with the sky, dizzy and nauseating. His eyes burning against the harsh light that pierced through his tented lenses, his headache morphing into a migraine clawing at the bones under his flesh, and his stomach threatened rebellion. Strong arms steady against his trembling frame, pulling him closer, pulling him up as his knees gave out. The sun beating against him in suffocating waves as someone spoke to the childhood name he no longer bore. Over. And over. And over.

Nico. Nico. Nico. NicoNicoNicoNicoNi-

And then, he blacked out.

…………………………………………………

A year after they’d taken his brother. After they’d tortured him. After they’d changed him… before Wolfwood left. Before he set out as per his contract. He’d been allowed to see Livio. One last time. For a few minutes. Under supervision. Under Legato’s watchful eye.

The white auditorium was cold, the bright lights hitting his eyes the second Wolfwood stepped foot inside. Memories rushed back to him as he bit his bottom lip, his breathing hitching as his own screams echoed through him in haunting waves. He hated this room. Hated the blinding white walls. The harsh florescent lighting. The cold silver table. The pain. The blood… everything.

The gunman locked eyes on Livio, sprawled across the silver table, his arms and legs outstretched, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged and rough. He was bleeding. In pain. Unconscious. Hurt. Wolfwood instinctively reached a hand towards the white-haired boy, his fingers shaking as they brushed through his hair gently, red running along white strands.

Above him, Legato hummed, moving his fingers along the railing as he stood on the balcony. He laughed softly, the sound grating in the gunman’s ears, and Wolfwood grit his teeth as the blue-haired man took a breath, “Such brotherly devotion… such affection. It’s disgusting, honestly. Tell me, do you think he’ll maintain his will like you? Do you think he’ll remember you? Recognize you?”

Wolfwood let his hand fall to his side, clenching his fist. He swallowed, steadying his breath as he bit back tears threatening to swell in his eyes. This was so idiotic. He was so useless. Livio was just some kid that clung too tightly to Nico… some kid who picked the wrong person to put his trust in. His faith in. Livio was stupid. Weak. Pathetic. A crybaby… and yet, seeing him like this. Seeing what they’d done to him, made Wolfwood want to rip this whole fucking place apart with his bare hands. Because seeing him… seeing Livio unconscious on the silver table, his arms and legs cuffed, blood surrounding limbs that were once small, hurt. Knowing that the dumb kid he’d once called his little brother had gone through something Wolfwood couldn’t protect him from, pain he couldn’t take from him… and had cried tears that the gunman couldn’t stop, couldn’t wipe away, hurt. Seeing he’d gone through the same thing Wolfwood had, hurt. Seeing him… hurt. So. Fucking. Much.

“Priest Conrad tells me you refer to your weapon, that Trigun, as the Punisher, but not yourself. How interesting.”

Wolfwood tsked as he glanced up towards Legato. The blue-haired freak still stood along the railing, his arms folded over the metal ledge, his hair shielding his face slightly as he glanced down in Wolfwood’s direction. He hummed again as the gunman met his gaze, and Wolfwood peered down towards a tray of bloody scalpels beside him. He reached for it quickly, his fingers brushing against red and silver, before his hand clenched, twisted, cracked, his fingers bending backward as an invisible force stopped him from grasping the blades. He cursed loudly, struggling against the pressure as Legato chuckled, “I won’t pretend to understand your love. But I pray you’ll understand ours, Nicholas.”

Wolfwood jerked his head up as the pressure released. He pulled his hand to his chest, forcing several joints back in the socket as he glared towards the blue-haired man. He winced as he yanked his middle and index finger, straightening the splintered bone. He swallowed, his eyes still darting towards the scalpels then Legato before turning back towards Livio. He reached for the boy again, his fingers dusting over his warm cheek, crimson smearing across pale, sweaty flesh.

“When I get out of here, when I’m free,” Wolfwood growled, carding another hand through white hair, “I’m going to fucking kill every last one of you.”

“Unless we kill you first, dear Punisher…”

Livio’s name is pressed against Wolfwood’s dry lips as he gradually comes to, opening his eyes to the brightly lit inside of the shitty Jeep. His head bounces slightly, and he groans as pain eats down his neck, his black hair falling over his face, blocking the too bright sun from his vision. He exhales loudly, blinking several times as he tries clearing his vision. As he tries to let his mind catch up with him. I have to catch up… I have to be like Nico, just like Nico.

Nausea threatens to pull him under, and the gunman moves a hand towards his abdomen slowly, his vision still fuzzy as he glances around. Through the windshield, sand eats against glass, Meryl cursing softly as Roberto chuckles, taking a sip from his flask before pocketing it. The makings of a sandstorm looming on the horizon, blowing tiny grains against the windows as the Jeep jerked, the tires spinning against stilled sand for a second before finding traction and speeding forward.

Wolfwood closes his eyes again, pressing his head further against whatever the hell he was leaning on, trying his best to will himself back to sleep, to lose consciousness again because being in the Jeep wasn’t doing him any favors. His head hurt too much, the pain etched behind his eyes, trailing across his cheekbones, over the bridge of his nose, and lining against the stubble on his jaw. His stomach wasn’t much better either and if he wasn’t careful, if Meryl continued to drive like she normally did, then however long they still had before they hit the next town, was going to be hell.  

Cigarette smoke hit his nostrils, his fingers itching as he instinctively reached for the pack of smokes in his jacket pocket before thinking better of it and returning his hand to his stomach, swallowing. If he stayed still, if he focused on the smell of cigarettes or the bitter scent of alcohol as Roberto spilled more on himself versus in his mouth, as the Jeep plowed through sand, then Wolfwood could almost drown out the stench of worm, blood, sweat… vomit. Almost. Except…

He shivered, pulling his jacket closer as he clenched his eyes, shifting his hands to his pockets as he gripped the lighter between his fingers. A familiar comfort. His only childish qualm he carried with him as an adult. An outlet. An irritating outlet. Stemmed from a lonely childhood and a dark mind. From a part of himself, from that frustrating and childish part that Wolfwood wanted to kill so badly. That he’d tried. But it was hard to kill the grim reaper. It was hard to kill what God supposedly blessed. A child of blessing. The demon child S-plus, experiment HL1-06...

Wolfwood had been the name he’d given himself. His last name. His only normal identification. Because Nico no longer seemed fitting. Nico no longer fit. No longer belonged to him. No longer lived. In the end, Nico had been weak because he needed people. He had trusted people. People who’d hurt him. Who abandoned him. Who failed to love him the way he loved them.

Unlike the stupid pathetic boy shadowed in his youth, Wolfwood had been the monster. The monster Nico had needed. Had crafted. He’d hurt people. People Nico loved unconditionally. People who’d wronged him. He’d done what Nico couldn’t, what Nico failed to do. Over and over and over. Because when it came down to it, Wolfwood couldn’t save anyone, he couldn’t save the people Nico cared about. He couldn’t save his brother, save those the Eye of Michael had taken. He couldn’t save the rest of the world… the rest of Nico’s world. Because he was just the monster a scared little boy had prayed for, had hoped for. And nothing more. Nothing at all.

The gunman bit the inside of his cheek as the Jeep slid against the sand, letting out a slow breath as something moved next to him. His head dropped slightly, his hair tickling his face as he opened his eyes slowly, wincing as the light once again pierced through his dark lenses, hitting his eyes. He exhaled again, his fingers fidgeting with the lighter still grasped in his pocket. Being awake was a lot worse than being unconscious… than being dead. But he was never lucky enough for that. For death. The big man upstairs had left him long ago. And he wasn’t coming back. I don’t believe in God, so that’s a pass for me…

“Hey.”

Wolfwood tilted his head up, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he shifted, his head spinning against the warm smell of iron and gunpowder as red filled his vision momentarily. He swallowed against the sick feeling rising in his throat as his eyes met bright blue ones tinted behind orange lenses, and he felt himself pale. He’s leaning against Vash. Had been leaning against Vash… for some time now. Wolfwood grit his teeth as the realization hit him. He was so weak. So weak. And stupid. Pathetic. He felt like a senseless child. Fuck.

“What a relief. Glad you’re okay,” Vash whispers, a smile breaking out over his features as he peered down. He reaches a steady hand towards Wolfwood, his fingers barely ghosting over his warm cheek before the gunman flinched, smacking the blonde’s hand away harshly. He straightened his posture, shoving himself away from Vash roughly as he crashed against the opposite side of the Jeep.

“Man, get the hell off me,” he growled, slamming his head against the glass window as his body protested the sudden movement. His vision falters for a second as his head connects with the hard windowpane, and he blinks several times before the Jeep cabin returns clearly. He clenches his jaw as his stomach churns and glares towards the other man. Vash hesitates, lowering his hand cautiously before smirking, turning to fix his red coat, a small smile still creeping across his face.

Wolfwood huffed as he relaxed against the window, his eyes briefly meeting Meryl’s in the rearview mirror before she whips around, a broad smile filling her face. The Jeep flies over a sand dune as she inspects him, and the gunman scolds, rolling his eyes as she shifts back towards the front. He catches her eyes again in the mirror as Roberto turns slightly, pressing his flask against his mouth as he does so. He takes a long drink, alcohol dribbling down his chin, pressing in his brown beard as he closes the flask and clears his throat, “Well. Look at that. The moron ain’t dead.”

Wolfwood grits his teeth, pressing his head harder against the window. He meets the older man’s eyes, his voice low and threatening, “Yeah. Screw you, Grandpa.”

An amused look flashes across Roberto’s face as he pockets the silver flask. He chuckles as he turns back around, “Hey. I was just starting to like old Drunkle…”

The gunman tsked, turning his attention back to his side of the Jeep, letting his eyes trace over the sand dunes speeding by outside. Heat pressed against the window, beading against his already too warm forehead, and Wolfwood sighed. He felt better leaning against Vash, but there was no way in hell he was doing that again. There was no way he was going to allow himself to look that weak, that pathetic, that childish in front of him. Not again. Because these people weren’t his friends. He didn’t have friends. He didn’t need friends. He never did. And you can kill some friends. Your favorite past time. I can see it in your eyes, you couldn’t care less about wasting a human life…

Wolfwood exhales, his hand still clenched against his lighter, his fingers shaking as they traced over the small hot metal. After a few minutes he let the lighter fall further in his pocket lazily, his fingers curling slightly as pain ate as his fingertips, lacing every bone in his fingers, his hands, traveling up his wrists, aching deep within his arms. He winces as he tries to stop his hands from shaking. It felt like his skin was on fire, his muscles being pulled away from bones, his body breaking apart, molecule-by-molecule. Fuck, it was spreading. And it was insufferable. So freaking insufferable. His shirt sandpapered against his arms, chafing away young flesh to rebuild old, and Wolfwood clenched his eyes, pressing his head further against the window as he waited for the wave to pass. Hoping it would. Know, eventually, the pain would be plastered against his body longer… would stay longer. And he wouldn’t be able to do anything, to move, to breathe… until he passed out. Or until he died. Either one would do. Either one would help.

Several long minutes pass by, his fingers fisted in his jacket as he breathes slowly through his nose, unstable, cut off, barely able to take in a full lungful. He swallows as the pain begins to subside, his body relaxing against the window again as he gradually opens his eyes. He clears his throat softly, his eyes meeting the outside brush, the tan dirt raining against the window, and he shifts his legs, pressing them against Roberto’s seat carefully. He turns his head slightly, his eyes meeting Vash as the blonde stared at him, confusion sitting across his features as he opens his mouth to speak before Wolfwood turns back to face the window. He didn’t want to know what Vash had to say. He didn’t care.  

Wolfwood exhales loudly, pulling a cigarette from his pocket, his fingers finally steady enough to flick against the metal gear on his lighter. He lights the cigarette, returning the lighter before pressing his forehead once more against the dirty window. The smell of smoke hits him, the dull haze barely masking the smell of rotting guts and blood still plastered dryly against his sweaty flesh, and Wolfwood closes his eyes. He huffs smoke past his lips, his head bouncing with the movements of the Jeep, ash falling against his shirt as he inhales again. His mind starts to drift as he moves a slow hand against his stomach, his head falling back against the seat, still melting against the hot window.

The Jeep’s quiet except for the religious broadcast whispered past barely audible speakers and the creaking metal frame of the vehicle as it speeds across the desert. Smoke pushes past Wolfwood’s nostrils, his body relaxing against it, his senses cut off momentarily in a cloud of white. He inhales again before removing the cigarette, smothering the flame against the heel of his shoe before returning it to his mouth and exhaling smoke. He shifts, hearing Roberto curse as he slams his knees against the back of his seat, and he smirks, letting the rest of the world fade away.

The next time he opens his eyes, he’s not entirely sure how much time has passed. Considering he had just turned twelve a few months ago, Wolfwood didn’t have a great sense of time. After all, he was a child who looked like a man or maybe he was a man who felt like a child… a child with a really big gun and an undeniable thirst for bloodlust. Then again, maybe he wasn’t a child after all, when you got down to it. Maybe he’d never been.

The Eye of Michael had tortured him, experimented on him, accelerated his growth, stripping him further from innocence- so maybe to Wolfwood, it’d only been months when, in fact, it’d been years. Years and years. Stuck on some type of goddamn loop with no new tomorrow looming in his future. Several months could have passed or several years; all-in-all, Wolfwood didn’t care much. The past was the past; he couldn’t fix it, so why dwell in it. Besides, time wasn’t his friend. Not anymore… if it ever was.

So, when he opened his eyes, staring again at the same stupid sand dunes and desert plants, he realized he didn’t know how much time had passed. Could have been a few seconds or a few minutes or a few years. He wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. He never could.

What he could tell, however, was that his senses were back. Undeniably back. Harsh and painful. Sounds pulsating through his ears that a normal human being wouldn’t be able to pick up on, screaming against the headache etched behind his eyes. His vision dizzying and bright as he squinted through bitter sunlight that filtered past dark shades. The smell overpowering and rough, eating through any sense of familiarity he might have had clinging to cigarette smoke and several days’ worth of sweat, wrapping around the unforgettable realization that he was harboring the nauseating stench of death and sickness. And the feeling… the touch… his grey shirt chaffed against calloused skin, ripping, scratching, itching as pain laced through veins, hiding between muscles and bones. And Wolfwood bit the inside of his cheek, blood trailing in his mouth as he kept himself from whimpering.

It was all pathetic. Really. Too goddamn pathetic. Being eaten alive by things that weren’t supposed to hurt. The feeling of clothes on his skin, the feeling of his skin, his hands shaking, and the pain knifed up his arms, stabbing each scar plastered against sweaty flesh as he clenched his eyes, trying to hang onto the stupid movements of the Jeep. Trying to hang onto something. Anything. The overpowering stench of rotting flesh on his skin. The smell of gunpowder and old leather dusted across Vash’s clothes. The sound of Roberto’s fingers catching the roof of the Jeep. The sound of Meryl’s heart beating. The sun slicing through tented lenses, piercing his closed eyes. Anything. Everything. Screaming at him in waves that Wolfwood knew he’d soon find harder to ignore. Harder to ease away. Harder to grasp the reality of his surroundings as he tried hanging onto something. Onto anything. Onto himself.

A hand pressed against his shoulder, and Wolfwood flinched hard, ripping his eyes open, peering to the right. Vash shifts next to him, his fingers squeezing against his trembling shoulder, and Wolfwood wants to shake him off, to shove him away, to get away, to scream. The touch isn’t helping; Vash’s fingers add pressure to clothes and skin that the other gunman wants to ignore, wants to forget. Touching never helped. Feeling someone else’s fingers against his own when he was like this; fuck, even his own fingers touching one another, hurt. So. Goddamn. Much. And he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t do anything to lessen the feeling of having his skin peeled back slowly, every nerve-ending raw and open across flesh that felt like it was bleeding.

Wolfwood opens his mouth, blood dusting his lip as he realizes he was biting the inside his cheek again, teeth indents numb but prominent. He lets out a shaky breath, swallowing down the bloody saliva in his mouth as he wills himself to press closer against the window, trying to shift away from Vash, from his fingers clasped comfortingly around his shoulder. His touch wasn’t comforting. Wasn’t reassuring. It just hurt. Vash wasn’t going to be able to help him. Neither would the other two… no one could. And soon, they’d see that. Soon, they’d see him for what he truly was, how he truly felt when he couldn’t control whatever had happened to him when he was younger. Soon, they’d see just how fucking pathetic he really was… unable to breathe through the feeling of being himself. Of living… it was just too idiotic. Too childish. Really.

Vash’s hand dropped from his shoulder slowly, and Wolfwood swallowed again, his eyes drifting towards the blonde slowly as he let out an unsteady breath. Vash looked lost, hurt, unsure, silent… sitting there, barely a foot away, his arms heavy in his lap, his blue eyes serious and searching. Wolfwood choked, wincing again as he directed his attention back towards the window, his hands clenched tightly, his nails digging against the heated flesh on his palms. He shut his eyes, breathing shakily through his nose as he tried to focus again on his senses. So very loud. And so very overwhelming. But he had nothing else right now, nothing to draw on… and he needed something. Anything to focus on besides the fire burned on rough skin and hammered through every bone and muscle outlining his fingers, hands, arms, shoulders.

