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Wolfwood knows his place in this story. He knows how this story ends.
How could he not? The traitor writes the story after all.
Everyone else lives in it, goes about their daily lives as if they are the main and only character. No one is a sidekick, a bystander, a villain to themselves.
Except the traitor, who just so happens to be all three. They are powerless over their own role, and yet the one writing everyone else's.
Wolfwood watches people move around him, painfully aware of who he is and how little he can do to change it.
There is no place in the story for its author, no place in the story for a traitor.
And once the role of a traitor is chosen, only an act of God can stop how it plays out. The traitor knows they chose this, and there’s still no way out of it.
Wolfwood knows he is a traitor. He knows how this story ends.
And apparently, so does Vash.
-
It begins like this.
The two of them, shuffling through the crowded city of July. The air is hot and heavy and dry as it always is, and dust clings to the inside of Wolfwood’s lungs. Neon lights glitter overhead, casting multicolored shadows over the two of them.
Wolfwood creeps further into the alley, away from the street as a giggling couple walks by. Vash simply watches them pass, that trademark dumbass wonder in his eyes. They glint behind his stupid shitty glasses and Wolfwood has to look somewhere, anywhere else.
Wolfwood sighs and grabs the blond’s arm, dragging him and his obnoxious red coat down the alley.
“If you get yourself killed out here, needle-noggin,” he huffs, “It’s not my fault. I’ll get you up there, but it’s on you if you die.”
Vash simply nods and flashes Wolfwood a lopsided grin. Wolfwood scowls, because otherwise he would smile back, and that might kill him.
He mutters something approximating “dumbass blond, if Knives doesn’t kill you, I will” under his breath and continues down the alley, hoisting the cross back over his shoulder again. It rests on his back in the way it always does, heavy and comforting, sitting in the little crook between his shoulder and neck.
Vash follows. Wolfwood can hear his breathing, his footsteps, the uneven, uncaring way in which he carries himself.
Wolfwood just really wants this to be done. He gets Vash to the top of the tower, takes him to Knives, and he’s done. Free. Finally.
He’s been waiting for this day for the last… only God knows how long it’s been. Wolfwood wasn’t exactly sure how time worked after you aged 20 years overnight. Wolfwood wasn’t exactly sure how much of anything worked after that.
He breathes a shuddering breath and his cigarette takes this opportune moment to go out.
Wolfwood stops in place and spits a string of curses that would have burned the ears right off even Roberto if he spoke any louder. He rifles around in his jacket pockets, searching for a lighter.
No luck.
Wolfwood almost considered lighting the damned thing with a gunshot when he heard a click behind him.
He spins on his heel, expecting Vash to be held at gunpoint by some sorry street rat. Instead, he finds Vash staring at him, holding a small gray lighter in his hand.
The flame is small, but it manages to light up Vash’s face in a way that could unsettle even Wolfwood. He looks gray, quiet, dead. Maybe it was just because he wasn’t smiling.
“Didn’t take you as the type to carry a lighter, blondie,” Wolfwood said, snatching the lighter from Vash’s outstretched palm. He clicks it a few times and relights the cigarette in his mouth, taking another shaky breath.
He tries to hand the lighter back to Vash, but Vash shakes his head.
The priest raises an eyebrow. “D’ya not want this back?”
“Not really. I mostly carried it around for you.”
Wolfwood starts.
“What’s that supposed to fuckin’ mean?”
“Well, you’re the first person I’ve really traveled with that smoked so much. And you’re always getting shot at and having to repair or replace your suit…” Vash trails off.
“And?”
“And I thought I’d carry one around for you.”
“So why are you giving it to me now? Why not keep carrying it?”
Vash doesn’t answer. Guilt settles in Wolfwood’s stomach. He knows the feeling well.
He spins around again, suddenly unable to look at Vash at all. His hands shake as he continues down the alley. It was almost imperceptible, but he could feel it. He could feel the guilt coursing through him.
