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There were two of them on the couch. Vash was fiddling with his prosthesis while lying in another’s lap, and Milly was reading a book — a real paper book, because that was the life they lived now, with a growing collection of books and a generously cushioned gray couch in a small but nice apartment on the outskirts of December to call their own. Well, it was the girls' apartment, really, their couch and their books, but Meryl was out of earshot doing dishes and couldn’t correct Vash. Even if she could, she hadn’t learned to read minds last time he checked. Although she had been in his head before. More than once, in fact.
It scared him, and not just the being in his head part, although that scared him plenty. But beside that, the mundanity of it all: the clinking from the kitchen, the bright orange book cover that loomed above him — something modern judging by the title — and the… well, the couch…
He tried to remember whatever it was he was doing with his arm, detached just as his thoughts on the matter. The screwdriver and pliers on his chest suggested some sort of upkeep, except… Right. He already did all he could with those, which left the heavier structural damage, and for that he’d have to get up and use a soldering-iron and he really didn’t want to. Here in Milly’s lap, under her book’s orange-tinted shade, it was warm and quiet. Outside of that it was just as warm and only a little noisier, but there was the quest of finding the soldering-iron, then waiting for it to heat up, then remembering that besides colophony he needed silver, then realizing they likely didn’t have any around, then explaining to Meryl that no, he wasn’t making it up to get out of kitchen duty and he couldn’t solder zirconium without it, and it was in fact necessary for his arm to work, etc, etc... It all came down to the maintenance being left unfinished for the evening, so he might as well stay put.
Milly must’ve assumed he had drifted off, because when she carded through his grown-out hair and saw no response, she propped the book onto his nose bridge like no big deal. Vash did his best to suppress a cackle. Resourceful! She didn’t put the hand away, kept stroking absentmindedly. A careful gesture, not enough to disturb if he was actually asleep. It made him warm inside and a little pink in the face. It was in moments like this he could pretend there wasn’t a void at the cushions where his legs were folded in triangles, sucking all the warmth out of him.
It was the normalcy that killed him. Him meaning Vash. Not him, it was the damn serum that did—
Vash breathed in and out slowly. Tried to be a good book stand, calm and collected, deserving of a pat on the head.
Milly’s touch was so unbearably gentle. He should have been happy. A roof over his head and a place to hide from the Interpol or whatever the Earth’s forces were called these days was all he could ask for, and with the girls he never had to. Meryl and Milly made sure to give him so much more than that, and he was grateful. And he told them he was happy. Because he should have been.
Only — tough luck! Not while being haunted.
The void dwelled in shadows. At noon, when there were none, it disappeared under rocks and waited until it could cling to him twofold, one per each blistering sun. But the shadows were just one small part of its domain. It thrived in cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke, and in those manifestations it could find its home inside Vash, who welcomed the company despite feeling emptier than ever once the liquor had metabolized and the smoke had left his lungs. There were less of both vices since he had started living with the girls, but the void found a new home alongside them — an all too familiar spot on the couch. Always to his right. And now, when he allowed himself to lose focus and relax under Milly’s touch, he felt the emptiness next to him stronger than ever, scourging cold by contrast. Pulling him in and making his knee implant act out as if from a chill draft.
He kept his eyes closed and his breathing steady. If he could give into pretending and actually fall asleep… Except he knew he would be followed, and the dreams were worse. Not nightmares. God, he wished they were… No, the dreams were pleasant, painfully so, full of tender moments and unsaid truths, of lazy mornings in bed and lighthearted roughhousing, of unimportant little mundane troubles. Every night — or, more accurately, the ones he allowed himself to fall asleep — Vash was assured of the dream being true. It couldn’t be otherwise — or else the calloused hand in his wouldn’t be so tangible and he wouldn’t calculate square roots with such precision, and the laughter at his anxious attempts to make sure it was real wouldn’t be so genuine… He let himself be assured of the reality of their shared carefree happiness. And every morning he was proven wrong.
And it just wasn’t fair, the way reality crushed him every time at such velocity it knocked the breath out of him when he would jump up on the damned couch and—
“Vash?”
The book was lifted off him. He squinted, shielded his eyes from the dim lampshade light that accosted his senses in long blurry streaks.
“Vash, what’s wrong?” asked Milly, also smudged for some reason. “You’re cryin’,” she added helpfully, putting the book away.
Oh. That explained the blurriness.
He didn’t mean to. It was a nice quiet evening and nothing was wrong. And there he was, spoiling it.
Vash forcefully pushed himself into a sitting position, making the prosthesis and tools slide off: some on the couch, some on the floor. He and Milly both winced from the sudden noise.
“Hey, did something happen?” Milly tried again. “New or old tears?”
“Old. Ish. Recent? I— It’s nothing, just… It’s just the couch—“ He bit the inside of his cheek. Talking was a mistake. New tears rolled in and now there was no way to brush it off.