The wave would pass soon. This time… but eventually it wouldn’t. Eventually it’d stay. Long and excruciating. Until he felt everything. Anything. Until he felt like someone was ripping his skin, his body, his soul, apart piece-by-piece, cell-by-cell. Muscles pulled from his bones. Bones breaking against paper-thin contact. Until he felt like he was a kid again. Back with the Priest. Back on that table. Back in that rusty tub. Until his mouth filled with more bloody saliva as he tried to keep himself from screaming, from crying… just long enough to pass out. Maybe he could ask Vash to hit him, punch him, knock him out. Because at least, then, he’d be able to get through it quicker. Maybe then he’d be able to deal.

Wolfwood let out a slow breath as his body began to relax. His hands unclenching as his senses start to dull, his mind itching for a cigarette as his fingers found the lighter still trapped in his pocket. He slumps against the window as exhaustion peels over him, blinking slowly against the sun still hitting behind his sunglasses, and he exhales loudly. A slight noise hits his ears, and he turns his head, his eyes meeting Vash’s as the blonde’s shoulders dip somewhat, a calm expression spreading across his face. Wolfwood swallows again, shifting straighter, Vash’s eyes still on him but his overall demeanor relieved as the other gunman slowly begins to uncurl himself from the Jeep’s window.

Wolfwood rolls his eyes, turning back towards the sand as he reaches a shaky hand inside his jacket, pulling a cigarette from the pack before cupping his hands against the flame barely visible on his lighter. His hands were still shaking. His fingers still bleeding as blood lined under his nails along with the rest of the dirt from earlier. His palms barely hurt as red coated down his wrists from the small deep indents his fingers made. The wave was fading. Pain would be a distant memory again. For now. He sucked in a long breath, pocketing the lighter, rolling his wrist a few times, popping his fingers as his muscles began to loosen, the pain dying back to his fingertips.

Nico.

The Jeep skids harshly, and Wolfwood’s stomach churns as he takes another long drag on his cigarette, the paper stick crumpled between his teeth. He smacked his head against the window with a loud groan as Vash scooted back to his side of the Jeep. The world was spinning violently… but at least he wasn’t hurting anymore. At the least the pain had subsided to more manageable intervals. And the smoke was dulling his senses again, blocking out the overwhelming sensory overload of superhuman ability. A dream come true, yes?

Wolfwood snorted as the Priest’s words hit him. He ran shaky fingers through his hair, slumping against the door as he glanced down at his hands. They were still covered in filthy black ooze; worm guts still present in revolting chunks and blood still caked chaotically over the hundreds of small scars present against his tanned flesh. He flicked some dirt from under his nails, grimacing at the thin layer of sweat mixing the blood and worm insides together in a disgusting paste. Small clean lines present in odd streaks from a rag or clothe, from where someone had tried to clean his hands off, tried scrubbing his fingers… but it hadn’t helped much. The mess was still there, still plastered against his clothes and sitting stale in his black hair, still splattered across his face. He felt disgusting. Unclean.

Smoke filled his lungs, and Wolfwood exhaled, pulling the cigarette from his mouth before smothering it and returning it to his lips. He swallowed as he bit down on the paper stick, resisting the urge to pull another one from the pack. Most of the cigarettes were crumpled, squished in a paper pack that was no longer a thick rectangle but rather a wrinkled accordion-like square. Most of the cigarettes looked the same. He chewed on them as the smoke died, when the taste left, when his senses were coming back into focus. He couldn’t help it. A disgusting habit really… one he had had for as long as he could remember. He had too much anxiety, too many demons, too much… so chewing something, biting something, until it wasn’t perfect anymore, until it, too, was a furrowed incomprehensible mess, helped.

He clears his throat, folding his arms over his chest as he leans his head back against the window, crossing his arms. The Jeep jolts, sand splashing against the window, and Roberto spills some of his booze down his shirt. Wolfwood smirks as a curse leaves the older man’s mouth. Sun beats against him through the heated glass, shining past his sunglasses, and the gunman squints against the inside of the Jeep. His vision was sensitive… his eyes were. Sensitive to lights, to the sun, that’s why he wore his sunglasses everywhere. He had to. Otherwise, he’d have to deal with the constant stabbing of bright lights and sharp headaches. Another lovely side effect of being a child of blessing. Of being an experiment. Of being himself.

His mind begins to drift, his head dropping as his chin hits his chest, the cigarette still clasped between his teeth. Sleep sounded nice. Disappearing from the world sounded nice. Forgetting everything sounded… nice. The world was too much right now. Too hot. Too nauseating. Too painful. Too much. His senses coming and going in sickening waves that Wolfwood could usually deal with, but the promise of pain was still etched in his bones, still pressed against his back like the fucking Punisher, was harder to control, harder to bury. Soon he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from whimpering, from acting like a child, from hiding the ridiculous side effects from the Eye of Michael… at least, not well. Not when he felt like shit. Not when he was sick. How pathetic. How weak. And stupid.

Nico.

The Jeep slid, and Wolfwood swallowed thickly as he shifted, opening his eyes again as his stomach churned. An unsettling warmth washed over him, shadowing the ache in his bones as it fled through him in a daunting realization. He inhaled unsteadily, removing the cigarette and pressing a hand against his stomach as he forced his head up. His vision swam momentarily as the inside of the Jeep spun in a multitude of colors, and nausea hit him. Hard. He lurched up, doubling over as he grit his teeth, swallowing back the bile threatening to rise in his throat as he breathed through his nose slowly. The world around him, dizzy and slow, and he folded his arms over his stomach, glancing towards Meryl as she rocketed off another sandbank. Dust puffs up around the Jeep, and Wolfwood groans lowly as he peers towards Vash, the blonde turned towards his window, his elbow perched against the door.

Warmth again, showering over him in a jittery haze, his stomach in his throat, and Wolfwood swallows heavily, straightening himself as he kicks his foot out towards Vash. He hits the other man in the leg, and Vash jumps with a loud yelp. He glances around before locking eyes with Wolfwood, and the blonde shifts closer, confusion plastered behind orange lenses. Wolfwood breathes lowly, gulping against the sick taste sitting in the back of his throat as his stomach cramps. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he needs them to pull over, to stop, to get out, because he’s losing this battle. Quickly. You pathetic worthless child…

“Blondie,” Wolfwood chokes through clenched teeth, “Tell the little lady to pull over…”

“The little lady can hear you just fine,” Meryl growls, jerking her head away from the road to glare in his direction in the rearview mirror, “And for the last time, it’s Meryl.”

“Whatever. Pull over,” Wolfwood’s stomach lurches again, and he clenches his eyes shut as the floor spins beneath his feet. Moving is not something he wants to think about right now. His surroundings aren’t something he wants to think about either. Because he had about a solid minute before everything was going to get so much worse. And he was fucking determined not to be this vulnerable in such a small, confined space. This vulnerable in front of them. This pathetic. He was going to puke, there was no way around that… but that didn’t mean he had to do it this close to them.

Meryl forced a dry laugh as she met his eyes again, “Why would I do that? Hm? We’re still a day from the next town. We-”

Wolfwood groans loudly, cutting her off, before choking out quickly, “Because if you don’t, I’m gunna spew all over your lovely rental.”

The Jeep skids as Meryl slams on the brakes, turning sharply, and Wolfwood almost loses it right then and there. He fumbles slightly, his fingers shakily pressed against the door handle as he throws it open when the Jeep lurches to a violent stop, sliding through sand before stilling around a cloud of dirt.

The gunman finds his footing, stumbling several feet before collapsing to the ground, his hands buried under burning grains as he heaves roughly. Vomit spews past his lips as Wolfwood gags loudly. His stomach burns, the air brushing across his face, burned; hell, everything felt like it was burning right now, eating away at whatever illness the gunman was fighting. You pathetic…

A steady hand pressed against his shoulder, and Wolfwood clenched his eyes, praying to God it wasn’t Vash because the damned idiot couldn’t seem to leave him alone today. His stomach churned again, sweat falling past his temples, gathering at his chin before dropping against the hot sand. His arms threatening to bring him down as his stomach lurched again, and he gagged harshly, saliva gathering past gritted teeth. He shivered as he retched, his hands digging further into the sand as he hoped, prayed, that the stupid beast he and other kids used to think lived under the sand, would come, would swallow him whole, because this was humiliating. He felt like shit. His stomach ached. His head swam. The heat sucking any moisture from his body and sweat showering over him in an embarrassing thickness.

Nico.

He coughed roughly, heaving again as the hand clasped around his shoulder tightened. He’s shivering, he realizes as he forces his eyes open against the blinding atmosphere. He winces, his eyes avoiding the puddle below him, and he shoves his arm against whoever was next to him, whoever was touching him. He lets out a low shallow breath as his stomach begins to settle, and he sits back slowly. He didn’t want to be touched. Not right now. Not ever. It reminded him of when he was little, a few years ago, a few months ago. Whatever. Whenever. It was insufferable and stupid. And it hurt.

Wolfwood draws his knees in front of him, hunching over slightly as he lets out a steady breath. He peers out the corner of his eye to see that Vash had been the one next to him. Had been the one touching him. The one Wolfwood had shoved away. The blonde was kneeling now, his hand still raised in Wolfwood’s direction. A small smile painted across concerned features, “Hey, you alr-”

Wolfwood cuts him off, “Piss off, Sunshine!”

The second the words leave his mouth, Wolfwood shuts his eyes. He hadn’t meant to call him sunshine. To call Vash that. Out loud. He’d never called him that out loud. To his face. Shit. The gunman groans, wiping his mouth with his sleeve before shoving his hands in the sand behind him and leaning back, his knees still drawn close to him.

His stomach clenched, and Wolfwood hiccupped before hunching over again, raising a steady hand to his mouth, breathing through his nose as his stomach cramps again. He gags inwardly, lurching as he shoves his hand away from his mouth, the smell of rotting guts, blood and vomit hitting him. Fuck, he needed a bath. They all probably did, but at least they weren’t covered head-to-toe in worm guts, black ooze, and blood; at least they didn’t have the smell of stale vomit and sweat clinging to old clothes. He really needed a bath.

Wind whipped around them as Wolfwood’s stomach settled again. Sand smacked against his face, and the gunman pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as Meryl stepped closer. He sighed, letting his legs fall on either side of him, putting his hands around his ankles as he sat there arched under the sun, waiting, willing himself to move. He needed to get up. He’d spent too long out here. Too long with them. Too long like this. It was pathetic and shameful.

“Is he gunna be okay?” Meryl asked, sand crunching under her toes as she stopped a foot away. She wiped at the sweat gathering across her face before pulling her white jacket closer, shoving the sleeves up to her elbows.

“Don’t worry, Newbie,” Roberto grumbled, pulling his flask from his jacket pocket, “The kid’ll be fine. Just a little sick.”

Wolfwood bit back a laugh. Figures he’d end up sick in the middle of the goddamn desert with people he was contracted to deliver. People he was supposed to gain trust from. How ironic. Childish. He was tough. Always had been. Always had to be. And yet, here he was… Useless. Worthless.

Vash moved out the corner of his eye, his hand raised towards him again, an unnerving expression melting across his face, and Wolfwood tsked. He put his hand up, shoving his middle finger in the blonde’s direction again to keep him from coming closer. He let out another slow breath, “Needle-noggin, I swear to God…”

“Isn’t that kind of like… your profession?” Meryl muttered, crossing her arms.

Wolfwood groaned as he forced himself to his feet, stretching in order to make himself seem okay, make himself seem stronger than he felt. His vision wavered for a second, and Wolfwood swayed before planting a firm foot under the sand, waiting for the dizziness to pass. He swallowed, wiping his shoulder across his forehead, pulling his sunglasses from his face, wincing as the sun hit him. He fumbled with the tented lenses for a second before pocketing them, his fingers dusting over the lighter sitting heavy in his pocket. The sun burned his eyes, but Wolfwood could barely see out the lenses from the remnants of splattered worm and blood, and the lurking migraine. Besides, he was planning on sleeping the rest of whatever the hell was wrong with him off, so he wouldn’t need them.

Wolfwood glared in Meryl’s direction as he shoved past her, “Go to hell.”  

“Some Priest you are,” Roberto smirked, turning back towards the Jeep.

“Undertaker.”

“Whatever, Conman.”

Wolfwood stumbled before turning slightly towards Vash and Meryl, “Alright, Brady Bunch family reunion’s over.”

He turned back towards the Jeep as Roberto climbed in. The gunman paused momentarily as he eyed the Punisher, nestled between some bags on top of the trailer. He let out a sigh of relief, realizing he hadn’t been holding her when he passed out earlier. Realized he’d barely thought about her… realizing he could have left her. Priest Conrad tells me you refer to your weapon, that Trigun, as the Punisher, but not yourself. How interesting…

Wolfwood’s fingers twitch slightly as he takes another step, resisting the urge to reach for her. His eyes dust over the weapon. She’s wrapped again, protected from the elements; someone had taken the time to cover her, buckle the straps… to care for her. How nice. It was revolting almost. He didn’t really think Vash or the other two would abandon her… not when they knew how much she meant to him, but that didn’t stop the thought from crossing his mind. That didn’t stop the relief he felt when he locked eyes on her.

The Punisher was the one good thing he had in this fucked-up world… the one thing he valued more than anything. The one thing he could count on. The one thing he couldn’t leave. Forget. Drug. She was always there. Shadowed on his back, burned on his chest in childhood nightmares, a crucifixion of his past. She wasn’t alive. Not anymore… but yet, he’d named his weapon after her. Had claimed her through his monstrosity. Because she’d been right. Wolfwood needed to be saved.  And she was the only one who could save him. Save them. The Eye of Michael, the Priest, Chapel… had given him a gift in the form of a curse, a gateway to memories he tried blocking out, a resurrection to a past that tried so violently to kill him. The least he could do was make sure they regretted it; make sure they died with his name bleeding past their lips, burned against their skin. He could make sure they saw the real Punisher, met her, trusted her, loved her… the way Nico had. When I get out of here, when I’m finally free, I’m going to fucking kill every last one of you…

Sand stung his eyes, and Wolfwood glanced up dryly. The wind was picking up around them. A sandstorm looming in the distance. He wiped at the sweat falling down his face, leftover worm and sand smearing in his eyes, and he blinked a few times until his vision cleared. He sighed loudly, pulling a cigarette from the shitty pack, cupping his hands again against the red flame as it burned the tip of the paper before pocketing the lighter. He shoved his hands in his pocket, kicking sand around his feet as he trudged back towards the Jeep.

He yanked the door open harshly, the metal creaking against the action, and he exhaled, smoke clouding his vision. He pulled the black jacket from his body, grimacing as the hot fabric peeled against the gray shirt, sweat making it stick, the process painfully slow. Dumb. Idiotic. Wolfwood exhaled again, smoke wafting through clenched teeth as he threw his jacket on the floor of the Jeep. He inhaled, the stench of the day’s crappy events lessening some as the extra piece of clothing was stripped from his overheated frame. You pathetic worthless child.

He dropped the cigarette, stomping it in the sand before climbing in the Jeep, nudging his jacket with his foot harshly. He slammed the door shut, plastering his body against the frame as he waited for Meryl and Vash to get situated. They were quiet. All of them. Each stealing a glance in his direction, a mix of emotions, concern, sympathy. It made Wolfwood want to puke again. Pissed him off.

He clenched his teeth, peering towards Vash at the opposite end. Blue eyes on him. A fake smile that was meant to be reassuring. Pathetic. Worthless. It made the gunman’s skin crawl. He was pretty sure Vash saw him, truly saw him. Saw the darkness in him. The darkness lurking behind his eyes. Saw the betrayal, the uselessness, the weak person he really was. And yet, he tried so damn hard to mark Wolfwood as a good guy, persecuted in the false notion that he was a good guy… someone he could trust. There was no way in hell Vash didn’t see. Didn’t see Wolfwood for all that he was. That he didn’t know. Vash was too smart for that. Too observant. Too himself. Those are the eyes of a good guy.

Wolfwood was a shoot first, ask questions later kind of guy whereas Vash was an ask questions first, shoot never type of guy. That pissed Wolfwood off. Truly. The fact that someone could go through this hellhole of a life and still turn out brighter than the fucking sun. But part of that scared him, rattled him, ached deep in his chest. The fact that someone with as big a reputation as Blondie would hold back, could restrain himself with such self-deprecating confinement. He’d watched kids in the orphanage hold back, keep their emotions in, keep to themselves; he’d watched himself do it… until he couldn’t. Until it was too much, and he’d lost everything he tried to hold onto. He’d seen it, felt it, buried it with Nico. He knew from experience that when Vash broke, when he found himself unable to step back from the ledge, when he finally lost it and had nothing else left to give, nothing else left to lose… then the whole damn world would pay. Everyone. And everything. Maybe that’s why Wolfwood hadn’t killed him yet, hadn’t voided his contract... why he hadn’t left yet. Because when Vash did break, he’d need someone to stop him. He’d need someone to pull him off the ledge, to hold him back… no matter the cost… even if he’d need someone to die for him. And Wolfwood was willing to do it.

Wolfwood cringed as the Jeep turned over several times before roaring to life. One of these days, they were going to leave him. Leave him behind. Forget him. And that was fine. Wolfwood didn’t need people. He never had. Nico had been the one who needed them… yearned for them like air. It was pathetic and small. It was weak. Wolfwood wasn’t weak. He was just fucked. A soulless monster doomed to roam through his short existence of screwed-up pain receptors and false relationships.

