Work Text:
You have so many names, and you like less than half of them. Wolfwood is the easiest - you wear that one like a coat, to cover up the rest of you, but you don’t mind it, because you chose to wear it. Nicholas was given to you as a child, and the Punisher affixed onto that like a chain around your neck, dragging you down to the level you belong to, only the solid ground of reality and life keeping you from being frozen in ice for all eternity. The ninth circle, betrayers of special relationships, Judas, Brutus, Satan, you.
You’ve been called Executioner, devil, preacher man, attack dog, Father, monster. Nick is fine. You don’t feel like a Nick, really. Nico belonged to Livio, but Vash said it once, in a dazed state of having just woken up, and it surprisingly didn’t feel like your heart was being wrenched out of your chest, so you let him and only him keep using it. You think that the two of them would have really liked each other, so that makes it okay, somehow.
You’re sat on the hood of an abandoned, broken down car with him, cigarette lit, with only sand stretching out for miles, no matter which way you look. Above, though, the Worms shine and shimmer in all their glory, and you try to pretend that they’re stars. Somewhere beyond them, past the actual stars, somewhere way out there, is Earth. You’ve never felt a connection to it, not really - you’ve barely got any human remaining left in you, you think - but the warm body next to you has you thinking. Vash came to Noman’s Land with the rest of the humans, all those years ago, sure, but the humans at least had a tangible origin point, a home to remember, to honour. Plants come from another fucking dimension . You can’t even begin to comprehend that, how it must be for Vash. And yeah, okay, there are other Plants here, swimming around in great big fuck-off vats, being used by humans to survive, but the humans probably don’t even realise they’re sentient (the thought maybe Knives had a point flashes briefly in your mind here, and you shake it off quickly). But the closest thing Vash has ever had to someone who gets him IS Millions fuckin’ Knives, and that’s just depressing.
The guy might have been cutting your cheques for a bit but fuck me, you couldn’t ever imagine holding him and calling him brother. Couldn't imagine still loving him so deeply the way Vash does, even after everything Knives put him through.
Anyway. Back to Vash.
(It always comes back to Vash with you, doesn’t it?)
Not that long ago, you couldn’t even imagine liking Vash as much as you do, so maybe you just needed to spend a little more time with Knives to really get it. But on the other hand, you would prefer to deepthroat a cactus, as chances are good you would be dealing with less of a prick.
Vash shifts his body on the hood of the rusty metal carcass, and crosses his legs next to you. You can feel the warmth of his leg brushing up against you, far too hot for any human flesh to be beneath those layers of fabric. It must be horribly lonely, being Vash. Wandering, trying to help, being met with fear and hatred at every turn. He must have travelled alone for so long.
And now, he travels with you.
You’d fled the last town you were in with him earlier this evening, Vash having of course stumbled his way into another situation, chased out to gunfire and shouting. You don’t even know what pissed them off so badly this time. Meryl and Milly stayed behind with their apparently innocent demeanours and plausible deniability; you work so well as a unit, the four of you, that you don’t even need to agree a plan of action with them when these things happen - you two run, they stay behind, stock up, and catch up. Plus, it gives the two of them some time alone. You don’t yet know if either has made a move yet, but Milly is so perceptive you don’t believe she hasn’t noticed the looks Meryl throws her way when she thinks no one else is looking. Maybe they already have begun something, and are just so very good at being subtle about it.
He shifts again, and you hear the almost imperceptible hiss escape from his teeth. Your head swivels so fast that you feel you would have broken your own neck had you moved any quicker. You watch as Vash reaches his arm up under his shirt, exposing his tummy - abdomen, Wolfwood, don’t be a child - and the scar tissue that patterns his flesh. His long fingers find their target, and pluck something out, before withdrawing. His shirt falls to cover the expanse of skin and you feel a weird sense of loss. You have no idea why this keeps happening.
You have no time to think too hard about it, though, as between Vash’s fingers is a bullet. A spent one. With blood all over it. That he’d just pulled out of his own body.
And Vash? Well, Vash… he laughs. He grins, sheepishly. “Missed that one, huh?”
You feel like you’re going to fucking explode with rage. You tamp it down before it can boil over, because it’s not Vash you’re actually angry at, more the people who shoot at him without care, whose first response to this angel of deliverance is violence.
Okay, you’re a little angry at Vash too. Stupid noble martyr hero complex motherfucker. “What. The. Fuck. Spikey.” You think you kept your voice level, but judging by Vash’s wince, you wouldn’t be surprised if you’d ended up growling it instead.