“What’s going on?” Meryl poked her head into the room. Must have been the ruckus that drew her attention. “Oh…”
She walked over, wiping her still wet hands on the go.
“Hey, what did I miss?” she asked quietly, sitting down. She had to push Vash’s angled knees to the side to get enough room, and her hand stayed there, holding him in place. Not forceful, just steady.
It took much more strength than he would admit to stay put instead of storming off. Habits old as this one refused to go easy.
“Said it was the couch,” Milly relayed.
Repeated back at him, the lie was so obvious he didn’t understand how he wasn’t exposed on the spot.
Meryl frowned slightly, trying to make sense. “What about it? Does it make you back hurt? Or…” Her face lit up as she seemed to have found the answer. “Wait, hold on, is it about how the bed is right over there, and you’re sleeping on the couch all alone? You know you can always ask, right? That we’ve been waiting for you to ask?”
He, in fact, didn’t know. Tempting, that implication, but off-mark by an ile. The guessing game was rigged: how could they know? How could some piece of furniture, easily breakable, break the planet’s most wanted gunslinger? The incongruence flicked some wrong switch and instead of a sob he let out a cackle. Then another one. It wasn’t — haha! — funny. No use. Terrible villain laughter bubbled out of his throat, threatening to flood the room.
Meryl was quick to react. “Code blankie! He’s got the laughs.”
“On it!”
He was covered in a blanket at once, the heavy and nice to the senses one that always rested somewhere in close proximity. It kept his occasional feathers from poking the girls with handpicked slideshows of his worst memories — he had yet to learn now not to do exactly that — and helped with what Meryl had lovingly dubbed ‘the laughs’.
Vash wanted to say that this was no blanket situation, that he was in control. Except he felt the heavy fabric rub against something more than skin, burning out of the core of him and ready to overtake. He had lost shape and didn't even notice.
His laughter died with this realization.
Okay, not fine then.
He sat there, not laughing and not crying, like a somber plant-based shawarma.
“It’s not. About the couch,” he said eventually, because they were waiting on him. “Not about this one anyway…” He began and drifted off into nothing.
Words were hard. So Vash never told them. Not then, not after — he never did. Meryl shifted her weight, looked at his legs so that not to spook him with eye contact. From behind he could feel Milly fidget with her hands, waiting patiently for him to go on. Both were nothing but kind and understanding and he didn’t even have the guts to tell them…
All three stewed in silence. The void stewed along, presumably out of comradery. A clock ticked. Upstairs, neighbors switched between TV channels. Electricity hummed in the walls.
It was Milly who spoke first. When she did, it sounded like she was about to cry herself. “Is this about Wolfwood? H-how he died?”
Vash froze.
“How…? Wait, you knew?”
“Of course we did!” Meryl exclaimed in indignation, meeting his eyes. ”‘Nicholas couldn’t say goodbye…’ Seriously, what are we, five? Of course we understood what that meant. OK, maybe I didn’t at first,” she admitted quieter and more somber, looking away, “but Milly knew right away.”
Behind him, Milly sniffled in agreement.
“Sorry, I… Shit, no easy way out of this, huh?” he asked the hand on his knee. It gave him a reassuring pat, but the question went unanswered, prompting him to speak. He let out a defeated sigh. No way out but forward. As the local saying went, no matter how much you stall, sandsteamer’s gonna hit you front and center.
“He died three days before you saw me in Octovern. On the couch. Right next to me. Couldn’t do a single thing.”
Each word felt like a punch to the solar plexus, but at the same time numb and distant like he wasn’t the one talking. Must’ve been the void’s effects, because he was looking through the hand and through his knees directly at it.
Meryl clutched the fabric of his pants as if it was the last thing keeping her composure. It probably was.
“Oh, God…” she breathed out, her voice hoarse. She didn’t know that Vash and the bastard above weren’t on speaking terms, especially so since his only prayer went unanswered.
The feathers at the back of his neck crumpled when Milly pressed her forehead there. She was openly crying now. Good thing thick fabric separated them. The words ached, but “died” did nothing to convey the exact moment he was gone. Little cling of the fallen bottle. Silence. One single moment of deafening silence. Of nothing at all. Of void replacing the man he loved. And then church bells ringing, a punchline to a joke he failed to find funny.
“Was it peaceful…?” Meryl started and cut herself off. They all knew Wolfwood led a life that didn’t imply a happy ending.
“No,” he admitted. “But… He was home. He went out smiling.”
Confetti falling from the sky, whirling in the breeze and sticking to the blood. Little scraps of paper he had to peel off the content mask of a face…
Vash kept running his mouth just to drown out the memory, “There was a big fight — I mean, of course there was, and after that we lagged behind, and there was a couch — a nice one, white upholstery,” red on white made for a clashing contrast, “the lot, the stern and stiff official kind — and we had a nice drink on it, ‘Bride’ brand, funny, right? With all the bells ringing? Smoke free reception ‘cause at this point he just kept coughing up blood and couldn't take a proper drag— Asked me to smile too, but I…” At that his voice betrayed him and broke. “I couldn’t! Just, just couldn’t give him even that…”
Milly sobbed, wrapped her arms around him. Vash leaned against her, all the while rubbing the back of Meryl’s shaking hand in consolation. She was also crying now, and he felt his own eyes water anew.