He had a job to do. Whatever it might be… whatever it may be. And he was going to take down everything in his path, bring everything and everyone down with him. Burn them. Kill them. Punish them. God was the only one who could save him, and that was if he even existed. His father had been a believer, but that’d gotten him killed. His Aunt too. The Sister who ran the orphanage had also believed… but that really didn’t mean much these days. Faith was weak. Money was weak. Trust was weak. Bullets were the only thing that meant a damn anymore. And Wolfwood had two. One for society, for them… and one for himself. Unless we kill you first, dear Punisher…

That’s why he swallowed his memories, forced them behind locked doors and hidden nightmares. Behind restless sleep. Behind eyes he refused to close. Why he believed everyone deserved to eat, to laugh, to cry… to love, even the worst type of creatures out there. Even someone like himself… because he needed to push on. To keep surviving. Until he couldn’t. Until he’d killed those who wronged him. Hurt him. Hurt them. Hurt Livio. Until he had nothing else left to give. Until he had nothing. Until his last breath.   

He used to believe he could go back. Go home. Be normal. Be a kid again… but there was no going back, just like there was no going home. Not for someone like him. Not for what he’d become. Nico was dead. Buried so long ago, drowned in acidic water and loveless words. Wolfwood had taken his place, lighting a small pathetic boys’ past the way he lit a crumpled cigarette crammed between his lips. Nico was never coming back. There was no going home. Because there was no escaping the past.

Nico.

Wolfwood sighed loudly, slumping against the door as the Jeep sped through the dry desert. He folded his arms across his chest, closing his eyes and pressing his head against the dirty glass. Sweat glistened against his face, and he swallowed, his black hair falling in his face, tickling against his cheeks. He huffed, blowing his bangs away from his eyes, letting his body relax against the hot metal, a shiver running through him.

His head was killing him. The jerky movements of the Jeep throbbing up his body as his mind fought against the exhaustion threatening to swallow him whole. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to forget about this whole damn day… but it was too hot. His head hurt too much. The pain shooting behind his eyes in an annoying and deep fashion that made thinking, made everything around him, unclear. Hazy. Off-kilter. Sickening. Bright. He sighed again, blinking over the tan desert, over the vast wasteland, and let his mind drift.

It was forty minutes in when Wolfwood came to a grueling resolution. He needed to lie down. And soon. His head was spinning, the brown and red grains of sand cast out in the vast desert of No Man’s Land melding together in a nauseating fashion, mixing with the heat melting down his face and making the air hot, heavy, and thick. His stomach cramped, and Wolfwood moved a steady hand to it, masking a grimace as bile rose up his throat, and he closed his eyes, swallowing several times through clenched teeth until he was sure he was safe.  

The Jeep dipped again as it ghosted down a sand dune, and Wolfwood breathed through his nose slowly. Meryl’s driving was killing him; every jerky movement, every fishtail, every skid across hard-to-tread makeshift road, only sent more warnings flashing over him in sickening waves. The 5’2” pistol of backtalk and spunk needed her license revoked, and Wolfwood really needed to lay down. Or at the very least, lay more horizontal than he currently was because sitting up wasn’t going to be his friend soon. And there was no way in hell he was going to demand they stop again just so he could look weaker than he probably already appeared. It was just so pathetic, honestly. Ridiculous. Irritating. Childish.

He tightened his grip over his stomach, opening his eyes as he pressed his forehead harder against the glass pane of the Jeep window, watching sand dust up around the vehicle. He sighed loudly, reaching down for his jacket, pulling the pack of cigarettes from inside his pocket, pulling a crumpled stick out with his teeth before returning the pack to his pocket and fishing out his lighter. He raised it to his mouth, flicking it several times before the red flame danced in front of him, and then flipped the lid, pocketing the old metal lighter. His father’s lighter. The only thing he had left of a childhood so long ago. One he never really knew. His home. But that was gone now, and he wasn’t the same as he’d been. In the end, Nicholas had been a weak kid. But Wolfwood wasn’t.

Wolfwood took a long drag, his other hand still firmly pressed over his stomach as the Jeep slid. He exhaled loudly, breathing smoke through his nostrils, swallowing again. Smoking probably wasn’t going to help now… probably wasn’t helping his current situation. But at least it’d calm his nerves. Even if only for a few minutes. Honestly at this point, it was more habit than anything else.

Roberto’s hand shot up, gripping the roof of the car as the tan Jeep jumped over several hills. He cursed loudly, raising his flask, yelling, “Damn, Shortie! Take it easy!”

Wolfwood groaned lowly, the cigarette almost dropping from his mouth as he curled further in on himself, his stomach lurching. It takes all his willpower to stop himself from clasping a hand over his mouth because he’s already puked twice in front of them, and there was no way in hell he was doing it again. No. Fucking. Way.

After several minutes, Wolfwood releases his grasp over his abdomen, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and blowing smoke out the half-cracked window before putting the burning cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe, flicking the bud out the window. He sighs, pressing his head against the window once more, sweat trailing down his temple, mixing with dried worm blood caked across his cheekbones, dripping from his chin. He shifts slightly, his senses picking up as he’s suddenly aware of someone watching him. Vash.

He glanced at Vash from the corner of his eye, aware of every small movement the other man made. The blonde was still facing the road, his movements stilled, silent, fixed… but his eyes, those goddamn blue eyes observing him, analyzing his actions. Wolfwood ground his teeth and turned his attention towards Vash, shoving his head away from the window. It pissed him off, being observed like some type of… specimen. Some experiment.

“Stop staring, Needle-noggin,” He growled, forcing himself up straighter, his fingers curling against his thigh as he breathed through his nose slowly. The other man shifted, turning finally to face Wolfwood, a soft smile breaking out over his features. He closed his eyes briefly before running a hand through his blonde hair, chuckling sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders.

Wolfwood swallowed, inching closer, shoving a finger in the Humanoid Typhoon’s chest, “Seriously, stop it. You’re pissing me off!”

Vash raised his hands up slowly, “Sorry, I didn’t know I was staring. But you don’t-”

“Boys,” Meryl warned, her eyes flicking to them in the rearview mirror, and Vash retreated, slinking back against the seat, a smile still occupying his face. That damn smile. That fake smile. It made Wolfwood sick. Made his skin crawl. Made it hurt. Made him want to slap the other guy across the face…

Wolfwood went back to the window, smacking his head against the hot glass. He groaned inwardly as he peered towards Vash again. His blue eyes meeting Wolfwood’s before blinking and turning back towards the road; the damn bastard was still watching him. Great.

The dizziness returns, the sinking sick feeling pitted in his stomach no longer darkened by the taste of nicotine, no longer clouded by gray smoke, and Wolfwood’s again hit with the overwhelming need to lay down. Fuck. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe smoking would solve all his problems, but he thought it’d at least help, at least give him an outlet for a while. Like it normally did. But this time, it didn’t. The haze he usually felt was gone as soon as it’d come. And he was left with everything else he so badly wanted to kill.

A few agonizing minutes later, he realized he was shivering. He could feel it despite the heat pressed against him. Chills wracked him, and Wolfwood bites back a groan as sand swirls outside the already too hot window, his stomach churning. He feels fucking pathetic and weak. Even worse, he can feel Vash’s eyes on him again, and he knows- he knows the stupid blonde can see it too. Can see the small tremors washing over him. Can see the shaking in his fingers, his hands, his shoulders. After all, the moron might be stupid, but he wasn’t an idiot… and he was so goddamn perceptive. He wasn’t like most people. He wasn’t as easy to fool.

Vash moved in his peripheral, and Wolfwood turned his head slightly, letting the sweat beaded across his dirty forehead smear on the dusty window as he watched the other man. Vash shifted gradually, pulling his arms from his red coat before shrugging it off completely, folding it haphazardly and placing it on his lap. He scooted forward a little until his knees touched the back of Meryl’s seat, easing himself down so he slumped against the cushion behind him. He glanced towards Wolfwood, a small smile toying with his lips before disappearing, and he looked towards the ceiling sheepishly, his orange glasses sliding up the bridge of his nose slightly. 

An invitation. How pathetic. Wolfwood snorted, turning back towards the sand puffing around the tires as the Jeep pressed deeper into the unforgiving heat; lurching forward at a nauseating speed; sand passing in dizzying waves, and waves, and waves, and-

Vash shifted again, and Wolfwood watched from the corner of his eye as he dusted his prosthetic fingers across the dirty red fabric, brushing some dirt from the material before making eye contact with Wolfwood again, then turning to look out the window, his arms crossing loosely over his chest. He waited several minutes before stretching, placing his arms behind his head, glancing shyly towards the other gunman still slumped against the window, and Wolfwood groaned. The moron thought he was sly.

“Fucking bastard,” Wolfwood growled under his breath as he shoved himself away from his side of the Jeep, scooting closer before letting his head fall against the blonde’s legs. He bit back the sigh of relief as the world suddenly calmed, his head thankful for the horizontal position, his stomach even more so. He hated this. Every part of him, every fiber, every fucked-up nerve-ending yelling at him, screaming for him to move, to get away because this wasn’t okay. This wasn’t familiar… this was dangerous. Wrong. But it was either this or accept that he was going to puke again… soon. So, logically, it was the lesser of two evils. At least, that’s what he told himself. He could swallow his pride for the sake of looking weak.

Soft warm fingers dust across his forehead, and Wolfwood gasps. He tries to stop himself from leaning into the touch, he really fucking does, but his body wasn’t really his right now. He didn’t have as much control over his actions as he normally did, and he grinds his teeth, shutting his mouth before any more ridiculous noises could crawl up his dry throat. Vash laughs softly but says nothing as the gunman glares up at him. His fingers ghosting across overheated flesh once more before running through sweaty greasy black strands.

Wolfwood tenses as Vash changes his position calmly, his prosthetic coming to rest across Wolfwood’s torso carefully, and the other man does his best to ignore it. Does his best to ignore the comforting weight of warm metal laying across his shivering frame. Does his best to ignore the gentle fingers brushing against his temple, carding through his hair, repetitive and kind. God, when was the last time someone held him like this? Touched him like this? Even his own Aunt hadn’t comforted him when he was violently ill as a child; she had just locked him in his room after realizing she couldn’t exorcise the demon burning against his small frame. Shit. This sucked.

Wolfwood huffed, shutting his eyes and shifting to his back, pressing his legs against the back of the seat, his knees bent. This was so fucking stupid. He felt pathetic. He was pathetic. This was the same shit Livio would pull at the orphanage so he could sleep next to him. And it was weak… seeking comfort, allowing himself to be seen this way, cared for this way. Like he said, pathetic.

And yet.

 …………………………………………….

He’s seven, and he’s crying. Perhaps the only real memory he has of himself crying. The only time he ever remembers. Blood coats his small hands, sticking between his shaking fingers as water drips from his black hair, his face, freezing his wet clothes against his shivering frame. Dust hangs thick in the air as he glances up, his eyes meeting his Aunt, blood pooling around her slowly, her eyes fixed on him. She gasps sharply, the air barely pushing past shocked lips, “You pathetic worthless child.”

She splutters, blood choking past her mouth as she turns her head, and he cries again as he reaches a hand towards her. His fingers shakily brush over the rusted mirror sharded in her abdomen, and he retches, bringing up a small puddle of watery vomit. His hands burn as he steadies himself against the dusty tiled floor, glancing up again as his Aunt’s chest stilled, the last bit of air coughed before her body falls silent. And he wails loudly, jerking his head back down at the blood surrounding his knees, soaking into his already wet pants, staining his flesh. Staining his hands. Staining himself.

She’d hurt him. Over. And over. And over. Again. And again.

But in the end, Nico still cried for her...

It’s dark the next time he opens his eyes. And so fucking hot. The cold air that chilled across the desert as the sun set, that normally met him in the dim hours of the night, now foreign and absent against the heat shivering on his frame. Sweat plastered on scarred flesh, etched under the crevices of his limbs, and burning through black clothes, matting his hair in place as wind ceased to reach him. And Wolfwood tries swallowing against the dry roughness in his throat, his mouth slow and desiccate.  

Something shifts below his head, jostling him slightly, a headache thrashing behind eyes that refused to stay open, that refused to adjust to the pitch-black atmosphere around him; a childish whimper escapes Wolfwood’s parched throat, and he hates himself for it. It was pathetic. Weak. Insufferable. So goddamn insufferable.

He’s shifted again, his body being pulled up, his world spinning behind clenched eyes, his stomach in his throat as he’s leaned against something. His face smacking against something solid and warm, his head upright and jarring, slamming against a hard surface briefly before something softer envelopes him. Sweat pales down his face, running in trails, and Wolfwood lets out a short breath as he grinds his teeth, trying to find the will to open his eyes… trying to figure out if the desert had always been this damn hot.

Nico.

He’s lifted again, his head swimming, and he groans as something wet presses against his face, his cheeks then forehead. He turns his head slightly, his face pressing further against someone as a heartbeat, steady, strong, solid, echoes in his ears. The world sways, his fingers weak and slow as he tries moving his hand towards his face, something running down his temple, tracking his jawline, splashing on his neck and soaking into his already damp shirt.

A small hand grasps his, forcing his arm back down as the world underneath him moves, and Wolfwood gags, swallowing thickly. His throat hurts. His mouth hurts. Fuck, his whole body hurts… but not like it usually does when his nerve-endings try to eat him alive. This is a different kind of hurt. One that’s there but not. Tied to the heat filling his lungs and pressed against his flesh. Heavy. Thick… and so very dry. You pathetic worthless child…

He opens his eyes slowly, blinking against the dim light hitting his face as the cabin of the Jeep spins in a multitude of nauseating colors. He crosses an arm over his stomach lethargically as he tries to move, tries to stretch from his cramped position but the movement is futile. Weak. Idiotic. He was.

He groans as something presses against his face again, wet and dripping, and he opens his eyes unaware he’d closed them. He glances around lazily, everything unfocused and slow. Hard to piece together. Hard to grasp. Hard to understand. The gunman swallows, someone pulling him further into a sitting position, and Wolfwood whimpers again. He bites the inside of his cheek because he really fucking hates himself right now. Such a pathetic sound. Such a pathetic person.

He feels fingers dust his cheek, followed by, “Hey, sorry, Wolfwood. It’s okay. I gotcha.”

Vash. The gentle whisper reaching his ears in reassuring tones that made Wolfwood want to pass out. To escape. To leave his current situation because he was stronger than this. He was the Undertaker… the fucking Executioner; he didn’t need to be coddled like some child. Like he was still a child. A weak, sniffling, ridiculous child. And yet, he highly doubted he could move right now, let alone sit up on his own.

Nico.

A shiver washes over him. Cruel and strong, and Wolfwood flinches against the wet rag pressed against the back of his neck, water running down his back, soaking into his grey shirt. He shivers again, his head falling forward, his black hair shielding the world from his view as his forehead smacks against the side of Vash’s neck. The blonde makes a small sound, followed by words the other gunman can’t grasp. Everything’s heated, hazy… dry.

He realizes after several agonizing moments he’s slumped against Vash harshly. His back pressed against the door of the Jeep, his body against Vash’s chest, his legs sprawled out in the back seat instead of cramped against the window on the opposite side. Vash’s red coat draped across his lap, a small canteen and several pieces of some disregarded dirty cloth sitting between his legs. He shivers again, voices floating above him, his vision unfocused and dizzying as he glances down at his arms, hanging loosely in his lap. How useless he was right now. How very useless.

Something presses against his mouth, moisture sitting against his lips, and Wolfwood parts his lips automatically as water washes over his tongue. He moans softly, the desert drowned momentarily in room temperature water before he chokes. He coughs loudly, water dribbling down his chin, his head shifting as Vash pulled him back slightly before Wolfwood remembers he has to swallow… before he remembers how to. He coughs again, trying to clear his airways as a steady hand trails up and down his spine, and the gunman wishes he’d just pass out already. This was humiliating. Childish. You can kill some friends, your favorite past time…

The canteen pressed against his mouth again, and Wolfwood drinks hastily. His hand flying towards the flask as he realizes the water was helping, forcing the heat away from his body, from his throat. Water was making it bearable. His fingers clenched around cold metal ones harshly as his stomach tightened, and he swallowed sloppily, drowning his mouth again in warm water. 

A hand grasps the canteen, prying it from his shaking fingers forcefully, and Wolfwood cuts off a small noise as his hand falls back against his lap weakly. He jerks his body up as he follows the flask, his world swaying dangerously, and he pants as something shoves him back down gently, his shoulder smacking against Vash’s chest. He clenches his jaw as water rushes up his throat, shutting his eyes against the dimly lit cabin as he focuses on breathing, on keeping what little water he’d just drank down. His stomach twists, and Wolfwood turns his head as he swallows several times.

“Easy there, kid. Medicines expensive and hard to come by, so we really don’t need you puking it back up again.”

After a couple minutes, his stomach settles, and the gunman relaxes. His breathing coming out in uneven harsh waves as exhaustion slams against him, and he drops his head against Vash’s shoulder. Black hair falls in his eyes as shadows dance around him, and words to conversations he can’t understand echo through him. A wet rag pressed against his face again, fingers carded through his hair, and Wolfwood closed his eyes. He doesn’t have it in him to fight right now. Not anymore. Despite every part of his being, panicking. It was too hot.