Maybe he cant’t do this. Maybe if he took Vash now they could go, leave the city and Knives and The Punisher and everything behind. Maybe it wasn’t worth it.
He wishes he could entertain this fantasy for more than 15 seconds. The small voice in the back of his head laughs at him, mocks his hope that maybe this wasn’t the ending he was doomed to have. He knew this was going to be his ending from the moment he met Vash.
The moment their eyes met, Wolfwood knew he would tear the world apart for him. The moment their eyes met, Wolfwood knew he would have to kill him.
Every time their eyes meet after, Wolfwood remembers that moment.
There was no way out of it now. Vash wanted to go up there, and Knives wanted Vash up there, so Wolfwood had to get him up there. It’s just his job.
His hands stop shaking and his footsteps become heavier and more rapid. If he had to do this, he was going to do it quickly enough that he could forget about it tomorrow, drown it in some shitty drink and far too many cigarettes.
-
It continues like this.
The two of them are fighting their way up the tower, bullets and metal shards flying in a whirlwind around them. Their fighting patterns fall in line with each other easily, no matter how much Wolfwood wants to deny it.
Vash still never aims to kill, and Wolfwood still thinks he’s an idiot for it. Maybe he has a point, but he’s still an idiot with a point.
It is not hard, not nearly difficult enough to get up the building to where Knives is waiting. Wolfwood has been here, once. It was not a pleasant experience.
No matter his personal feelings, he definitely remembers that there should be more guards, a stronger security system, something to stop people like them from reaching the top.
He guesses Conrad really was setting up a Goddamn proper trap. This only serves to make him feel worse. As if that was possible.
The pair end up sitting in the elevator for what seems like years. It’s likely only a few minutes, but for both the executioner and the executed, the walk to the gallows feels like a century.
Vash is silent. Not quiet, silent. The only sounds that Wolfwood can hear are the gentle hum of the elevator and the beating of his own heart.
“You alright, Vash?” He says, quieter than he means to. Breaking the silence feels wrong.
Vash takes a deep breath and nods.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be okay.”
“We can always go. There’s nothing that says you need to do this.”
For a moment, Wolfwood feels a tiny prick of hope, and then-
“I need to. I need to do this. I need to do this, Wolfwood.” Vash sounds like he's talking mostly to himself.
“You don’t.”
“No one else will.”
Wolfwood can’t respond. He can barely make himself look at Vash.
There is another year long moment of silence.
“I’m scared, Wolfwood.”
“What?”
“I’m going to die up there, aren’t I? You say it all the time. I’ll get myself killed at some point.”
Wolfwood doesn’t know what to say. He opens his mouth and no words come out.
“I don’t want to die.”
And then all of a sudden he does.
“Then don’t.”
Vash blinks. The idiot blinks and turns his gaze up to Wolfwood, who still refuses to look him in the eye.
“Don’t die. Or come back. Or something. If anyone can, it’s you. If nothing’s killed your sorry ass yet, I’m sure nothing will.”
“You’re not going to try and tell me to not go?”
Wolfwood shrugs.
“No point. You’ve got the biggest self sacrificial streak I’ve ever seen, and fear hasn’t stopped you yet. You’re a goddamn idiot, but you’re not a dead one.”
Vash smiles, for the first time tonight. He even chuckles. Wolfwood sinks a little bit more.
Killing isn’t hard. Never has been. Even when he has to look someone in the eye and watch life drain from their face.
He doesn’t even have to watch Vash die, doesn’t even have to be the one to do it. But every inch up toward the end kills him a little bit more. Kills both of them. Is not stopping someone’s death as bad as killing them yourself? Wolfwood doesn’t know. He’s never cared enough to consider. Why does he care so much now?
The elevator doors click open and Wolfwood sees blood and projectiles and people in danger and launches himself forward, instinct taking over.
-
It ends like this.