“Uh. Sorry?” he says. You seize the lapels of his coat and drag him towards you. He yelps in surprise.
“You idiot, are you hurt anywhere else? Why didn’t you say anything?! What the fuck even happened?! Why did you piss them off so badly they shot you? Why do you never do anything to stop- URGH !” You shove him away, not hard, but you need to calm yourself down, so you release him with some of the energy that had just been building up. You look away from him, and spit out the butt of the cigarette onto the sand below, trying to focus on actually breathing.
You’ve run through a couple of the breathing exercises you’d read about in that trashy little book, and just about stabilised your mood, before Vash speaks.
"I know you think I'm naive, sometimes."
He's right. You do. But you're not sure if it's because he actually is, or because you're so twisted and broken in the opposite way. Maybe it’s both.
He continues. "I think you forget how much older than you I am. I'm this way because I choose to be, because I choose to believe in humans and their capacity for love."
You snort. "Even when we're being run out of towns because they're shooting at you all the fucking time?"
"They shoot because they're scared of me. They're scared because of their love for their people. It doesn't matter that they're wrong about the threat being me, really.”
You groan at his self-flagellating goodness. “Well, you’re just a really, fuckin’, good person then. Ain’t ya? Not like the rest of us.” Not like me , you don’t say. The words come out like shotgun blasts, but you don’t spit them with venom, because it’s not an insult, not to him. He is good personified, everything you’re not, wrapped up in a lanky, idiot-shaped package.
"Wolfwood, you believe in a soul, right? In an afterlife, in punishment for those who've done wrong?"
Where the fuck is this coming from? "It's… complicated," you say, because it is. You don't look at him, instead staring straight up at the sky. You think the eternal damnation is here and now for the whole of humanity, but you'll never say that out loud. It might break his heart, and you couldn't handle that, just like you can't handle thinking about why that troubles you.
"Well if you do, then you would have to be a good person too, Nico,” he says, softly, gently. “Because you would damn your own soul a hundred times over so other people don't have to. So I don't have to."
You feel your heart stop, the blood thundering in your ears. You don’t see it, but you can feel the movement, as he pulls up his legs and wraps his arm around them. He rests his head on his knees, but that fucking gaze of his doesn't shift. It burns into the side of your face; you can feel it, stripping you bare despite how desperately you try to rebuild the eroding walls. He smiles, softly; you hear it in his words.
"Nicholas, the Protector."
That makes you look at him. There’s not a single coherent thought in your mind, no biting remarks, and you can feel your mouth gape open, shaping out formless words, desperate to respond, to deny, to lash out, anything so you don’t have to accept this honour that you could never deserve. He chuckles, fucking chuckles , and he grins in that way he does, all teeth and eyes crinkling, and you want to kiss him so fucking bad-
Wait.
What?
Oh no. No no no no no no no-
Oh yes, says the irritating narrator that takes up residence in your mind every time you have a crisis, of which this is absolutely NOT. You want him, carnally of course, because you’re just awful like that, but worse. You want to be a better person, for him. Because of him. You have FEELINGS for your closest pal, Punisher.
Vash leans in while you freak out in your own mind, and your body fortunately has the capacity not to flinch as he gets closer. He rests his hand against your jaw, and cups it gently, thumb sweeping over your cheek and flesh warm where you didn’t realise you were getting cold. His metal hand comes to rest on your leg, heavy and comforting, just like his presence by your side is whether sleeping or fighting. He leans closer, so much closer, and his lips brush your cheek in a small, slow kiss. You feel your eyes slip closed as his breath ghosts your skin, and a whimper involuntarily let out. You have no idea what to do with such sheer tenderness.
He leans back, slightly, and you can hear the intake of breath before he speaks. Immediately, your mind runs through a thousand and one things he could say next, ranging anywhere from and between Psych! You suck actually to have my babies, Nicholas.
“Let’s go set up camp Nico, I am beat! ” is what he actually says. It’s so Vash. It’s perfect. He’s.. no, don’t go there yet. “Okay, Grandpa.” You regain the ability to speak as you hop down, but it only comes out as a hoarse whisper. Vash, to his credit, doesn’t react to this at all. He wiggles instead, like he’s doing a little dance, as he walks away to the spot you found earlier. “Respect your elders!” he sings, and you follow. You will always follow.
You have so many names, and you’ve just been given one more. This one you like. You hope one day that you can earn it, but for now, it is his.