His body hurts. His fingers, his hands, his wrists; the ache deep within his bones, eating away at the dried worm and blood still cuffed under his nails. He could feel the scars plastered against his skin, every one of them, under sweaty flesh that felt so dry. So rough. So alien. Foreign. And yet, so very his. Soon the pain was going to come for him again, this time more forceful and vigilant. Pressing. Reaching further across his shoulders and chest, ripping at his torso and legs, gnawing at every tiny scar present against tanned flesh, slicing against his nerves… sending everything into an overwhelming void of agony and a screwed-up miscommunication between what should and shouldn’t hurt. Between what did and didn’t. Any wound you receive will be healed in a matter of seconds. A dream come true, yes?

Wolfwood swallowed again, his throat rough and dry. When he was younger, he used to pray someone would save him. That someone would help. Take him away from the pain. His pain. And her. But soon after, she’d died, and Wolfwood realized a cold hard truth. His Aunt had been right. God had left him long ago. No one was coming to save him. He wasn’t worth it. He’d never been. That’s probably why the Eye of Michael took him. Because his life didn’t matter. It never had.

Nico had been hurt as a child. Over and over and over and over. By those who were supposed to protect him, supposed to love him. Wolfwood hadn’t. Instead, he’d hurt those he loved. He’d killed them. He shadowed over his youth. No longer able to look at his reflection in a passing mirror for fear he’d see the kid he once was. Because he was scared. So goddamned scared. Scared he’d see the monster he’d become. The monster he knew he was. The one he’d always been.

After all, he’d been a monster at a young age. Never innocent. Never pure. He could blame the Priest, the religion, whomever he wanted for taking him, torturing him, creating him. But the truth was, Wolfwood was created long before the Eye of Michael. He was birthed in hot water, burning flesh, and a pool of blood. Morphed between the shaky hands of a seven-year-old boy and endless tears. A killer the moment Nico took his first breath in this world, the second he’d prayed to a nonexistent being to save him.

Nico had killed his own flesh and blood. Nico had killed Livio. He’d gotten close. He’d been stupid. He’d made empty promises he couldn’t keep. That was something Wolfwood would have never done. Something he didn’t do. Relationships didn’t matter. Interfering just made things worse. Emotions made you weak. Trust me. Those are the eyes of a good guy…

He’d tried to justify what he did. Tried to abide by mercy. But it was all the same. He was still a bad guy. A lost cause. Worthless. He couldn’t save anyone. He could never save anyone. The world didn’t stop when he was taken, when he was tortured, when his childhood was ripped away from him, and it damn sure wasn’t going to stop now… No one cared about him. He had accepted it a long time ago. The world wouldn’t mourn when he was gone. And he was fine with that.

“Here, Stampede, keep this on the moron’s forehead.”

Hot breath panted past his lips dryly, a wet rag pressed firmly against the heated flesh on his forehead. Water dripping past his hairline, down his cheeks, and Wolfwood sighed, letting the water-logged cloth soak his face momentarily. He swallowed, his stomach shifting, and he squeezed his eyes tighter, hoping he’d pass out already. Hoping he could forget everything. It was just so fucking hot.

“The next town is only a few hours away- if we leave now, we could make it there before sunrise!”

“Slow your roll, Newbie. It’s dark out there, and if anything happens with the car, I’d rather not deal with it when it’s pitch black. Those lights can only see so far, you know. Besides, I’m pretty sure if you start off, with the way you drive, we’ll have more than just his fever to worry about.”

Meryl made a small noise of discomfort, her fingers gripping the back of her seat nervously as she looked between Vash, Wolfwood, and Roberto. She bites her bottom lip, pressing her fingers tighter against the cushioned material, shivering slightly as the cold air pricked her skin. She hums anxiously, “Hm. I really think we should drive on though. The town could have a doctor… I think he really needs-”

“We’ll see how he is when we reach the next town,” Roberto cuts her off gruffly, “See how he is in the next few hours. But I’m not really sure if a doctor would be able to help much. You see those scars? Something tells me our conman here isn’t exactly normal in the human department.”

Meryl grumbles slightly as she turns back towards Wolfwood cradled protectively against Vash’s chest. She wants to roll her eyes, to tell Roberto he’s wrong, to ignore him like she normally does; she wants to turn around, start the car and plow through the fucking dark desert in order to reach the next town. Because she’s pretty sure Wolfwood’s dying. Or at least, he looks like he’s dying as sweat pales down his face, glistening sharply in the moonlight; his breathing, sporadic and uneven, heaved against his chest through a half-open mouth, and every sound grated past his chapped lips, felt heavy in her ears.

She bites her bottom lip again, clutching her fingers against the chair. Wolfwood looked so small in Vash’s arms. Childish. Innocent. Wrong. She hadn’t heard him mutter a word, choke out an intimidatingly friendly insult or reach for a crumpled cigarette, since this afternoon. But that had been several hours ago. Several long hours. And she wasn’t really sure the meds they’d managed to get into him would help much... would help the way a doctor could. But despite ignoring almost every other order Roberto had ever given her, she was too afraid to disobey now. She was too afraid he was right. After all, the older man seemed much calmer in this type of situation than she was, than she felt.

Besides, the older man was right; the few scars she could make out lined beneath the top four buttons Roberto had undone in hopes to reduce some of the heat sitting on the gunman’s skin, looked anything but normal. Looked like Wolfwood had gone through something… something a normal person couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Something traumatic. Horrifying. Painful. I grew up in an orphanage… I lost my parents at a young age too. Wolfwood’s words hadn’t meant much to her, but thinking about them now, hearing them echo over their first meeting, sent chills down her spine as she continued to stare. Small dark lines from previous wounds painted against tan sweaty flesh. And that was just from the several she could see, sweating against the moonlight and dim lighting from the Jeep’s shitty overhead light… there was no telling how many more he actually had.

Desert wind howled outside, brushing against the green Jeep noisily, seeping past the cracked windows as Meryl shivered again. The air was cold, her white jacket barely able to hold in her body heat, but they’d been trying to cool Wolfwood off since they stopped. Since they parked, harbored under a crumbling rock formation that threatened to fall. Since they’d realized the gunman was probably a little worse off than originally thought.

It hadn’t taken long after they all piled back in the Jeep for things to take a sharp turn. Vash was getting on Wolfwood’s nerves, an argument filling the small cabin which, by some grace of God, Meryl had managed to dissipate. Honestly, that should have been the first sign. The fact that Wolfwood gave in so easily, especially to her. But it wasn’t until she’d glanced in the rearview mirror a few short hours later, smirking as she met Vash, asleep against the window, his mouth open, one hand draped over Wolfwood tentatively, the other resting in the gunman’s hair, that she began to feel uneasy. Seeing Wolfwood twisted in on himself, his arms wrapped around his stomach, his knees to his chest, black worm-covered hair falling in his face as his head rested against the red coat folded over Vash’s thigh, caused anxiety to rise in her chest.

She hadn’t known Wolfwood long. Maybe only for a few months. But he didn’t seem like the type of guy who’d be okay with his current situation. He didn’t seem like he’d be okay with being fussed over, being shown this level of comfort, of compassion… at least, not without some type of resistance, without some type of fight, some argument. And yet, seeing him curled against Vash, felt wrong. So very wrong. And so uncharacteristically alarming.

They’d driven an hour more in hushed conversations and religious broadcasts, the sun setting behind them, when Vash had started to panic. The soft stir in the backseat as the blonde moved slightly, his head jerking up as he jolted awake. He glanced around slowly, an uncomfortable chill washing through the cabin, and Vash looked down, his breathing suddenly hitched. Alarmed uncertainty sitting heavy in the dusty air, hot and stifling. She could feel it, the shift of legs against the back of her seat, and she blinked up towards the mirror to see concern flash across Vash’s face. Vash was panicking, isolated and quiet… but panicking, nonetheless. His body was tense as if he was scared to move too quickly, scared to relax, his breathing short and uneven through an open mouth, and his blue eyes briefly met Meryl’s in the mirror. He’d made a noise, high-pitched and cut off, and shifted some more as he sat up straighter. Roberto had noticed it too, turning around to face the blonde man, his voice rough and low as he asked, “What’s going on, kid?”

Meryl had slowed her speed, taking her foot off the pedal as the Jeep crawled to a leisurely pace, and turned around, meeting Vash’s eyes before he looked back down. He smiled nervously, his fingers still pressed in the other gunman’s hair, his arm curling around him protectively as Wolfwood mumbled something incoherent. Vash shook his head, “I-I don’t know. His fever’s rising, I think… he’s hot now. And he… smells different.”

“Come again?” Roberto deadpanned as confusion flashed across Meryl’s face, “Because all I can smell is rotting worm guts, blood, cigarette smoke, and sweat…”

Vash shook his head again, glancing back down at Wolfwood, “It’s… hard to explain. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a plant thing.”

Roberto hummed but said nothing else as he pulled his flask from his jacket pocket, taking a slow steady drink, glancing between the gunmen, then towards Meryl. He returned the flask, running a hand through his brown hair before leaning further in, pressing a hand against Wolfwood’s cheek then forehead. He frowned as a curse left his lips, “Well, I can’t speak to changes in smell or whatever, but the moron’s definitely burning up. We should probably find somewhere to camp for the night. We’ll need to try and cool him off soon… kid’s fever’s pretty damn high.”

It hadn’t taken long before they found camp. If you could even call it that. And the dust storm outside had begun to pick up pace, blowing sand against the Jeep, slipping through cracked windows and slightly open doors as Meryl turned the vehicle off. Wind beating against the rusty metal, creaking against the frame as the sky darkened and sand swirled around the Jeep.

Roberto had tried to undo Wolfwood’s shirt, tried to pry it from his heated skin to lessen the number of things plastered against him. He’d managed to undo the top couple of buttons before Wolfwood caught his wrist, stopping him from going any further. It’d been surprising considering they hadn’t thought the gunman was awake, let alone conscious. But it wasn’t until the older man had tried again, his calloused fingers fumbling for another loose button, Wolfwood again gripping his wrist, his fingers tight and threatening despite barely clinging to consciousness, that he’d realized trying to wrestle the dampened shirt from his frame wasn’t going to happen.

After that, Roberto had settled on the first three, and exited the Jeep momentarily to fish out the first-aid mandated to them before they left headquarters. He clambered back into the vehicle, coughing roughly as sand forced its way down his throat, pausing to take a short steady drink from his flask before throwing open the small med kit. He rummaged through the tin, his eyes briefly meeting Meryl then Vash as the two watched intently. He snorted as he glanced back down, throwing several small packages aside before pulling out a small medicine bottle.

He shook the bottle, frowning as he popped the lid and peered at the four small tablets inside. Medicine was hard to come by, especially in No Man’s Land… but the people at headquarters were fucking cheapskates. Seriously. He sighed as he tapped out two pills, turning them over in his hand slowly, trying to figure out what they were. After a few minutes he shrugged, shaking his head before turning towards Vash, handing the small tablets to the blonde. Vash glanced down then back up, and Roberto handed him the water container he’d abandoned several days ago on the floor of the Jeep when he’d filled his flask at a local cafe. He cleared his throat, “See if you can get the conman to take those.”

Vash nodded slowly, shifting Wolfwood against him, pulling him up carefully before whispering his name several times. Roberto turned back towards the med kit, scrounging through it as he heard Vash talking, Wolfwood mumbling something that he didn’t catch, and Meryl holding her breath. He rolled his eyes as he picked up several small packets, ripping open the tops to peer inside, hoping there was more meds somewhere in the small tin. From what he saw, there wasn’t. But for some ungodly reason, they had a fuck-ton of bandages. But bandages wouldn’t do shit against a fever… especially one currently as high as the kid’s.

The older man ran a hand through his hair as Wolfwood choked, coughing roughly, and Roberto jerked his head towards the backseat as Meryl shrieked. He shifted, pressing his body between the seats as Wolfwood choked again, and he gripped his hands against the gunman’s shoulder as Vash panicked. Roberto cursed under his breath, meeting the blonde’s frantic blue eyes, before clearing his throat, “Get him up. We need to get him up. Now!”

Vash moved quickly, seemingly understanding what Roberto was wanting, what he needed… that he was in charge. He grasped his arm around Wolfwood’s shoulders, forcing the other gunman up quickly as Wolfwood gagged loudly, his head falling forward, his messy black hair shielding his face as his body lurched forward, and he retched. Roberto winced as vomit splattered across the Jeep’s floor, his arms steady as he shifted the younger man towards the side, keeping him steady so he didn’t topple forward, Vash repositioning so he was supporting his back.

His fingers clasped tightly against the gunman’s forearm, sweat soaking through the grey damp fabric of his shirt as Wolfwood heaved again, and the older man let out a long sigh. The kid wasn’t keeping down the meds, let alone water. That wasn’t good. And they only had two tablets left now… the next town a few hours away…

Wolfwood groaned loudly as his body sagged, and Roberto pushed him back gently as Vash shifted again, bringing the gunman against him, cradled protectively against his chest. At least he was good at comfort, Roberto wasn’t. The older man watched, biting the bottom of his lip as he glanced over Wolfwood’s features. The kid was pale. Red set high across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, sweat glistening down his face in worrying trails of dirt, rotting worm and caked blood. He was listless. Lethargic. Barely able to keep his eyes open and unresponsive to his surroundings. Never mind the fact that Vash had mentioned he smelled different… whatever the hell that was about. But Roberto didn’t need to be a doctor to know that whatever was wrong with the gunman, whatever Wolfwood had… wasn’t good.

He leaned his back against the dash of the Jeep, feeling Meryl’s eyes fixed on him as he continued to watch the rise and fall of Wolfwood’s chest. He swallowed slowly, his eyes dancing across the scars littered against tanned skin. Several small, barely noticeable… but the two he could see, the two he could make out; big and painful to look at. Roberto had been a reporter long enough to know there were darker things lurking out there. Darker than any damage religions like the Eye of Michael or Millions Knives could ever inflict. And staring at the scars on Wolfwood’s chest, hidden deep underneath the sweaty grey fabric of his long-sleeved button down, Roberto saw it. The scars that weren’t made from bullets or knives or injuries obtained while living in desolation. Scars that were older than the rest, that told a story, that hid a story… that told Roberto that Wolfwood’s childhood was anything but happy.

“We need to try and cool him off. We’ll try more meds and water in a little bit,” Roberto mumbled as the gunman groaned again, pulling the older man from his thoughts. He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the tattered rag he’d used earlier to wipe grease and dust away from his fingers while he changed the tire. It was dirty as hell, but given clothes were hard to come by these days and nothing else was readily available, it’d have to work. He gripped one corner of the rag, ripping off a long piece, and glanced around the small cabin, yanking his water canteen from the floor, uncapping it loudly.

“How do you know what to do? Do you have kids or something?” Meryl asked as Roberto opened the canteen, spilling water over the ripped cloth before folding it, and setting the water container against Wolfwood’s thigh. He handled the rag carefully, his eyes meeting Meryl’s briefly as he leaned between the seats again, setting the dripping fabric across the gunman’s forehead. He smirked slightly as Wolfwood flinched before sighing, his eyebrows scrunching together as his heated mind tried to understand his surroundings.

Roberto flopped back in his seat, ripping another piece off the rag as Meryl repeated the question. Again, the older man met her gaze slowly, and he swallowed, his fingers clenched against the cloth as he resisted the urge to grasp for his flask. Getting drunk wasn’t going to help right now. Wouldn’t help the kid… wouldn’t help them. Especially given both Meryl and Vash seemed five seconds away from panicking completely. He glanced back down, continuing to rip the fabric, exhaling, “No… I’m just a reporter, Newbie.”

Meryl hummed in response, and the older man bit his lip hoping she didn’t have follow-ups. Any good reporter would. Would have questions. Comments. But Roberto was tired. And he didn’t really want to talk about his past. Because it didn’t matter much. Not anymore. Talking about it wasn’t going to bring anyone back. Wasn’t going to bring them back. And it wouldn’t let his memories die. Drown. Like he wanted to do every time he sucked down the laughable amount of alcohol his flask held. It wouldn’t help. It never did.

They sat in silence after that. The sound of the sandstorm whipping around them, brushing angrily against the metal frame of the green Jeep, chipping against the glass windows, and seeping through any-and-all cracks and crevices.  

But that’d been two hours ago, and now… now it seemed like whatever Roberto tried, Wolfwood’s fever wasn’t budging. Wasn’t coming down. Wasn’t breaking. He’d managed to coax the kid into swallowing the remaining pills and a miniscule amount of water; he’d managed to undo another button on his gray shirt before the gunman stopped him again; and he’d managed to keep a continuous cycle of wet rags pressed against his overheated flesh. But other than that, he couldn’t do much else. He wasn’t a doctor. Just a reporter. Nothing more.

Wolfwood stirred again, opening his eyes despite the nauseating sensation swirling in his stomach. He swallowed violently as he squinted against the dim overhead light, shadowed unfocused figures looming over him. He pants, air heavy and forced through his chest as he licks his dry lips, trying to force nonexistent moisture to his mouth.