The two of them stand outside a steel door. Vash didn’t question why Wolfwood knew exactly where they were going.
He was so fucking stupid for that. Why couldn’t he see that Wolfwood was handing him over? Wolfwood wants something. For Vash to tell him he hates him, for Vash to tell him he knew, any reason to make this a little easier.
And yet he got nothing. Every quiet smile and soft, silent gaze made the cross on his back heavier. The metal buckles dug into his back, irritating old scars.
“Alright,” He huffs eventually, “This is it needle-noggin. End of the line for me.”
“Thank you, Wolfwood.”
Wolfwood’s breath stops. Vash smiles at him, in the way only Vash can do, and Wolfwood can’t make himself look away. God fucking damn it.
“Vash.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
A beat. Vash looks at him. Wolfwood can’t tell what's going on behind those eyes. He looks away.
“I forgive you.”
Wolfwood's shoulders drop. The cross hits the ground at his feet. He stares at Vash.
“Is that all? I apologize for bringing you to your death, and all you can do is fucking forgive me?” Wolfwood’s voice is harsh and hollow, anger coursing through him.
Vash smiles softly and nods.
“It’s true. I do.”
“You’re not going to come out of there, dipshit ! I- I was lying earlier, he’ll kill you. Please-” Wolfwood’s voice cracks. “-be angry with me.”
“No.”
It’s such a simple answer, such a pointed answer, such a true answer. Wolfwood gapes in love and horror at the man in front of him.
“I knew, Wolfwood. What you were doing. But it needed to happen. For both of us.”
“You let me kill you?”
Vash softens even further, something Wolfwood didn’t know was possible. He steps forward, pulling Wolfwood’s hand up with his. Wolfwood’s skin prickles. He stumbles half a step back, but doesn’t pull his hand away.
Vash pulls Wolfwood's hand up to his lips and kisses it. The fucking dumbass kisses his hand. Wolfwood’s skin burns and he yanks his hand away, staring at Vash.
“Thank you.”
And in a swish of red and the closing of a door, Vash the Stampede is gone. Wolfwood assumes it’s the last time he’ll ever see him.
He pulls out a final cigarette and the small lighter. He lights it and takes a long breath, feeling the heat course through his lungs.
As much as Wolfwood hates guilt, he hates hope even more. He hates Vash for giving him any of it. He hates himself for daring to entertain it at all. He hates this Godforsaken world and the feelings in his chest and the softness on his hand.
Wolfwood picks up the cross off the ground and hoists it over his shoulder again. Both are familiar, the way it digs into his shoulder and the hate that boils in his stomach.
He takes a heavy step down the hallway, toward where Conrad said to meet him. No point in looking back now.
-
It begins again.
Wolfwood’s legs dangle over the crater that was once July. The sun beats down and the sand coats his hands and clothes. It’s not anything he’s not used to.
His cross sits at his side. It’s mostly for show now, for memory. It’s still loaded, of course, but no one’s approached him in months. People saw him fleeing from July, Meryl at his side, and gave them space.
It’s odd, he thinks. Not having a job, a purpose. His contract with the Eye of Micheal was up, and God knows if they even exist anymore. Meryl is safe and back at her job.
And Vash? Vash was as good as dead to Wolfwood. He disappeared after destroying the city, vanished into thin air. There were some radio reports of the “Stampede” being sighted around No Man’s Land, but Wolfwood didn’t believe any of them. People believe what they want to.
And so when a shadow comes up behind Wolfwood, blocking out the sun, he figures his time is up. He doesn’t reach for his cross, barely flinches as the figure stands behind him. Just waits for the bullet through his head.
It doesn’t come. The shadow moves, and Wolfwood vaguely sees the figure sitting on the crater’s edge beside him.
“If you’re looking for the Punisher,” he drawls, not turning his gaze from the crater, “He’s dead already.”
“I was looking for you, Wolfwood.”
