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“Don’t you ever get sick of loving all the time?”
“What kind of question is that?”
You’d think Wolfwood had suggested they go kick puppies for fun. Which was unfair, it was a perfectly reasonable question to ask someone like Vash. When someone had that much love to share with the world, a love that burned permanent reminders into his flesh and left him in tears, it was natural to wonder if they ever got tired of it. Surely it had to be a natural assumption. Someone had to wonder. Not even a real priest loved humanity like the Humanoid Typhoon.
A plume of smoke was blown into the air by Wolfwood’s lungs, curling into the sky streaked with orange and pink. He’s lazy with it, leaning against Angelina’s side as they look over the caravan they’ve been following for the past couple of days. Just for safe travels, and yet already Vash had gotten himself roped up in their troubles. His pockets were filled with less bullets than they arrived with.
And still here they were, far out from the caravan and up on the dunes. Because those people knew who Vash was as soon as he shot like that, and with their own fortunes brought back into their hands they snarled and spat at the outlaw like cornered alleycats. And still Vash had only smiled, the kind that made Wolfwood want to punch him, and retreated off into the sands. Like the dog Wolfwood was, he followed.
“Isn’t it exhausting?” He went on, the setting sun making Vash’s shades shine in that very particular way where he couldn’t see his eyes. “You got all this shit just…pouring outta ya all the time, and you don’t even get rewarded for it. So it just…doesn’t it get to you? After a while?”
“Love doesn’t need a reward, Wolfwood.” Vash said, nearly scolding, mostly patronizing, like he was explaining it to a particularly annoying kid.
“You know what the hell I meant, you love and it never goes anywhere. They spit it right back out at your feet like ya fed ‘em poison." Wolfwood hissed, waving around his cig between his two fingers. He could only see the side of Vash’s head from where he sat down a few paces in front of him, turned gingerly to the side to watch him. He still couldn’t see anything behind those shades.
“Why do you think love hurts?” Vash finally asked, expression blank. Probably not, his eyes gave everything away, but he couldn’t exactly tell now. “That it hurts for me to care.”
“Because it does.” Wolfwood scoffed. “Not in the—stop looking at me like that, I’m not saying love is some awful blight, I’m not fifteen after my first heartbreak.”
Never mind the fact Wolfwood never got to be fifteen. He’s sure Vash was thinking that, from the few things Wolfwood had admitted to him in tidbits of conversation, under the cover of night. More often than not pieces of his story were whispered in the aftermath of some tussle in the sheets, because Wolfwood could admit he was terribly sentimental after a rush like that. It was horribly embarrassing. Especially considering he’d never been a talker like that till he was with Vash.
“It just does, Tongari, it makes people do stupid shit and it’s a bitch to tangle out in your own head.” He continued, taking another low drag of his cig. “At least people find an outlet for it. Ain’t no one’s dared meet you where your love’s at. And it’s a tiring thing to feel. C’mon, don’t you ever get a little intrusive thought wishin’ you could quit lovin’ for once?”
Vash turned his head just a little more. Wolfwood got the sense he’d said something…wrong? Right? Important? He couldn’t tell. But it made him backtrack over his words, thankful for the sanctity of his own sunglasses as Vash watched him.
The light of the sunset was still blocking those pretty blue wonders from him. He wanted to take those shades by the nose and push them up so he could trace the outline of his eyes. He took a longer drag of his cig to chase the image away. The silence lingered with it.
“Not really,” Vash finally said, quietly. “I could never wish I didn’t love.”
“You’re misreading my words, spikes.” Wolfwood sighed, smoke going out with it, resigned. “Someone like you’s gotta get so full of love it hurts to sit in ya. Gotta give you heartburn, don’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Vash said simply, “I’ve never gone without it.”
“No?” Wolfwood found he could believe that. “And there was never a time it didn’t hurt?”
The silence lingered more. Down far below, they could hear someone shout in the caravan, but it died quickly. Not trouble, but they both turned their heads to pay attention to it all the same.
Still watching, Vash replied, “I almost forgot what it felt like when it didn’t.”