“Tongari,” Wolfwood called weakly. He’s pretty sure the nickname barely whispers past his lips. Everything’s dry. Cottony. Hazy. Dizzy. Hard to understand. And he’s pretty sure this is what dying would feel like… what the pain from bullets or knives or wounds left unhealed would feel like if he could actually feel them. If he let them fester. If he let them go. Bleeding out in the middle of the unforgiving desert, the sun melting against his face as the sand buried him alive under millions and millions of tiny harsh grains. Yeah, he guessed it would feel something like this. You pathetic worthless child…

Vash’s face fills his vision, and Wolfwood sighs as the nickname left his lips again. Metallic fingers brushed through his hair gently, pushing sweat-soaked bangs away from his face. A wet rag meets burning flesh. A gasp leaves his mouth. And Vash’s smile hangs over him. That smile. His fake fucking smile. It usually makes Wolfwood sick to look at, hurts to look at… but right now, it’s all he has. All he has to hang onto. To keep him conscious.

He shifts as best he can. Vash’s arms loosening around him so he can move before settling over him again, tightening their grip around him in an embrace meant to be comforting. Wolfwood grasps Vash’s black shirt in his hand, his fingers, slow and uncoordinated, as the feeling of stiff unwashed fabric burns against his skin. If he was lucid enough, aware enough, he’d shove himself away from the blonde. From being held. Because this was shameful. Insufferable. Childish… But the world was hot, on fire, swallowing him in a heated exhaustion. And Vash? Vash was the only clear thing in his mind. The only thing he could count on right now. The only thing he could grasp. How idiotic was that… how pathetic. You can kill some friends…

He remembers Livio clinging to him several times when they were little. Waking in the middle of the night or while napping under the harsh sun to find the younger boy wrapped around him, his head plastered to Wolfwood’s chest in a disgusting fashion. He’d tried to shove the kid away a few times before realizing he wouldn’t budge… and after that, Wolfwood found he never really minded the physical contact. Especially when he wasn’t feeling well. Not that he got sick often, not that he told the Sister he was… but having someone lying next to him, hearing their steady breathing, feeling their warmth, and knowing someone needed him, felt nice.

Being needed was nice. No one had ever needed Wolfwood because no one had ever wanted him. No one had ever wanted Nico either… no one could. That’s what made Nico weak… the weaker version of himself. Because he needed people. Needed them a sure hell of a lot more than they needed him. Than they wanted him. That’s why Nico was weak. So freaking weak. It was revolting.

Voices met his ears, and Wolfwood opened his eyes again, blonde hair spinning above him in a mass of orange, blue and black. His fingers tightening around Vash’s shirt, pulling the collar down slightly as he tried to keep himself from slipping, from disappearing. From drowning in the darkness. He wanted to sleep. To fade away, but not into the darkness. His darkness. The vast dark nothing where his past lived, where his memories stood behind lock doors. The dark part of his mind where he couldn’t fight without the dull haze of nicotine or alcohol or drugs.

But there was too much heat. Too much eating through a fevered delirium that he couldn’t grasp. Too much that sent every one of his senses blaring in a kaleidoscope of directions that made Wolfwood want to scream, to puke. Nausea sitting heavy in his stomach, the water from earlier churning violently, and the gunman bit back a harsh gag.

He’s lifted again, jostled against Vash as his forehead smacks against the blonde’s neck. A canteen pressed against his mouth carefully, and Wolfwood took a small slow sip before turning his head. He didn’t want water. Not right now. It wasn’t helping. Wasn’t drowning the heat plaguing his body. Wasn’t stopping the shivering wracked through his frame. Wasn’t helping the heavy warmth twisting in his stomach. You’re a monster…

Nico.

He groaned, another rag finding its way to the back of his neck. He flinched, water dripping down his back as he tried moving his arms, his fingers itching as pain began to eat at his fingertips again… but the movement was useless. Futile. Small. Heat was all he had right now. Heat. Exhaustion. Nausea. And Vash. How fucked-up was that. How pathetic.

Wolfwood shivered, a hand trailing up and down his spine as more voices danced around him. He blinked as shadows moved in the dim light, moonlight bleeding past the dirty Jeep windows, smacking against his face. His mouth feels heavy and slow, his mind muddled, wrong, drugged… childish.

He coughs, shifting his head, pressing his forehead harder against the crook of Vash’s neck, trying to force the cooler skin against his burning temple. Trying to find the comfort he didn’t deserve. The comfort he’d never deserved. Sweat paling down his face in nauseating waves and a gentle hand circling warmly against his shoulders, his back. Pathetic. Worthless. Child. Demon child S-plus...

His stomach cramps violently, and he swallows lightly before his whole body lurches forward. He heaves loudly, clenching his eyes against the watery vomit that rushes up his throat, Vash tensing against him. The hand pressed against Wolfwood’s fevered back falters for a moment before grasping firmly against his shoulder, and the gunman shivers. A sickening hiccup leaves his mouth before he heaves again, his forehead once again smacking against Vash’s neck, and he clutches his fingers against stiff black material as words reach him.

“It’s okay. It’s alright; you don’t feel well. It’s fine. Just get it up. I’m not mad. It’s okay…”

Wolfwood flinches, coughing roughly as his head falls backward, his vision unfocused and dizzy. His bangs fall from his face, a wet cloth smacking against his forehead as he stares at the overhead light of the shitty Jeep cabin. Something wipes across his mouth roughly, and the gunman blinks. His clothes feel wet. Warm. Disgusting. The smell of rotting flesh, worm itching against his skin, blood and dirt singed in his nostrils, and the stench of sickness overpowering him. Bathing him. Puddled on Vash’s red coat and down his shirt. Those are the eyes…

Vash fills his vision, and Wolfwood closes his eyes. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. It was too fucking hot. He was too fucking hot. Burning. Pathetic. Maybe this was Hell. Maybe this was another wonderful side effect of the Priest’s doing. Maybe he was still strapped to that cold table, surrounded by pools of his own blood and reckless breathing. Or maybe he was still drowning in boiling water, still being held down by hands that supposedly believed. By hands that were supposed to be gentle. Supposed to care for him. Supposed to love him.

But no one had ever cared for him. Loved him. Wanted him. No one had ever cared for or loved Nico. And no one was going to care for or love Wolfwood. He was too big of a monster. Too messed up. Too destructive. The people around him had taken him, crushed him, cursed him into an unlovable thing. And he’d killed the only thing Nico truly cared for. The one person Nico truly loved. The one thing he’d promised to protect. The one person he wanted to. The one he couldn’t. His little brother. Because Nico was just too fucking useless. Pathetic. Weak. And Wolfwood was unrecognizable. That monster was not the kid you knew. Keeping it alive, would have been torture…

What a hypocrite.

………………………………

“When the ark fell all those years ago, it cast upon our land those who sin. Brothers and sisters join us as we pray to God to bless us with an angel to befall us, to wipe the land of desolate evil things. To cleanse our land and free us from…”

Pain was the first thing he registered when he came to. The ache, fierce and blinding, eating his fingers, latched between the dried bits of worm and blood still plastered on sweaty flesh. His arms limp and disorienting weights he couldn’t control, couldn’t move. His muscles hurt, burned, torn from old bones so young, and every breath wheezed through dry lips, heavy, thick, airless.

Voices met his ears in a loud chaotic mess through hushed tones, and Wolfwood winced. Every cell in his body, every scar littered across his arms, shoulders, chest, torso lighting tiny fires that pricked his skin, rooted under his flesh, feeling as though they were being ripped open all over again. Sliced with one of the silver scalpels lining the Priest’s table. Watching. Waiting. For the experiments to begin. For the side effects to be noted. Jotted down with a disapproving tone through some drug-induced haze that left Wolfwood sick. And it was only going to get worse from here. So much worse.

He swallowed as he curled one of his hands, willing his eyes open against the harsh sunlight that pierced through the dusty window of a small shitty room to some desolate inn. He glanced around slowly, his eyes searching while he tried to keep his head as still as he could. A migraine cutting behind his eyes, trailing across his cheekbones, following his jawline and stumbling down his neck and across his shoulders. Something smacked lightly against his forehead, and Wolfwood blinked as Roberto smirked down at him, his gruff fingers smoothing over the cold rag before sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling out his flask, taking a few slow drinks.

“I’m telling you; he needs a doctor!”

Roberto turned, Wolfwood following with his eyes as the older man sighed, “I hear you, Newbie. I do. But we used the last of our monthly allowance on a few rooms. And with the way the townsfolk reacted yesterday when we arrived, I highly doubt they’ll be willing to help out a couple of fugitives… especially given we’re traveling with the Walking Disaster, the Humanoid Typhoon. Besides, this… those scars, all of them, and those burns- kind of hard to explain to any sane person. Hell, even I don’t really understand it.”

Wolfwood groaned as he turned back towards the ceiling as Roberto gestured in his direction. He didn’t want to think about what they were looking at. What they could see. How many of them they could see pitted against his tanned flesh. What was usually shadowed beneath dark clothing and clouds of cigarette smoke. What he kept hidden.

“I have a few theories…,” Meryl mumbled as Roberto stood, stretching his legs. Wolfwood exhaled shakily, blinking against the dust that hung heavy in the air, shoving a breath past his lips as his chest began to burn. He needed to pull himself together. To get a handle on his current situation. Because everything was about to get so much worse for him. He was weak. Vulnerable. He wouldn’t be able to hold down the stupid pain that raged through his muscles and bones, that tore at his skin and made it hard to breathe, much longer. He needed to leave. To be alone. Before he couldn’t. Before he found himself gasping for air as his body tried to reroute his nerve-endings, tried to grasp at chemicals his brain had fucked up long ago. Before the pain was redirected, bright and burning, and he felt everything. Because they didn’t need to know how much it hurt. How much he hurt. How weak he truly was.

He shifted slightly, scraping an arm across the sheets as he tried forcing his head up. The movement was rough and jarring, his vision swimming as his stomach protested the action of moving. The air thick and nauseating as he breathed slowly through his nose, pounding echoing behind his eyes as the sun hit him again. He winced as the light pierced through him, his dark shades gone, leaving his vision unprotected and off-kilter, swaying in a multitude of hard-to-place colors. Everything was too bright. Too focused. Too hazy. He swallowed harshly as bile rose in his throat and went to move a leg before a firm hand pressed against his shoulder, holding him in place, and the gunman glanced up to find Roberto hovering over him. The older man chuckled softly, “Stay down, Conman. You’ll wake the Stampede.”

Confusion crossed Wolfwood’s face as his head hit the pillow heavily, and he glanced to his left to find Vash passed out next to him. His blonde hair draped haphazardly over his face, his expression calm and steady through closed eyelids and an open mouth. The gunman exhaled slowly, biting his bottom lip as he realized Vash’s prosthetic arm was strewn across his torso protectively. You pathetic worthless child.

His stomach twisted violently, and Wolfwood closed his eyes as tuned out the remaining conversation. He didn’t care what they were talking about. He didn’t want to know. The room around him was too hot for that. His body was hurting too much for that. And the thought that he didn’t have long before the pain flared and swallowed him whole, left him dizzy and nauseous. Weak.

Cool fingers pressed against his cheek, and Wolfwood hates himself. Hates the feeling of steady fingers brushing through his sweaty hair. Hates the feeling of gentle fingers tracing along his hairline. Hates that he’s holding his breath. Hates that he’s hoping they stay… that this feels nice. Hates that he wants this level of comfort. Needs it. Yearns for it.

Nico.

He opens his eyes, moving his head slightly to find Meryl sitting on the side of the bed. She’s biting her bottom lip, a nervous expression plastered on her face, and Wolfwood can’t help but smirk. She’s worried; concern painted across her features with no attempt to hide her emotions. How stupid. How childish. How… sweet.

She runs her hand through his hair again, “Roberto went to see if he could smuggle some more meds somewhere… and I’m sure, refill his flask.”

Her voice is low. Gentle. Kind. And Wolfwood winces. He isn’t used to this level of caring. He isn’t used to this side of her. This side directed towards him. It feels wrong. Sick. Pathetic. He clears his throat, the muscles in his arms beginning to ache as he turns back towards the ceiling. Vash’s arm shifts on his torso, and he flinches as the metal drags across his skin gently, scrapping over his flesh in a painful friction. Shit.

Wolfwood swallows. Pain running up his fingers, burning against his skin as it envelopes his wrists, flittered across his arms. The muscles in his arms seize, tightening as he stills his hands, and Wolfwood sucks in a sharp breath, shutting his eyes. He clenches his jaw, the sheets plastered under him heating against his skin, pricking violently at his body. He holds his breath, clenching his eyes tighter as Meryl asks him what’s wrong.

There’s a tone of panic in her voice, and Wolfwood wonders for a second just how pitiful he looks. How hurt he looks… how stupid. He chokes, his lungs burning as the air crashes over him, thick, jagged, heavy. A sharp ringing in his ears as his senses began to malfunction, his body spinning on a still bed that was supposed to be soft and comforting under his fevered skin, supposed to help him sleep, but only hurt, rough, solid, agonizing against his sweaty flesh. He hisses as his fingers knock against each other, “H-Hurts.”

It's a stupid statement. A pathetic attempt to convey what was wrong. To calm the nervous shift of Meryl as she scoots closer. But words were hard to focus right now. Hard to muddle through as the heat overtakes him and everything starts to overload, starts to overwhelm him. His skin itching, his fingers twitching, his breathing uneven, shallow, bitter. His mind reels, and his stomach threatens rebellion.

Meryl’s fingers find his arm, and Wolfwood flinches hard. He’d jerk away, move, if he could; her fingers cutting at his skin with gentle pressure that should have been soothing and kind. But it wasn’t. It hurt. And it was his fault. His fucking fault, because his brain was messed up, his nerve-endings screwed up as everything was rerouted, redirected. Meryl hums, her voice soft and low as if she’s talking to a child, “What hurts?”

Wolfwood shakes his head, clenching his eyes further, biting the inside of his cheek as he exhales. He wants her to stop touching him. To back away. Because she couldn’t help him. She couldn’t save him from this. The damage was already done. So long ago. Through sharp needles and burning scalpels. Through drug-induced hazes and nauseating colors of memories that felt fuzzy, fake, and yet, all too real. All too his.  

“Undertaker?”

Air pants through his mouth, halfway open, eating away his insides, raw and bleeding. Behind closed eyelids, the room spins, blood coating his tongue as he concentrates on the pain laced in the back of his throat. His skin crawls as her fingers ghost over him again, sweet and caring. Warm flesh sanded across his sweaty skin, leaving trails of fire etched along small scars. The sheets draped over him, rubbing against his skin as his chest heaves. The deep ache biting at his bones, digging in his muscles. He bites back a whimper, anger washing through him momentarily because he wasn’t this weak… and yet, in this moment, right now, he was so goddamn vulnerable. It was stupidly pathetic.

“Nicholas?”

“Touch,” He huffs, his mouth dry, desolate, shaky. He exhales unsteadily as her small fingers leave his arm. She shifts uncomfortably, “Touch? My touch?”

Wolfwood responds lowly, opening his eyes to a spinning room. He swallows, his breathing harsh and sporadic as the volume picks up around him, and he bites back a whimper. The sunlight filtered through, brightens, shoved violently against his irises, and the gunman wants to close his eyes, wants to bury his head, to find something darker to shield him. But he can’t. Can’t force his eyes shut. Not yet. Not until he knows she won’t touch him again. Not until he knows she’ll leave him alone…

Sympathy sits heavily across her face as Wolfwood locks eyes with her, and she reaches an unsure hand towards him as the gunman winces again. He flinches as she nears, an unnerving expression in his eyes as he tries glaring towards her, tries to look threatening, tough, dangerous. He cut off a sharp inhale as he shoves air past his lips quickly, her fingers ghosting over the heat radiating off his cheek. Wolfwood swallows, “Don’t… please.”

Wolfwood turned his head back towards the wooden ceiling. He didn’t want to see the look flash across her face. He didn’t want to see the concern etched in the corner of her eyes or hear the weak plea leave his lips again. He didn’t want to be here. To be so vulnerable. So open. But he didn’t have a choice right now. He couldn’t do anything else. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. And you’ve left yourself wide open. Again…

The gunman coughs, air shoving past his lips as he struggles to take in a full lungful. His heart beating at a pace he couldn’t breathe. His chest heaving weakly. It hurt to breathe. To think. To live. Every tiny scar painted across his body scorching against flesh that was already overheated, exhausted, overwhelmed. The sheets grating against his skin as his fingers twitched; dried worm, sweat and old blood felt like knives pierced against his flesh, sharp and bleeding.

The first time it’d happened, several years ago, several months ago, whenever… Wolfwood had tried to drown the pain in blue vials. But as it turned out, by some cruel fucked-up fate or perhaps just dumb luck, his super juice or whatever the Priest had called it, didn’t work. It never worked. Not on pain that wasn’t supposed to be there. Not on things that weren’t supposed to feel like he was dying. That’s why the experiments had messed up his nerve-endings, scrambling the chemicals in his brain to rid his body the mortal feeling of bullets slicing through his skin or wounds received while serving his time… creating, making him an unstoppable weapon. Almost.

The stupid blue serum only worked on bullet wounds, physical injuries, blood, burns… not on sickness. Not on things that weren’t supposed to hurt him. Not on scars he’d acquired a long time ago. On scars he refused to heal properly. Not on himself. On his mind. Besides he was running low. So even if the tasteless blue shit could fix him, it’d be a terrible waste of a vial.