Wolfwood knows that voice. He turns, at last, to the person sitting beside him. Now he wishes he really had reached for a gun.
Vash sits there, smiling at him, with his dumbass face and dumbass glasses and dumbass coat. All of him.
“You died,” Wolfwood states, matter of factly, “with the rest of July.”
“You told me not to, remember? To come back?” There was a laugh in Vash’s voice, and Wolfwood isn’t sure whether he wants to kiss or kill him. Instead, he looks away.
“I did.”
“So here I am. Figured you’d like to see me again.”
“Why’s that?”
Vash’s shoulders sink slightly.
“I dunno, I just-”
“You were gone for 4 months, blondie. We all thought you were dead. No effort to reach out before that?”
“I didn’t want you getting hurt…”
“Didn’t seem to care about that when you firebombed the city.”
A beat.
“I’m sorry.”
“For the city? Not me you should be apologizing to.”
“No, no. For… kissing you.”
Wolfwood sits up straighter, but he still can’t look at Vash.
“I shouldn’t have.”
“We all do things we shouldn’t have, needle-noggin. Way of life.”
“But-”
“If I say I forgive you, will you fucking drop it?”
Vash is silent.
“I forgive you, Vash.” The words feel like sand in Wolfwood’s mouth. “For kissing me on the night you died. For coming back to life and dying in front of me again. And for not talking to me for 4 months. You’re still an asshole. But I don’t care anymore.”
“Oh.”
Wolfwood turns to Vash abruptly, fury in his eyes.
“You have no more response than that? Really? God, its the fucking tower all over again.”
Silence.
“Say something Vash.”
Silence again. Wolfwood opens his mouth to speak, but Vash interrupts.
“I meant it.”
“The apology?”
“The kiss.”
Wolfwood shrinks in on himself a little. Vash continues.
“I meant it. There wasn’t time to talk to you about it earlier, but- I’d like to do it again.”
Wolfwood stills, staring at the man in front of him. For the first time in a long time, he’s brave enough to look Vash in the eye. They’re beautiful eyes, if Wolfwood really cared about beauty.
They’re gentle and pathetic and hopeful and so unapologetically Vash that Wolfwood’s body moves before he can think. Pushes himself forward into Vash.
His fingers loop into Vash’s hair and pull their faces together, hard. Vash tastes like sand and acid and sugar, and Wolfwood knows there’s smoke on his own breath. His eyes are squeezed tight and his hands are trembling.
Vash doesn’t pull away. He does quite the opposite in fact, proceeding to fall into Wolfwood’s touch. Wolfwood feels Vash’s arms wrapping around his back, pulling him closer, closer. He can hear a soft purring at the back of Vash’s throat.
Wolfwood feels nothing for a moment, just a moment. No guilt, hope, anger, hatred, love, longing. Nothing. He barely even feels Vash touching him.
The two melt into each other and sit like that for perhaps a little longer than humanly possible. Good thing neither of them have ever really cared about what’s humanly possible.
Wolfwood backs away and the first word off his lips is “fuck.” It’s angry and whispered and he scowls, more at himself than Vash.
“That was a bad idea,” he mutters, as Vash’s eyes flicker open.
There is silence for a moment. And then Vash giggles. He touches his lips with his fingers and gazes up at Wolfwood, who gapes at him.
“The fuck you laughing at, blondie?” He snaps.
“You’re good at that.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. We should do it again sometime.” Vash’s eyes are playful, and his smile is genuine.
Wolfwood scowls.
“I guess you’ll have to die, come back to life, die again, come back to life again, and wait another four months.”
Vash laughs again and it’s one of the best sounds Wolfwood has heard in years. Wolfwood responds by scowling and turning away.
Vash laughs for a little while longer, and collapses back onto the sand, blonde hair matching its color. Wolfwood watches him out of the corner of his eye. He’s beautiful, if Wolfwood really cared about beauty.
Maybe he’ll find a way to care.