“Not even Shakespeare could’ve written a tragedy like you.” Wolfwood murmured, slow in his inhale and slow on the exhale. And then, because he knew that Typhoon better than even he liked to admit; “You said ‘almost’. What’d it finally stop hurtin’ for?”
“Does it matter?” Vash hummed.
“Fine, be mysterious.” Wolfwood rolled his eyes. “See if I give a shit. I’ll chase ya across the planet, but I won’t be chasin’ you through your own head.”
“Yeah?” Vash finally chuckled, the tiniest smile that was realer than any beam he’d had in the last week alone. “What’s so different about it?”
“Your home advantage, for one,” Wolfwood started, and he felt a swell when Vash chuckled again, “and for another, I ain’t lettin’ this relationship of ours get all one-sided. Maybe I want to be annoying and get chased around for once, you ever thought of that?”
“Sure, Wolfwood.” Vash smiled, and finally when he fully turned his head the bright shine left his sunglasses. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, striking blue against the fading sky. “I’ll chase you, if you want.”
“Still so one-sided.” Wolfwood sighed, pulling another huff of smoke and turning his gaze elsewhere. “You didn’t want me chasin’ you for shit.”
“You’re also more likely to attack me for chasing unprompted.”
“Yeah,” Wolfwood shrugged, “‘m’a real asshole, ain’t I? Why you keep me around again?” He teased, blowing a ring of smoke.
“Well, first you wouldn’t leave.” Vash said, and Wolfwood made the mistake of meeting those eyes again, the softest smile—Wolfwood was not built for softness. Never had been. He almost felt like the teenager he never got to be under gentleness like that. “And then I enjoyed the company.”
Here the tiny swell in Wolfwood’s chest shifted. It became a painful sort of feeling, inflamed between his ribs. He blamed the cigarette, despite the fact he hadn’t taken another drag of it yet.
“Sap,” He gritted out, and he stubbed the remains of his cigarette out on his shoe, praying it’d take the heartburn with it.
There is a self-evident truth that has been flashing over Wolfwood’s head like a neon sign for a while now. He knows exactly what that sign says, every single glowing letter and all the bright arrows pointing down at him.
He’s not stupid. But he is very, very stubborn, and far more scared than he’d ever admit. So he’s refused to turn around and face that sign, make himself read those letters as if that would make it any more true than it already was.
The end of the line was on the horizon. Wolfwood could almost taste it. Vash himself stared off into the horizon as the wind majestically blew his coattails around more often than usual before he’d depart. The metaphorical storybook was feeling lighter on the right side.
“You’re the worst job I’ve ever taken.” Wolfwood mumbled into the half-empty can of beer.
“Sorry,” Vash croaked, slumped across the old wooden table.
It was one of those bars that had outdoor tables, way out and far they were, with bottles strewn around. Any normal person would’ve gotten alcohol poisoning by now. They just kept drinking, and Wolfwood knew he’d be hauling Vash away later instead of paying this horrendous tab.
This was the closest they had ever gotten to admitting what they both knew. Why Wolfwood was here, why he had followed Vash in the first place. It was a terrible, terrible thing to admit. Wolfwood didn’t know when Vash figured it out. He didn’t want to.
“Don’t fuckin’ apologize,” He slurred, slamming the can down, “s’a compliment.”
“Oh,” Vash’s brows furrowed, eyes cracking open, “weird one.”
Wolfwood thought this: you are the worst thing to ever happen to me. He didn’t say this, because there was no way to take such a sentence in a positive light and he could never forgive himself for doing that to Vash. He carried the weight of all of humanity’s sins on his shoulders every day, he didn't need any more.
“Assination is easier than you.” Wolfwood rolled his head over his shoulder, glaring out into the dark night of the town, all the normal people passing by. He almost said this: I wish I’d just been sent to kill you.
“Killing’s always easy,” Vash mumbled into the wooden table, all sad and droopy, “s’why you gotta fight t’go the harder route.”
“You do love making your life harder.” Wolfwood sighed, popping open the bottle of their next…whatever was in this thing, he had no idea, just took a swing of it straight from the neck and set it down on the table. “You wouldn’t know how easy killin’ is, anyway.”