Wolfwood winced loudly, clenching his eyes towards the ceiling as a choked cry left his mouth. He grit his teeth as something shifted beside him quickly, the weight of Vash’s arm strewn across his chest, leaving, and Wolfwood realized he’d woken the blonde up. Fucking great. Now they’d both know just how fucking pathetic he really was… how weak he was. How insufferable.      

He tightened his fists, his fingernails digging into the flesh on his palms, and Wolfwood felt something dripping past his fingers, down his wrists, running under his nails. No doubt blood… the wounds on his fingers and hands reopening, the scabs forced from healing flesh through strain. He’d reopened wounds before, scars almost healed, blood seeping through his shirt or pants from physical force, from clenching his muscles, his limbs, forcing his body still against clothes that felt like fucking sandpaper on his skin. It didn’t matter much if he moved or stayed still. The feeling never changed; it was always there, there until he blacked out and woke up feeling the overwhelming numbness again. Until the next time. You’re a monster…

Every scar on his body burned. Biting under fabric that felt heavy, rough, tormenting. His hands shaking again, fingers bloody, the bones in them felt crushed under pressure, cracking as Wolfwood locked his jaw. Another sharp cry forced its way up his throat, and he flinched as he forced his eyes tighter. This wasn’t a wave like earlier. This time the pain wasn’t going to pass, wasn’t going to move on quickly. It’d linger. Drag out until he lost consciousness. Sometimes he could get himself drunk or high enough to pass out from intoxication… but not now. Not when he couldn’t sit up on his own. Not when the world around him passed in dizzying rays of too bright, off-kilter colors. Not when the thought of putting anything in his stomach, even water, made him want to puke… not when the thought of even smoking a crumpled cigarette made him nauseous. Not when everything was so hot it made everything hazy, thick, and sickening. He was really freaking useless sometimes. So uselessly pathetic.

Nico.

His chest burned as he panted out a hot breath, his lungs seizing as they barely accepted the miniscule amount of air he was willing to take in. He felt like he was back in that rusty tub as a child. Trying to breathe through an airless environment. Boiling water drowning his nostrils, blistering his throat, filling his lungs until he was pulled up, until he was allowed to breathe again. He wheezed, his nails bending backwards against his palms as he bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from screaming. Blood pooled in his mouth, drowning his tongue in a coppery wave that made his stomach lurch, and someone shifted to his left again. Vash.

Fingers brushed over his arm, and the gunman forced his eyes open to an alienated vibrancy as pain seared under the cool metallic hand pressed gently on his arm. He tried forcing a glare, but his eyes only met wide concerned blue ones. You’ve known me for all of a day and yet, you’ve let me out of your sight more than a couple times now…

“Don’t touch him.”

Wolfwood shut his eyes again as Vash’s hand left his arm, and he clamped down against the inside of his cheek harder. Blood sitting in his throat, painting his mouth as he felt his teeth break skin once more. He let out a shallow breath as Meryl’s voice washed over him again, “He doesn’t want anyone to touch him.”

Vash shifted, something spoken that the gunman couldn’t grasp, didn’t want to. Because it hurt too much. To listen. To try and concentrate past all the other sounds engulfing him. Past the frantic heartbeat of Vash as his breathing hitched. Past the anxious breathing between Meryl’s lips. Past the sound of his skin sliding across sheets that were supposed to be cool and comforting. Past the kids screaming outside or the people singing drunkenly downstairs. Past the steady drip of the sink faucet or the creaking from someone in the next room over. Past the high-pitched hum of worms buzzing outside the window or the sound of radio static whispered through worn-out speakers.

Any other day. Any other good day, he could control his heightened senses. He could keep them in check. Keep them dulled through endless clouds of smoke and restless sleep. But not now. Not when he was like this. Not when his body hurt to be alive. When it felt like everything he’d ever experienced, everything that was supposed to hurt, had come back to haunt him, to mock him. Had come back in the form of light touches and weak breathing. Luckily it didn’t happen often… most of the time, an annoying twitch in his fingers or dry headache behind his eyes, but when it did hit him, when he couldn’t focus… well. A dream come true, yes?

Every little boy Wolfwood knew, every kid at the orphanage had wanted to be a superhero. To be special. Better than your average human. To escape. Even Livio. But not Nico. Nico had just wanted a normal life with a normal family. Parents who loved him. An Aunt who hadn’t hurt him. People who didn’t hurt him… people who loved him. To be a normal kid. To grow up normal. To live a normal life. And die a normal death. All he had wanted was to survive…

But instead, Nico got Wolfwood. A monster. A weapon. A useless excuse for his past mistakes… forsaken, unclean, dangerous. Soulless. Unforgivable. Destructive. A fucking Executioner. How pathetic.

His Aunt had believed he needed to be punished. That he was the epitome of sin, of religious abandonment. She’d tried to cleanse him. To strip him of evil. She’d punished him in the name of God’s love in order to save him. A cross over his heart as an active plea with God. And if she was here now, she’d tell him he deserved this. Deserved this pain. For the monster he’d become. For the sins that washed over him every time he breathed. And maybe she’d be right. Maybe she was. Because he wasn’t a good guy. He wasn’t innocent. Pure. Righteous. He’d deserved what happened to him. What he did at such a young age. He deserved the pain now, the experiments of his youth, the stripped innocence for what he did. To her. To them. To everyone else. To Livio. After all, there was no sympathy for the devil. No rest for the wicked. No redemption for the things he’d done. He couldn’t save his childhood. He couldn’t save his past. And he damn sure couldn’t save himself. Not now. Not anymore.

He bit harder against the inside of his cheek as a sharp cry left his mouth again, blood dusting his lips as he clenched his fists harder. His muscles burned…. It felt like every tendon, every vein was being ripped out, burst open under skin that was too tight, too cut up, that refused to bleed despite feeling so open, so raw. So vulnerable. The sun burning against his flesh, his world suffocating under heated air he couldn’t breathe through lungs that stopped working.

Nico had been a coward. Was a coward. A stupid kid who thought the weight of the world rested on his shoulders, thought that he could spit in the face of evil because he’d done it before… Nico had caused pain where Wolfwood showed mercy. Always. Mercy. What a worthless excuse. Wolfwood had taken lives, killed hundreds, thousands… countless, gunned them down as they begged for their lives, cursed his name, called him a monster. And yet, Nico had caused more pain than the gunman ever could. You pathetic worthless…

He’d gotten close. Formed relationships. Loved people. Needed them. Unlike Wolfwood, Nico hadn’t been scared, terrified of needing people, of wanting them… afraid of loving them and being loved, in return. He hadn’t wanted to hurt people. To hurt those around him. Hadn’t meant to kill them. Nico had been a better version, the better version of Wolfwood in every single way. In the end, Nico talked a big game, but he couldn’t deliver. He could never deliver. Wolfwood never made promises he couldn’t keep. He never made promises. Ever.

Wolfwood had maybe three more shitty years left on the godforsaken planet. But those years didn’t matter much. Not when he looked like this. Not when he was this. And in the end, he wondered if he, too, would cry. If he would beg for mercy, for his life, for redemption. If he would cry despite all the horrible things he’d done when death finally came for him. When he was finally punished. He wondered if someone would cry for him… would miss him… would forgive him. Probably not. He wasn’t that type of guy. He was never that type of guy. And he wouldn’t be missed.

Nico.

The bed shifted, Vash moving away from him. Leaving him. Abandoning him. And Wolfwood’s chest heaved as he clenched his eyes, biting his cheek harder, feeling skin rip from the inside of his mouth, blood settling through the cracks between his lips as he refused to swallow. As he refused to breathe. He flinched, breath escaping past his nostrils in a sharp fashion, the air dizzy, nauseating, thick. Gone. And he prayed he’d pass out already. Prayed to God he'd pass out soon.

But he was a hypocrite. Because he didn’t believe in God. Hadn’t for a long, long time. And yet, he prayed to him every night. Prayed for a way out. Prayed for him to take away the pain. Prayed for an escape from his pathetic life. But he was soulless. Godless. Abandoned long ago by the divine being, the big man, by God… and he wasn’t coming back. Not for Wolfwood. Not for Nico. Because of who he was. What he was.

In the end, he’d betray Vash. That’s how it was supposed to go. That’s how it went. That’s what he did. He’d burn him, kill him, punish him, just like he’d done to the others, to his Aunt… to Livio. Vash wasn’t Wolfwood’s salvation, just like Livio hadn’t been Nico’s. But Nico had been Livio’s demise, he’d be Vash’s too. His end. Another death caused by the hands of a murderer. Because Blondie couldn’t save Wolfwood, couldn’t save Nico… couldn’t save him from himself. And that wasn’t Vash’s fault. It was Wolfwood’s. It was always Wolfwood’s. He wasn’t a good guy. He’d never been. You refer to your weapon, that Trigun, as the Punisher, but not yourself…

His chest seized. The scars lining his flesh striking, singed and peeled under white sheets. A sharp cry leaves his lips, and Wolfwood choked on the blood sitting in the back of his throat. He coughed roughly, his mind, a disorienting muddled mess of fevered agony as he tried to focus on the sound of Meryl or Vash talking. The sound of the religious broadcast murmured through the small radio several rooms over. Or the sound of the wind brushing past the window outside, tiny grains of sand clinking against the glass.

He coughed again, dizzy and detached. As he tried to focus on something. Anything. But the shrieking high-pitched tone ringing in his ears. The sun scorching his already too hot flesh. The sweat coated on top of him in nauseating layers. His stomach lurching every five seconds. The feeling of soft sheets, weighted over him in a hot, rough thickness, scraping his skin, cutting against the scars littering his body, bleeding, sensitive, and raw. The smell of rotting worm, stale black salvia, and the copper potency of blood, embedded on his flesh, in his pores, itching, burning as he felt every trace, every inch. His migraine screaming, clawing, ripping through him, as the sun pierced him, stabbing brightly behind closed eyes. A loud whimper tore at his throat as his chest stilled, and his breathing stuttered in harsh sporadic waves. He wheezed as air left his mouth, sharp and cut-off; his hands clenched, blooding pooling down his fingers, along his wrists from his nails carving through his sweaty palms. His body, a sickening wave of hazy, hard-to-grasp delirium, and Wolfwood choked as he let the heat swallow him whole.

……………………………

There’s a rusty bathtub in the middle of the desert. Still, calm, overflowing as water rushed over the edges, mixing with the sand below, turning everything in its wake into a muddy sludge. Drowning everything in its path. Pulling the sand down until its forced to become an unrecognizable paste, until it’s forced to become something else… something destructive. Darker. Something that had the strength to bury everything. Had the strength to bury everyone.

Wolfwood watched steam rising over the surface of the water. He didn’t need to touch it to know the water’s hot. Scolding. Acidic. He could still feel it burning against his skin. Under his clothes, melting against bones and muscles as it threatened to seep past young flesh. Clogging his airways, sitting heavily in lungs that tried so hard to breathe, so hard to survive. What a load of shit. A pathetic life. Disappointing and useless.

“You recognize it, don’t you? Our birthplace.”

The gunman turns, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets as he meets the younger version of himself. Nico’s arms are crossed over his chest, his black hair unruly as he stares in the gunman’s direction, a stern look across his face. Wolfwood puffs out a breath as he nods towards the tub, “What’s it doing here?”

Nico huffs, burying one of his shoes under the sand. He shrugs his shoulders, dirt clouds around his feet as he glances down. The 10-year-old shoves his hands in his pants pockets, kicking a small rock towards Wolfwood, watching as it smacks against the older’s black shoes.

The gunman rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue against his teeth as he eyed the kid. A few tan bandages plastered against both shins, one covering a small cut on his left cheek. And if Wolfwood remembered correctly, Nico would be missing a top tooth. The last of his baby teeth. Ripped out by his own unsteady fingers as he tried to prove to Livio that he was tough. That he was cool. What a lie. He looked like he had just a few weeks before they took him. Before the Eye of Michael took him… before…

Nico cleared his throat as he glanced back towards Wolfwood’s direction. He shrugged his shoulders again, sighing, “Fuck if I should know, Punisher.”

“Don’t call me that,” Wolfwood growled. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, flinching as the title hit him. He hated that name. Hated her… and yet, he’d chosen it. Chosen her. Became her. Stolen her. Wielded her in dark memories that he couldn’t forget. Wanted to. Refused to. Because he’d loved her. Because she was all he had left. Of himself. Of a childhood he never had. And despite everything she’d done to him, Wolfwood had forgiven her long ago. He’d grown up. So quickly. In a few short years. Months. Because he had to. He needed to. He was forced to. You pathetic worthle…

Nico cocked his head, “But that’s what you are, isn’t it? What we are? The Punisher. Like her? We do what she used to do to us… we just gave it a name. Gave her a name. Do you think she’d like it? Being called that? Being named after a weapon… or perhaps to know you named your weapon after her?”

Wolfwood tsked, throwing his head up towards the sun, squinting against the heat melting down his face. He pushed his bangs back before pulling the pack of cigarettes from inside his black jacket. He reached for his other pocket, searching for his lighter. After a few moments, confusion crossed his face, and he huffed, realizing his lighter was gone.

He heard a small flick, followed by a soft cry and glanced down to find Livio crouched at his feet, trying to spark the small metal lighter. He smirked; the crumpled cigarette pressed between his teeth as he forced his hands in his pockets. He knelt in the dirt, meeting the kid’s level as the 8-year-old tried flipping the lighter again. He dropped it, yelping softly as he went to catch it, and Wolfwood grinned, “Here. Let’s see.”

The boy looked up quickly, his eyes growing wide as he met Wolfwood’s gaze. He stumbled backward, his hands scrapping against the dirt as he scrambled away from the gunman. Wolfwood reached a steady hand towards him, pausing when Livio flinched. He swallowed loudly, running a hand through his black hair before stooping his head, trying to meet the kid’s eyes again. Livio cowered further, his tiny fingers grasped tightly around the dirty lighter. Wolfwood froze, “Hey, it’s okay. It’s me. It’s Wolfwo- Nico. It’s Nico… you don’t need to be afraid of me.”  

“Doesn’t he though? Have you seen yourself lately? Do you even recognize who we were? Who we are… what we are?”

Wolfwood glanced up as Nico stood next to him, hands in his pockets. The 10-year-old kicked at some sand again as he glanced between Wolfwood and Livio. Nico raised an eyebrow as the gunman flipped him off before reaching towards Livio again, his hand outstretched carefully.

“Here, Livio… let’s see,” Wolfwood said, his voice soft, encouraging, calm. Like he was talking to a wild animal. Like how he used to talk to Livio when the boy woke up from nightmares. When he cried for his parents in his sleep. How he talked to him when he hid under the blankets when his feelings were hurt. Or when he was sick, clinging to Nico for comfort. Looking for reassurance. Warmth. Love. When he wanted his brother.

Livio eyed him. Tears sitting along his lashes, fear written across his pale face, solid and panicked. He made a small noise before leaning forward slowly, dropping the lighter in Wolfwood’s hand. The gunman watched as the 8-year-old drew his knees to his chest in an attempt to make himself look smaller, to make himself feel safer. Wolfwood swallowed before glancing back down at his lighter, turning it over several times before sparking the blue flame, lighting his cigarette and then tossing it in the air.

Livio laughed loudly as the gunman flipped the lighter, before shoving the lid open and sparking the flame again. Wolfwood smirked, exhaling smoke between his teeth as the boy reached for the lighter cautiously. Livio had always been fascinated by the stupid trick, mesmerized by it… like Nico could do magic, like he was magic. Like he was the best thing in the world. It used to make him feel sick sometimes. It used to piss him off. Irritate him. Until he snapped at the kid. But now… now it just hurt. Hurt to look at him. Hurt to think about him. Because Wolfwood would do anything, give anything, to go back. To have this back. Even for just another second.

The gunman handed the lighter back to the boy, “Try again.”

Beside him Nico sneered, and Wolfwood inhaled loudly. He leaned back on his hands, sprawling his legs out in front of him as sand burned against his fingers, against his black clothes, and his stomach churned. Nico huffed again, and the gunman glanced up to find the 10-year-old pouting, his arms crossed over his chest, his shoe still kicking at the hot ground.

Wolfwood pulled the cigarette from his mouth, breathing smoke past his nostrils as he reached into his jacket, pulling the crushed pack from his pocket. He lit a new cigarette against his old one before handing the older smoke to the boy. Nico rolled his eyes before yanking the crumpled stick from his fingers as Wolfwood shoved the new between his teeth. He exhaled loudly, glancing back towards Livio as the white-haired boy attempted to flip the lighter again.

Sunlight filtered past his sunglasses, and the gunman shivered as light pierced his eyes making his head spin. He pushed the tented lenses further up the bridge of his nose, glaring past the migraine lurking behind his eyes, eating at his cheekbones, across his jaw, down his neck. He swallowed, rolling his jacket and shirt sleeves up to his elbows before burying his hands and fingers back under the unforgiving dirt. It was really fucking hot. The dry desert sand beneath him wasn’t helping. Smoking probably wasn’t helping either. Livio let out a loud laugh as the small lighter sparked, and Wolfwood smiled, “Yeah, there you go. Look at you; a natural! Good job!”