“I’m sorry…” he mouthed past the chokehold of the void.
I am so, so sorry I couldn ’t keep him safe. I am sorry I lived and he didn’t.
He thought it would get easier with time. The reason he stalled for so long: there should’ve been a moment when it stopped hurting.
“It’s been over a year and it still…” he whispered in disbelief.
…And it still hurt like hell. This wound refused to close over, much like the one through his chest, a parting gift from his late brother. A familiar silhouette was forever imprinted onto his retina, making him see it no matter where he looked, making him remember.
“And we never knew him as close as you did!” countered Meryl. “And— Well, you see me...” She gestured at her own waterworks. The sentence faded into a whisper.
Vash was out of words for the moment, so he made only a compassionate noise. Outstretched a hand in which he clutched a blanket corner in a manner of a great wing, minus the feathers — by this point he felt drained rather than hysteric. The invitation was accepted: Meryl scooted over to bury her face into his shirt. In this position Milly could reach her as well, which she promptly did and pulled them both closer to herself. So snug, it didn’t leave room for stray ghosts.
“Does he have a brave?” Milly asked unsteadily before righting herself, “Grave. That we could visit?”
Of course there was. Vash wouldn’t leave him to rot. He drove the shovel into hard-packed arid ground until his hands grew calloused, and then some more until the callouses started to bleed, and some more after that, bare flesh gripping the handle until the job was finished. He didn’t remember it hurting, didn’t really remember the process at all. Just crawling out of the pit and looking down at his hands in surprise. Next time he looked down, they were bandaged up and holding a dear brown hand peeking from under the shroud. He looked at it for a long time, trying to recall what was missing. Wasn’t there supposed to be a ring? No, he got his ceremonies all mixed up. This was a funeral. So, he went back to burying him.
Vash looked down at the assortment of hands: one around his middle, another one, so small by comparison, holding his own close to the chest. His metal one was out of sight, buried in the mess and poking his flank.
It took some time before he found it in him to answer.
“Yeah. Back at the orphanage in Hopeland.”
Meryl shifted against him, backing away just enough to say, “Huh, that’s… pretty close, actually. Less than a day on wheels.”
“I— You don’t have to.”
“Silly, I want to. Not right away. But when you’re ready, I’d like to visit,” she added, feeling him start to panic.
“Me too,” agreed Milly into the crook of his neck. “We could bring flowers…”
“You think he was a flower type of guy?” wondered Meryl.
“Not really, but he’d like some, I think.”
“You know what I think? We should hire somebody to chain-smoke all over. Make it real cozy for him.”
Despite still shaking with sobs, Milly snorted. Vash felt a smile creeping in and hid it the crown of Meryl’s head. Couldn’t keep it hidden for long, because after a while she demanded oxygen and freedom. He had to let go before a full on revolt could start.
But even prolonged oxygen deprivation couldn’t keep Meryl Stryfe from fussing. The two criers were cooed at and called crybabies, their tears were gently wiped. After disappearing into the kitchen to turn on the kettle for tea, she returned only to find Vash discretely dabbing at his eyes with a corner of the blanket, for what he earned another crybaby. This time it was even called for: he got sentimental over a simple fact of being the luckiest man alive.
“So, what was it about sharing a bed…” he inquired conversationally, trying his luck.
“Sly, aren’t you?” Meryl squinted at him mockingly, crossing her arms. Her tears were left on his shirt, but she was still disheveled enough to leave all the bite out of her voice. She was playing it up for normalcy’s sake, and that was one more reason to love her.
“Is that a ‘yes’?”
“It’s a ‘go wash your face, then we’ll talk’.”
“Oh, come on!”
A boiling kettle echoed him dramatically from the other room.
“You come on. I’m making chamomile, OK?”
Milly, still holding Vash in a bear trap of a hug, mumbled a conformation into his shoulder.
“Gonna let me go, big girl?”
“Nuh-uh. Never…”
“See?” he said to Meryl. “I’m trapped.”
“You don’t seem too upset about it,” she observed before leaving them for the kettle.
That’s because he wasn’t— Huh. It’s not like he could ever forget. The memories hurt all the same, and the room felt one person short. And yet… Vash kicked his legs in a fake attempt to get away or maybe to taste the air like some sort of bug. He really didn’t want to leave their couch.
The void was still there, just kicked into the corner. He supposed it wouldn’t leave till death do them part. Still, split three ways, it was easier to bear. They had a good thing going and, hell, that was something to live for.