“I do,” Vash murmured, and that caught Wolfwood’s attention. He was staring off at the people passing by, the ones laughing, the drunk idiots (much like themselves), the quiet ones. “Don’t…please don’t think I’m…” He closed his eyes, opened them again, and his gaze was very far away. “I know.”
Wolfwood saw that for what it was. Not an admission of hypocrisy, but of an urge. An intrusive thought, just how easy it’d be to kill. He didn’t think it was a common one—but it was a quiet confession, said to a priest who would absolve him of that sin if he could. That once upon a time, he’d thought about how easy it could be.
Wolfwood could never say this: God will have to beg for your forgiveness, and I hope He never gets it.
Vash took the neck of the bottle and turned his head to gulp down mouthful after mouthful. Wolfwood watched his throat bob with a haze in his mind before Vash gasped for breath and thunked the bottle down again.
“Alright, angel,” Wolfwood murmured, too soft, as he pushed up to his feet, “we’ve had enough for tonight.”
“Noooo,” Vash whined, ragdolling as Wolfwood pulled him back by the shoulder. “I don’ wanna…”
“That’s too damn bad.” Wolfwood grunted as he slung Vash’s arm over his shoulder. He took a quick glance to ensure the employees at the bar weren’t looking before quickly turning and dragging Vash along.
It was not a dignified retreat. He himself was drunk to the point of swaying and they kept tumbling into each other. They looked no better than any regular pair on the street, like they were normal and didn’t have nooses wrapped tight around their throats.
Vash started giggling about something or other. Maybe he said something Wolfwood didn’t catch, maybe it was something that existed in his own head. But he swayed into Wolfwood’s side and his lips pressed over his neck, hot breath puffing and arm pawing at his side. He knew Vash wasn’t really looking for anything, just touching for the sake of touch.
He did that sometimes. Wolfwood figured it was because Vash was finally allowing himself the peace of knowing he could. Wolfwood would let him touch wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He never said as much, though, just caught Vash’s hands twitching and would find an excuse to take them and let the gloved fingers linger over bare skin till they migrated where they wanted to be.
Here is pieces of the truth that Wolfwood will only ever say to himself, that leave him haunted and wide-awake under the cover of night;
If all went to plan, he would never be able to go back to being the Punisher like he did after all his old jobs. He would forever remain haunted by gloved hands, a gentle laugh, and eyes that really weren’t all that blue when you looked closely. They had just a little green in them, a healthy and thriving plant—a normal one.
This is why Wolfwood could never look at the sign over his head, because the sign said this: he was never going to complete his job. He was never going to hand Vash over to Knives and let him suffer that fate, whatever it may be. He was never going to be able to drop Vash off at the front door and leave without a goodbye.
If he was brave enough, he could say exactly why this was all true. He could look in the mirror and see the collar rimmed with spikes digging into his throat and the shining tag that read why he was going to doom himself like this.
He was not brave. He was a coward, a bastard, and the best he deserved was to be put down like the dog he was.
He could name the ache in his chest as Vash blinked open those turquoise eyes, a smile gracing his features at the sight of his face. He could maybe hold him and tell him that he was going to stay for however long Vash wanted him there. He’d beg Vash to believe him, that he didn’t follow anymore because he had to. He followed because there was a leash and it was in Vash’s hands, and Wolfwood himself had put it there.
Instead he pulled Vash into a little alley and kissed him hard enough to bruise. He could never do it in public, too wary of others seeing. What if Knives found out? What if letting others see made it all the more real? Did it matter?
Vash melted into him all the same, and Wolfwood’s hands burned with hellfire where they touched. He had not earned the right to hold an archangel like this. But God, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. He’d be as selfish for as long as he breathed.
There was an hourglass with his name on it. Somewhere, an invisible hand flipped that hourglass over, grains of sand falling far too fast. His time was running out.
Once, Wolfwood tried to cram a regenerative vial down Vash’s gullet.
It was incredibly pointless and stupid and he knew that. The vials weren’t cure-alls, they worked specifically with bodies irrevocably fucked up by the Eye of Michael, genetically modified to do so.