The 8-year-old glanced up excitedly, throwing himself towards Wolfwood. The gunman flinched, cigarette ash falling against his shirt as Livio crashed against his chest, his small arms hugged around him tightly. He coughed a few times, the air around him thick and hard to breathe as the kid pressed himself harder against him. Livio glanced up warmly, a huge smile filling his face as the gunman’s hand hovered over him.

“Thanks, big brother!”

Wolfwood’s breathing caught in his throat, and he felt nausea sitting heavily in his stomach. He wanted to puke. To force the kid away. To scream. It’d been a long time since someone called him that. Since he’d been called that. And yet, that’d been only a few years ago. A few months ago. A few… whenever. His sense of time was fucked. He wasn’t really sure when Livio had last called him that, but it felt forever ago… long ago. So very long. And it hurt. You consider him a brother? He’s someone important to you, right? Then help the poor guy!

“Uh, yeah. Anytime,” He huffed, expelling smoke from his mouth as he let his hand fall against Livio’s back. The boy pressed his face against his chest again, and Wolfwood coughed, leaning over him as he drew his other arm around the boy. He closed his eyes. His breathing hitched, his heart skipping as he struggled to push air past his lips, past the endless clouds of cigarette smoke as he embraced the kid protectively. As he hugged back. Warmly. Tightly. He really fucking missed this. Missed him.

Nico.

Wind swept around them, the hot sand shoved against Wolfwood’s clothes, eating away at the open cuts and scars littered under his shirt, across his arms, hands, fingers. And Wolfwood shivered. Livio had been a sweet kid. Innocent. Kind. But the Eye of Michael had taken that from him. Nico had taken that from him. Had killed him for it. Wolfwood should’ve protected him. Protected the closest thing he had to a brother. And now, Livio was dead because Nico had made a stupid promise he couldn’t keep. Because Nico was a horrible child. Because Wolfwood was a horrible person. Pathetic. Worthless. Useless. Destructive.  

He groaned loudly as he opened his eyes, the desert morphing, twisting into the deck of the Sand Steamer. Wolfwood swallowed thickly as he realized Livio was no longer in his grasp, in his hands. No longer cradled against him. And he was all alone. Again.

He ran a shaky hand through his black hair, pulling the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling loudly as smoke filtered past his lips, stinging his eyes. He forced himself up, swaying on his feet as heat pressed under his clothes, and something sounded behind him. He turned slowly, biting back a wince as he flattened the tip of the cigarette against his palm, smothering the flame against his flesh. It was comical how much it hurt… how much he could actually feel it. But that was his nerve-endings, that’s how messed up he was. Fuck a bullet or a shard of metal piercing his skin; he could barely feel it. But this? A small cigarette burned against his flesh felt just as wrong as someone holding his hand. Just as painful. Scraped against him. Felt as though Wolfwood was trying to rip his organs, his muscles, his veins, his heart out through his chest with his bare hands. A dream come true, yes?

The world around him spun, dizzy and bright, hot and heavy, hard to breathe through lungs that refused to work properly. And Wolfwood stumbled slightly, catching himself against the Punisher leaning against the railing. He winced as he grasped her, his fingers catching under the metal handle, tearing open the small scars freshly healed. He coughed, his head aching, his legs threatening to give. Another noise sounded to his right, and the gunman jerked his head up, squinting against the harsh lights from the overhead deck. The steam engine roared under his feet, vibrating through him in sickening waves as he locked eyes with Livio, a few feet away.

Wind bustles around him as Livio pauses, a gun gripped in his left hand, aimed towards Wolfwood, his right lowered towards the ground. His white hair brushed over his face, shielding his features from the gunman, his gray suit tattered and bloodied, buttons hanging by loose threads. The Sand Steamer lurches forward, off-course and accelerated, and Livio flinches before looking up. His eyes, dazed, distant… lifeless, gone, and Wolfwood holds his stare, the Punisher falling to his feet with a solid thud as he stumbles forward. I won’t pretend to understand your love. But I pray you’ll understand ours, Nicholas.

A small whimper crawls its way up his throat as Wolfwood reaches for his brother. His knees buckle, and he catches himself against the railing as Livio smirks, aiming his gun back towards him. Wind and sand beat against Wolfwood’s face, plastering against the tiny drops of sweat rolling past his temple, and he stumbles again, shoving himself away from the railing. He opens his mouth before closing it as he tries to find words, tries to find the apology pounding behind his eyes.

Livio tracks his movements as Wolfwood steps closer. His gun aimed in his direction, and the gunman pants, his fingers shaking as he raises a hand in front of him. Towards his brother. Towards the kid he used to know. Towards the sweet, innocent little kid that the Eye of Michael, that the Priest, that Chapel, had hurt. That Nico had killed… that Wolfwood had. The definition of paternal love. Such brotherly devotion… such affection. It’s disgusting, honestly.

Livio fires off a round, and Wolfwood flinches, shielding his face with his arms as he yells at him. Calls for him. Cries for Livio to wake up. To snap out of it. That this wasn’t him. A bullet slices through his arm, and the gunman smacks his hand against the wound instinctively. He turns his head, gritting his teeth as blood seeps past his fingers. A flesh wound barely felt, numb and pathetic. Wolfwood whips his head back towards Livio as he raises his gun again, aimed towards his face, and the gunman lowers his arms. His stomach lurches as he lets his hands fall to his side, leaving himself wide open as another shot echoes around him. Livio was going to kill him, and Wolfwood was going to let him. He deserved it. Needed it. It’d be okay.

Wolfwood swallows against the sick taste in the back of his throat as he feels tears swell in his eyes. His left knee gives out as a bullet strikes his thigh, and he groans, slamming his knee against the wooden deck harshly. His hands meet the burning floor for a second before he forces his body up slowly. The deck spinning, wind smacking his overheated face, and his legs barely able to support him. His arms still hanging at his side as Livio comes closer, the barrel of his gun pressed against his chest, and Wolfwood chokes, “I didn’t want to die this way.”

And yet, he couldn’t think of another way he’d rather go. He couldn’t think of another better way to go. Because at least there was some sort of screwed up poetic justice in all this. At least he wasn’t overdosing on tasteless blue vials, or losing all his limbs, or drinking himself to death. At least he wasn’t being killed by Chapel or the Priest. At least Legato wasn’t his reaper. At least his brother was the one holding the gun…

“Nico.”

Livio whispering his name forever etched in his mind, and Wolfwood glances up as the gun grazes down his chest before falling to the floor. Livio stumbles back slightly, and the gunman reaches out instinctively, his fingers ghosting over the other’s white shirt. His fingers rough against soft fabric, so close, but yet… too far away. Too far for Wolfwood to grab, to hold, to save. Too far.

“Why did you leave me?”

Wolfwood flinches as the question hits him, his eyes locking on amber irises. Warm amber, so full of life, kindness… compassion. Amber that saw too many horrors as a child, had too much taken from him, lost too much; and the gunman reaches another hand towards him as Livio whimpers, “You promised you’d save me. Promised you’d always be there to protect me. That nothing bad would ever happen to me again as long as you were around. You promised. But then… You left me. Scared and afraid, and alone.”

Wolfwood lets his hand fall to his side as Livio recoils. Wind brushes past him, and the gunman shivers, swallowing against the thickness in his throat, “I-I’m sorry, Livio.”

He tries to move again. Tries to say something past the useless apology. But he can’t. He has nothing left. Nothing left to say. Nowhere else to go. Nowhere, nothing, and no one. Livio was right. Wolfwood had left him; had left the small boy, alone and afraid… had left a kid who would later follow him in order to see him again. Who would later offer to take his place because he wanted to be like Nico. Who wanted nothing more than to catch up to him, to be with him again, to stop him. Because he loved him. And in the end, Wolfwood had abandoned him, Nico had. Nicholas D. Wolfwood had left him. Over and over and over again. And Livio had followed him. Livio had died because of him.

“Nico.”

The shot echoes around him, and Wolfwood braces himself as Livio screams, and the gunman glances down, blood splattering at his feet. His breathing hitches, his heart racing, the ground beneath him pulling him down, eating away at his black shoes as the world sways dangerously. And Wolfwood clenches his eyes shut. He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to see this again. Because it was heavy, too heavy… too heavy a cross to bear. Too heavy a cross to carry. Too much weight for him to hold. The blood of Livio burned his hands.

Something grabbed his arms, and Wolfwood flinched, forcing his eyes open to a hellish light. The world, hot, fevered, sickening, and the gunman yelled for his brother as Livio fumbled back, toppling over the Sand Steamer’s railing. A harsh plea rips from his throat as he tried lunging forward, tries chasing after, only to be held down by something he couldn’t grasp, he couldn’t see… couldn’t feel properly. His knees give out as he yells again, something dripping down his face, over him, coating him. And Wolfwood noticed it’s raining… It’s raining, and it’s burning. And nothing was going to bring his brother back. You had something. Something you wanted to protect more than anything else…

“Livio!”

Wolfwood’s head falls forward, the air around him staggered, slow and stiff. His dark hair wet, shielding his vision as water dripped past his face, as the Sand Steamer began to shift, morph, dissolve into some shitty bathroom, into some shitty inn. His stomach heaved as hiccups vibrated through him. He coughed loudly, shivering as the air pricked against his naked chest, and he flinched as something moved behind him. A soft voice meeting his ears. His own voice, his own breathing, his own mind, shaky, hot, muddled, sick as he realized he was crying, as he realized he was screaming. As he realized another name sat on his lips, and he choked, hoping, praying to whatever non-existent being that supposedly watched over them, he hadn’t said it out loud. Begging he still held onto some small part of dignity, of pride, of himself… no matter how miniscule. You. Pathetic. Worthless. Child.

Harsh sobs left his mouth as incoherent names of the dead rushed past his lips, and he lurched his body forward, trying to curl in on himself as he cried louder. Arms, strong and tight, wrapped around his chest, holding him in place as he tried shoving himself away. Water poured over him, mixing with the tears streaming down his face, washing away the dried worm, black ooze, dirt and sweat that covered him. Washing away everything he wanted so badly to forget. Everything he couldn’t.

Something tightened around him, and Wolfwood cried again as he jerked his head up towards the water showering over him. He gripped something between his fingers, the lights hitting him violently, his mind reeling. Dizzy. Sick. Tired. Livio’s name choked past his lips again, silent screams haunting him as painful memories rushed to the surface, taking hold of him; tearing him apart piece-by-piece as every word Livio had uttered flowed through him. Flowed through him in sickening realization that Wolfwood had killed Livio; that he was dead because the gunman had clung too tightly to his past. Because he had wanted his brother back. Nico. Why did you leave me? You promised.

Wolfwood cried, letting his head fall weakly, his hair spilling over his face as his eyes met Roberto. The older man leaning against the closed door, his arms crossed, an unreadable expression contorted across his face, an eyebrow raised. The gunman choked, his chin falling to his chest as he blinked down at the rusty tub. His stomach heaved again as more tears rushed down his face, and he let out a loud shaky breath. His eyes dusting over the arms wrapped around his chest, and someone’s warm forehead pressed firmly against his shoulder blade.

“V-Vash!?”

The name left Wolfwood’s mouth in a high-pitched tone that hurt his ears. He wasn’t really sure if he was calling for him, crying for him, or because of him… because he knew, because Vash finally saw. Because he finally understood. He finally understood how fragile Wolfwood really was. How broken he was. How fucked up. How weak. How pathetic. How worthless.

Vash pressed him closer against him, his heart pounding against Wolfwood’s spine. Water splashed out of the tub as Wolfwood’s legs fell on either side of him, smacking against Vash’s, his head dropping backwards limply. He gagged as another sob tore up his throat, and Vash shifted, holding him down. Holding him in place against the lukewarm water filling the tub. Holding him so he couldn’t struggle. He couldn’t escape. Disappear. Vanish. Dissolve. Holding him so he wouldn’t slip back into the darkness. Into his past. Into his memories. Holding him so he wasn’t alone. Holding him. You can kill some friends…

The blonde’s grip tightened, pulling the gunman further against him, further against his chest, moving his forehead up until his chin rested against Wolfwood’s shoulder, his breath hot against his ear. His voice, low and calm. Gentle. Kind. Comforting. And Wolfwood cried loudly as he hung onto every word whispered through a fevered, disoriented haze.  

“Hey, you’re alright now. I hear you… I’m here, Nico. You don’t have to be afraid. I’m not going anywhere.”

The metal cage gridded over Vash’s heart dug into the flesh on the gunman’s back, and Wolfwood slumped against him. His head falling back against Vash’s shoulder, his black hair stinging his eyes as water washed over him. His head hurt. His body ached. Burned. The lights above, bright and alienating. Dizzying. Nauseating. Wrong. The water pricking his flesh, tiny daggers stabbed against thick skin that felt thin, too thin. And Wolfwood choked again as he gripped his fingers against the blonde’s metal ones. Your favorite past time…

Vash’s words hovering over him again as the blonde repeated himself. An unfamiliar comfort that Wolfwood didn’t know he needed. Didn’t know he wanted… it made him feel sick. It felt wrong. Because Vash couldn’t save him. Not now. Not from this. Not from himself.

The truth was, Wolfwood had so much to be afraid of. So fucking much. He saw it every time he closed his eyes. Every time he jerked awake, his chest heaving as he clenched his jaw to keep from crying out. Every time he bit back the memories, every time he passed his reflection… every time he saw himself in the eyes of those he’d murdered, betrayed, hurt… punished. And one day, he’d find himself just as alone as he’d been in his past. Just as he was now. So very alone.

Because when you got down to it, he was a bigger monster than Nico, than Vash, than anything the Eye of Michael, or Millions Knives, or the Priest could ever create. Zazie was right. Roberto was right. Everyone. Anyone. Wolfwood didn’t give a shit about wasting another human life. And he’d do it- kill them, kill friends, kill people he cared about- with a smile on his face. He’d killed himself, killed Nico, the moment his Aunt’s blood sprayed across him… he’d killed the little boy who just wanted to be loved. To find a home. To find acceptance. Family.

And now, Wolfwood was the only thing he had left, the only part; a fucked-up version of Nico. A fucked-up version of his past, of a punisher. The Punisher. Still haunting him even after death because he believed he was cleansing the world of those who’d hurt him. That he was punishing those who deserved to be punished. Nicholas D. Wolfwood. Nicholas the Punisher. Nico the Punisher. Nico… Wolfwood. A fucking monster. What a disappointment he’s been.

He had tried so fucking hard to detach himself, to ostracize his emotions, isolate, to kill whatever made him so very human. But in the end, he was just as human as everyone else. Weak. Emotional. Stupid. And insignificant. He was just as scared and useless as everyone else. And he’d die all the same. Unless we kill you first, dear Punisher…

He was nothing more than a pathetic child with a big toy. A child who killed every bit of himself, stripped away any-and-all innocence or humanity he had left, bit-by-bit, every time he murdered someone in cold blood. Every time he wielded the Punisher… every time he was the Punisher. Until there was nothing left. Until he had nothing left. And he was once again, alone. Too afraid to show anyone who he was. Who he truly was. The real him. Too afraid to bare himself in a vulnerability he couldn’t hide, he couldn’t take back… too afraid he’d be hurt again. Disappointed. Left behind. Too afraid he’d be abandoned again… just like the others. Too afraid they’d leave him. Too afraid he’d leave them, abandon them… kill them, just as Nico had. Too afraid to be Nico.

He never wanted to be Nico. Never wanted to be like him again. Never wanted to get close. Because it hurt too fucking much. He was too dangerous… and yet, he never wanted to be who he was. Who he is. Wolfwood. His younger self would be so disappointed. So upset. So disgusted. That’s why he’d changed his name. Why he buried himself under bullets and numb pain and clouds of cigarette smoke. Why he separated himself from the Punisher. Because he was too afraid to admit they were one in the same. They couldn’t survive without one another. Wolfwood wouldn’t be here if Nico hadn’t made friends, if he hadn’t loved, if he hadn’t survived the experiments, endured his youth. Wouldn’t be here if Nico hadn’t fought so fucking hard to survive… and the Punisher wouldn’t be here if Wolfwood hadn’t forgiven her, hadn’t claimed her… hadn’t loved her. And in the end, she’d crucify him, punish him just like she’d done when she was living. When she was breathing. When Nico killed her. She’d be the death of him. Like she’d promised.

Changing his name didn’t matter. Nico. Nicholas. Wolfwood. Punisher. It didn’t matter. They were all the same person. They were all him. Changing his name wouldn’t forgive him for his sins. Wouldn’t erase his past. Wouldn’t make it any better. Wolfwood was just a weak fake façade Nico hid behind because he was too afraid to face the truth. That he was still the same scared little boy too shy to show the world who he was… too pissed off to do anything about it. God, he was so fucking pathetic. So weak. So worthless. His Aunt had been right. He was a lost cause. Trust me, I can tell …

His hands shook as he grasped Vash’s arms hugged tightly around his chest. Water streaming through his hair, dripping past his face as he struggled to breathe, struggled against the air that shoved down his throat. It hurt to breathe. To think. To live. So. Goddamn. Much. To feel his own heart slamming against his chest. To feel Vash’s steady heart beating against his spine. He cried loudly as Vash shifted again, his words still echoed around him as Wolfwood choked, “Just let me go, Blondie! I’m a lost cause… I’m gunna get you all killed. I promise.”

Water poured over him as heat pressed against his naked flesh. His fingers trembling, slipping against Vash’s as the blonde gasped, tightening his grip again, his forehead pressing in Wolfwood’s wet hair. The gunman shivered as Vash’s breath hit his ear, the room spinning as he bit back a loud cry, closing his eyes against the nauseating colors. He felt sick. Hot. Wrong. Stupid. And he didn’t deserve to be held like this. Protected like this. Cared for like this. Everyone who’d ever met him knew that. Knew him.

He was going to get everyone killed. Hell, he’d probably kill everyone himself. All of them. More blood on his already scared flesh. More blood he couldn’t wash away even in the purest water. More lives he hadn’t meant to take. More lives he didn’t want to. Because that’s just who he was. What he’d become. A weapon. Useless. Worthless. Pathetic. Nico. Because Nicholas D. Wolfwood, Wolfwood, the Punisher, was a fucking coward.

I can tell… those are the eyes of a good guy.  

……………………………

The air around him was easier to breathe when he finally opened his eyes to the warm sunlight trailing through the open window in some crappy room. Dust hung in the air, sand dragging past the wooden window frame slowly as soft gusts of wind brushed against tattered cream curtains. The sound of something clinking, metal hitting wood softly, reached him, and Wolfwood blinked against the exhaustion threating to pull him under again.

Despite the slight headache nagging up his neck and sitting behind his eyes, he felt better. Way better. Cooler. Cleaner. No longer covered in worm guts, blood, sweat or vomit. No longer choking air down tired lungs. No longer dizzy or nauseous or hurting. No longer clenching his muscles, his skin burning under the weight of soft blankets. No longer bleeding from small, stupid cuts on calloused hands. So, yeah… he felt better. Just tired, and the slight pounding coursing through his head.

He glanced around the small room. He didn’t remember coming here. He couldn’t really remember anything outside of puking his guts up in the middle of the desert in front of Vash, Meryl, and Roberto. Outside of the worm. Outside of the distant conversation of things he couldn’t grasp. Outside of feeling hot. Too hot. Too goddamn hot… and so much pain. Laced between his bones, pulling at his flesh, grasped between metallic fingers, and Livio’s name wheezed pathetically past his lips. But other than that, he really didn’t remember much else. So, he didn’t remember coming here. And he damn sure, didn’t remember walking in here. Or leaving the Jeep. Or bathing. Or…

The sound of metal bumped against wood again, and Wolfwood forces his eyes open and looks around. Vash is sitting at the small table next to the window. He’s messing with his long colt, rubbing a dirty cloth over the black metal slowly, holding it up against the light, inspecting it. His blonde hair blows against the wind and dust scattered through the open window, his orange sunglasses gone, disregarded, abandoned on the table along with his red coat. He huffs, placing the colt back on the table, the metal thudding against the rickety wood as he licks his fingers, running them over the barrel before rubbing the cloth against it again.

“I don’t think it matters how much you clean it, Needle-noggin, those dents and cracks aren’t gunna come out,” Wolfwood smirked, stretching his arms as he shifted on the bed, shifting completely to face the blonde. Vash jumped, turning quickly as he faced Wolfwood, a huge smile spreading over his face. The wooden chair scraped across the ground roughly as he stood, crossing his arms over his black shirt as he came closer. He moved past the open window, sunlight hit his face, and Wolfwood caught the dark blue lines shimmering under his irises as Vash sat on the bed.

The blonde reached a steady hand towards him, his metallic fingers dusting along the gunman’s hairline before Wolfwood slapped his hand away. He cleared his throat as the blonde eyed him, his eyes studying him, observing him, focused on him, and the gunman felt a blush creeping to his cheeks. He didn’t like being watched. He didn’t like the attention. It was awkward. Childish. Humiliating… this lovey-dovey crap that the blonde was so readily willing to show… revolting. Pathetic. And it was going to kill Wolfwood. Either from suffocating affection, or endless embarrassment.  

“Where’s old Drunkle, and the little lady?”

Vash laughed softly, “They went out to see if they could bargain for an extra tire. Ran into some more trouble when we first got here… mainly my fault. The face, the coat, the name, you know? So, I said I’d stay here in case you woke up. They should be back soon.”

“Hm,” Wolfwood responded, fumbling with the white sheet, turning his head towards the door. He sighed loudly as he spotted the Punisher leaning in the corner of the closed door. Her frame barely fit in the cramped space, touching the ceiling, still wrapped tightly in the belted sheets. A looming cross built for him, waiting for him… killing him. Crucifying him. If his Aunt could see him now, if she could see what he’d become… if she’d knew of the things he’d done… well, she’d probably be more disappointed in him now than she was in his youth. More afraid of him. Angier…

“You hungry? Meryl managed to grab some food from the cafe next door if you feel-”

“Not interested. Thanks,” Wolfwood cut him off, grinding his teeth, tearing his eyes away from the Punisher. He shifts as he pulls himself up, leaning against the wooden bedframe, glancing down, surprised to find his chest, bare, shirtless. He shivered as he brought a knee up, realizing he wasn’t wearing pants either. He glanced around slowly, noticing his clothes were slumped, wet, cleaned, against several pieces of furniture along next to Vash’s red coat, Meryl’s jacket, and Roberto’s brown blazer. The gunman swallowed slowly, closing his eyes, leaning his head back against the headboard. He was naked under the thin white sheet, well, he thankfully still had his boxers on… but other than that, he was naked. And so very exposed. Vulnerable. The scars that scattered his tanned flesh were on full display. Fucking great. You pathetic worthless...

“Is your fever gone?” Vash asked, moving his hand towards him. Wolfwood grit his teeth as he smacked the blonde’s hand away harshly. He wasn’t a child. He didn’t need to be treated like one… At least, not when he was fully conscious and aware of his surroundings. So very aware of his actions, his feelings. Himself. Him.

A mischievous grin crossed Vash’s face as he faltered, as Wolfwood raised an eyebrow before the blonde jumped on him. His hands smacking against the gunman’s chest as Wolfwood turned, twisting away violently, and Vash wrapped a leg around his waist to keep him from moving, from getting away. An arm snaked around his chest, pulling him back, as Wolfwood threw a wild punch, hitting air, and the blonde chuckled as the gunman cursed, his movements still slow, weak and uncoordinated from exhaustion, from being sick. A hand smacked against his forehead, and Wolfwood hissed, turning his head in Vash’s direction, struggling against the tight grasp. He cursed again, kicking towards the blonde, yelling, “Get off me, you giant dumbass!”

“Dumbass? I thought I was Sunshine!”

The gunman groaned loudly as the blonde let him go, and he shoved Vash off him roughly. Fuck, he was never going to live that down. He coughed softly, “You’re a fool is what you are.”

Vash snorted, a smirk laced across his lips as he settled next to him, crossing his legs as he stretched out, his back leaning against the bedframe, his arm touching Wolfwood’s. And the gunman glanced in his direction. The blonde’s eyes were tracing over his chest; a distant, lost expression drawn tightly on his features, and the gunman felt his chest hitch. The frown plastered against Vash’s face looked wrong. The sadness that painted the blonde’s face looked wrong. Hurt looked wrong on him. And Wolfwood swallowed as blue eyes traced painful memories.

Wolfwood might heal quickly; bullets, cuts, burns, dissolving under his skin in a tasteless blue liquid, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t left with scars. They weren’t as gruesome as Vash’s… but there were a lot of them. Strewn across his chest, back, arms, legs, neck; tiny indents, bullet marks and slashes cemented to tanned flesh that looked too old to be so young. But those weren’t the scars he cared about; those weren’t the ones he wanted to hide.

Because underneath all that shit, under the bullet marks and shitty sewn-up lines plastered against flesh that he refused to heal, were ones that couldn’t. Jagged, sharp scars belted across his chest and back from distant memories, whipped or cut from harsh hands, until he begged, until he screamed. Prayed. Apologized. Until he cried. Until he bled. A cross burned, carved, etched against his chest, rough and ugly as new flesh tried growing over the old, leaving the lines dark and prominent. Hundreds of cigarette burns circled around his body in random patterns, in a sickening fashion, that had been easy to hide, easy for her to hide. Ancient wounds only a few years old. Those were the scars he couldn’t hide, couldn’t play off. The ones he wanted to erase. The ones he was embarrassed for others to see.

His Aunt had tried to save him. She’d tried to beat the demon out of him, burn it, drown it, starve it… and in the end, Wolfwood had killed her for it. Nico had killed her for it. Her standing over him as he coughed and choked for air, hot water spewing from his mouth as he tried to breathe in the airless element, as he tried to hang onto the consciousness slipping from him as his head was submerged again. And he screamed. Cried. Prayed. Black dots eating through tears that refused to fall and searing pain burned over his heart in the shape of a cross. He hadn’t realized he’d grabbed the broken mirror on the side of the tub, had plunged it into her chest until he came to, gasping awake on the dusty bathroom floor, his body steaming, aching, and wet. Blood splattered across him as he locked eyes with the soulless body of his Aunt. And a monster was born. Wolfwood was.

“Stop staring, Blondie,” Wolfwood grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt to hide the scars. His skin, rough and coarse under his arms; the cross branded on his chest raised, itching, pricking his fingertips. They didn’t hurt. Not like they used to. Not like they had earlier… but it didn’t make the situation any less awkward. Vulnerable. Pathetic. It didn’t make him feel any less exposed. Vash let out a small apology as he glanced up, and Wolfwood shivered as a fake smile crossed the blonde’s face slowly. So that was it then? Vash only smiled when he thought people were watching.  

Wolfwood cleared his throat, “Hand me those, would ya?”

He gestured towards the small cigarette pack lying on the bedside table next to Vash. The blonde nodded, reaching over, grabbing the pack and lighter. The gunman smacked the pack against his palm as he pulled out a cigarette before offering one to Vash. The blonde faltered for a second, his fingers twitching slightly as he took one, smirking. Wolfwood rolled his eyes, throwing the crumpled pack against his leg, flicking the lighter several times as a small red flame ignited. He inhaled roughly as he lit the crushed cigarette, throwing his lighter towards Vash, waiting for the blonde to light his. You’re alright now…

The headboard cracked faintly as Wolfwood leaned further back, pressing his spine against the wooden board as Vash inhaled then exhaled, cigarette smoke filling the small space between them. Silence washed over them in waves of white clouds, and the gunman relaxed as he leaned his head back. He flicked some ash towards the ground, glancing towards Vash as he huffed smoke past his nostrils, his blonde hair falling in his eyes slightly. And Wolfwood chuckled. He knew Vash smoked; a surprise to all of them really. But as it turns out, the Humanoid Typhoon had a few bad vices of his own, a few the other gunman could get behind, could support. Drinking, smoking, getting high…   

“Hey, Wolfwood, I’m really sorry about Livio.”

The gunman forced smoke through gritted teeth, “Don’t sweat it. It’s fine… He was gone anyway.”

He knew that wasn’t true. Not entirely. Because he’d seen him, seen Livio, seen the kid he used to be when Wolfwood had brought him back. Had reminded him of who he was… what he was. What he’d done. And Livio had killed himself because of it. That was something the gunman tried not to think about. About himself. He tried not to think about who he was, who’d he become… the things he’d done… because it was too heavy. Being anyone these days, was too heavy a cross to bear, to carry, to drag, to hold. And the fact that Livio had killed himself because Wolfwood had tried to save him, was just something he’d have to learn to live with. Another nail in his coffin. Another bullet dissolving under his skin. Another reason he couldn’t be saved. Another reason he didn’t deserve to be.

Nico…

Wolfwood lit another cigarette, inhaling sharply before sighing, “Those are the eyes of a good guy.”

“Huh?”

“Do you know how many I’ve killed? How many lives I’ve taken? How many people I’ve hurt? There’s no part of me that’s good. There never was.”

Smoke pushed past Wolfwood’s lips. And Vash was quiet for a while. The blonde pulled the cigarette from his mouth, flicking ash on the ground, inspecting the crumpled paper stick before pressing it between his lips again. He exhaled as smoke puffed from his mouth, “Do you know how many I’ve hurt? How many I’ve killed? How-”

“Fine. Got it. Sorry I said anything. Just forget it.”

Wolfwood turned on his side, his back facing Vash, swallowing thickly as he hears the blonde suck in a low breath. His back was worse. Several huge thick scars whipped across tanned flesh from leather used to beat sins out of his youth, out of Nico; scars plastered against his shoulders, no longer painful, no longer burning… but hard to look at. Not to mention the millions of tiny scars from previous wounds, previous bullets pierced through his skin, pierced through the Punisher’s skin. But Wolfwood didn’t really want to look at Vash anymore. To see the emotions written across his face. To see that stupid fake smile. Not right now.

The gunman huffed loudly, letting cigarette smoke fill his vision as it left his mouth roughly. He inhaled once more, letting the nicotine absorb his lungs, coating his mouth before smothering the burning cigarette against his palm. He couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel the hot paper stick that used to sear his flesh; it was both a disappointment, and a relief. Because he couldn’t feel the pain. Not anymore. Not until next time when his senses went haywire. Not until everything began to overwhelm him again, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. I’m here, Nico...

Vash shifted next to him, and Wolfwood grit his teeth, reaching for the sheet lying loosely over his legs. He pulled the soft white fabric over his torso roughly as he drew his knees to his chest. He wanted to be alone. Right now, in this moment, he wanted to be so very alone. He didn’t want Blondie to see him… see him like this. To see his scars. See his body. See the pain pressed against tanned flesh. See him vulnerable. To see how much it bothered him. How much his trust, his faith, in him, bothered him. To see how much Vash bothered him.

A calm hand pressed against his shoulder, and Wolfwood flinched, pulling the sheet closer to him. He locked his jaw as Vash sighed, his gentle fingers tightening around the gunman’s arm. The pressure was comforting and warm, no longer hurting, no longer rerouted in painful waves as Wolfwood’s fucked-up nerve-endings tried to grasp what should and shouldn’t be painful. It was nice. Irritating. But nice. The gunman exhaled softly as Vash dropped his hand, and silence filled the room again.

Cigarette smoke clung to the air; familiarity clouded in a deep lungful as the gunman breathed slowly. He swallowed, sneezing several times, curling his knees further against his chest as he glanced towards the open window. Sand still wafted in, riding the sunlight bleeding past glass. And Wolfwood closed his eyes, letting his mind begin to drift. His body, numb, normal… relaxed. The bed was warm. Comfy. Comforting. Reassuring. The sound of Vash’s steady heartbeat was comforting. Reassuring. Nice. Peaceful.

The blonde moved, the bed shifting, and the gunman opened his eyes slightly as Vash cleared his throat, “Hey, Wolfwood?”

Wolfwood hummed, blinking sluggishly, pulling the sheet higher as he waited for the blonde to settle. Waited for him to say what he wanted. So he’d shut up. So he could finally close his eyes and sleep. Because despite sleeping for what felt like an eternity, he was tired as hell. His body felt tired. Exhausted. Drained… being sick sucked. And he still had a headache, a dull ache behind his eyes. But at least, his body wasn’t trying to kill him anymore. At least, he wasn’t in pain anymore. For now.  

“I’m not sure how much it’s worth to you, but… I don’t think you’re a lost cause,” Vash paused, stifling the cigarette against the ashtray on the bedside table, “And I… I can’t speak to your past. But I can tell you, I’ll do everything I can, anything I can, to make sure that whatever happened to you… in your past or when you were little… never happens to you again. Ever. I promise.”

Wolfwood snorted, stretching his legs as he glanced towards the window, letting the sunlight touch him. Letting the warmth hit him as he bit his bottom lip. He brought a hand to his chest, his fingers trembling, and he clenched his hand slowly. It was a pathetic statement filled with empty promises. The type of thing he’d tell Livio. The type of thing he’d told Livio. The same thing he’d promised him. And in the end, Wolfwood had let him down.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” He muttered, pulling the sheet further over him as a gentle, steady hand quickly pressed against his shoulder. Fingers tightening around his arm again, and Vash whispered, “Nico.”

Wolfwood grimaced as his name left the blonde’s lips. It’d been a long time since someone besides Livio had called him that. Since someone could. Since he could hear it. Wolfwood turned his head, his eyes meeting Vash as the blonde ran a hand over the back of his head, awkwardly. Blue eyes hitting him, pain hiding behind kind eyes that tried so hard to look happy. So hard to convince everyone, anyone, that he was okay. That he was fine. That he was…

“God, Blondie, this sappy shit’s going to kill me. You know that?”

Vash flinched slightly, a small smile filling his face as Wolfwood sneezed. The blonde huffed out a small apology as he shifted, pulling his arms behind his head as he leaned further against the wooden headboard. The wooden frame cracked, the bed shaking a little as he glanced towards the ceiling. Wolfwood rolled his eyes, groaning softly as he twisted around, turning his body to face Vash. His left leg kicked the blonde’s momentarily before the gunman pulled his knees to his chest, tugging the sheet tighter over his shoulders. He closed his eyes, letting his mind drift, sleep beginning to pull him under. Gentle fingers found their way in his black hair, carding through the soft strands slowly, and Wolfwood sighed loudly. Hey, you’re alright now. I hear you… I’m here, Nico. You don’t have to be afraid. I’m not going anywhere.