But, hey, the Eye worked in tandem with Knives, maybe that meant there was some weird Plant bullshit induced in those vials that gave them their properties. It wouldnt’ surprise him. Maybe that meant they would work.
The truth was that Wolfwood didn’t know what else to do.
He couldn’t tell which blood was his own, the gunmen, or Vash’s. It blurred together, possibly also due to the concussion he was sporting from Angelina flipping on them earlier. They were luckily in a city, meaning between all the gunfire, the dozens of moving bodies, the lucky hits, Wolfwood managed to drag them to a staircase tucking down to a basement, or some other lower entryway, to an apartment building. It shielded them for now, but it wasn’t a permanent solution.
God, there was so much blood. If Vash’s coat wasn’t red, that’s the only thing it’d be now. He was breathing all funny and his shades hung off his nose, cracked as he tried to shy away from Wolfwood with every movement. He couldn’t even muster the strength to push Wolfwood like he was trying to, his prosthetic arm wasn’t moving at all save for some twitches.
Wolfwood fumbled desperately over his suit jacket as he patted down every pocket. His hands were slick with blood that smeared everywhere, making him nearly drop the damn vial. He was sticky all over and a roar was in his ears, barely aware of what words left his mouth, only that he had to say them.
“Stay with me, Tongari, come on,” He hissed, and if anyone asked he meant it only that Vash had to stay awake.
Vash’s eyes were glazed and barely open as is. Wolfwood cupped a hand over the back of his head, brushing over where it met his neck, tilting his head back and smearing red all over the few sections of unmarred skin he had. A vague whine sounded as Wolfwood lifted the vial to his own mouth and closed his teeth around the end, fighting the shake of adrenaline, exhaustion, and terror as the glass broke.
“You gotta swallow,” He croaked, lifting the vial with trembling fingers and begging himself he didn’t drop it as he tilted Vash’s head back, holding it just over his lips so the shards of glass wouldn’t hurt, “you can do that, yeah?”
Vash’s eyes cracked open a little. A tiny drop of the vial landed on his lips and those eyes widened. He jerked his head to the side, face scrunched.
“N-no,” Vash wheezed, coughing on the breath.
“Oh you can’t be serious—” Wolfwood hissed, trying to hold Vash’s head in place, and the bastard just fought it even more, holding his jaw shut with gritted teeth, “just take it!”
“No!” It was the strongest Vash had ever sounded, if one could consider a run-over, crying thoma strong. “You don’t—”
“Take it, for God’s sake!” He snapped, far too loud considering they were supposed to be hiding, prying his thumb into Vash’s mouth and forcefully holding it open.
Just as the vial was about to tip in, Vash clamped his jaw down. Let it be known that the Stampede had very, very sharp teeth, and usually Wolfwood had found them rather sexy when they bit down. This time he yelped and jerked his hand away, and the vial slipped straight from his fingers and landed on Vash’s chest, rolling down the expanse of his coat as its contents dribbled out.
“You piece of shit!” He barked, still far too loud and he knew this, he knew he had to keep quiet, he knew it was likely all pointless to waste his vials like this. There was blood on Vash’s lips thanks to his hands and Wolfwood still didn’t know who it belonged to. “I am trying to help you!”
“Not,” Vash gasped, eyelids fluttering, “not with—I won’t take—”
“You picky—!” Wolfwood snapped, grabbing the vial and there was barely in it, hardly enough to heal himself from a single bullet wound and Vash had far more than just one, but he wasn’t thinking straight. “Take the stupid fucking vial!”
They were just wrestling with each other now, which was awfully pathetic when a strong wind could knock them both over. Vash bared his fangs and kept turning his head, kept clenching his jaw even as Wolfwood leaned over him and tried to hold his head in place, tried to cover his nose so he had to open his mouth and breathe.
“Drink, goddamn you—!”
A foot connected with his stomach. It was weak as hell and didn’t even send him over. Vash gasped and winced in pain, curling in on himself and rolling to the side, whimpering. There was a pool of blood underneath them. Some of it was Wolfwood’s own. Most of it was Vash.
“I can’t,” Vash cried, gasping as his cheek pressed into the cold stone, “I w-won’t, take—”
“We don’t have anything else!” Wolfwood snarled, grabbing Vash by the collar of his coat, knees on either side of his body as he lifted him up as Vash cried out in pain. It sent a stab through his gut and he stubbornly persisted. “You don’t get to die! You hear me, Stampede? I am not letting you!”
“Sorry,” Vash whispered, the tiniest upwards curve to the corner of his mouth, blood seeping through a bullet wound in his shoulder and spreading over to Wolfwood’s fisted fingers.
“Don’t—” Wolfwood’s voice cracked, and he tried to fight it when he closed his eyes but he couldn’t, if Vash left his sightline too long he was convinced he’d fade away, “shut the fuck up.” He croaked, and he hated it, hated how choked it came out, how wet it was. He was emptying from the inside out and he could barely feel Vash’s fingers clinging to the edge of his suit jacket. “You don’t get to go until I say. Vash, please.”
Vash’s next breath was short and broken, “Nick…”
A pit opened in Wolfwood’s stomach then for two reasons. First, because there was only one time Vash ever called him Nick and it had been in a shared bed under the covers when the rest of the world didn’t exist. Second, because the door at the base of the steps opened.
The Punisher was against the opposite wall. He could’ve grabbed it, but it would’ve taken a few seconds longer than it was to haul Vash up into his chest and brace his arm against his side, a human shield as he bared his teeth in a wordless snarl.
The woman standing there stopped, frozen and no doubt scared out of her wits at the sight. She steeled herself a moment later, something solidifying in her gaze when she looked over them. He could feel Vash’s weak breaths against his neck and his grip tightened.
Silently, she stepped to the side, gesturing with her head to come inside.
It could very well have been a trap. It could’ve been a finishing blow. It could’ve been a million different things, but Vash’s prosthetic was hanging crookedly off his stump and each twitch sent more blood soaking his coat.
Wolfwood bundled Vash into his arms, hooked a finger over the Punisher, and he took them inside. There was a broken vial left among that pool of blood, to be washed away by a poor janitor come morning.
Vash believed in the inherent goodness of humanity. He would call himself proven right thanks to that woman, the two holed up under the apartment complex as a shady friend of hers was called down with stitches, alcohol, and a dream.
Wolfwood believed nobody was good without a reward. He would call himself proven right because, before a single needle went under Vash’s skin, that friend held out his hand expectantly.
Wolfwood could’ve taken the Punisher and threatened to blow his brains out right there if he didn’t save his best friend. But he also knew shaking hands weren’t as precise, so he dug in his pockets and slapped out as many blood-stained double dollars as he had on him, and he prayed.
Vash made it, obviously. They didn’t talk about the broken vial or anything else that transpired. Wolfwood was grateful for this. He couldn’t explain himself in any better way than the truth, and the truth would ruin them.
The end was getting steadily close still. Their movements were tenser, erratic. He expected Vash to start pulling away by now, closed off as he considered what he was going to do, where the two of them would come to an end (as far as he was aware, at least). Maybe book it off into the desert again.
He did the opposite. Somehow, he became even clingier, touchier, quick to herd Wolfwood somewhere without so much as a glance. Wolfwood let him, too bewildered to argue otherwise.
They almost got into a bar fight with some angry drunks, by which he meant Vash had one too many and clumsily fucked up to high hell, leaving Wolfwood pushing him back and trying to quell the situation despite also being shitfaced. That was just how it went.
One of the men took an empty bottle, smashing the end on the counter and making one very dangerous weapon. Wolfwood took one step back—and a flash of red shoved him the rest of the way.
Suddenly, Vash wasn’t apologetic and cowering anymore. Suddenly he was where Wolfwood had been standing, facing off the man with the smashed bottle with bared teeth and a growl in his throat. Quick as a whip, bullets flew, and the chandelier above the lobby came crashing to the ground.
The distraction was enough for them to get away, though Wolfwood still got some glass shards in his arm. Vash took his hand, forcing them to sit as he picked every one out. His grip was too tight.
Wolfwood still saw Vash’s bared teeth, not in anger, but in defiance. Like he, of all people, was worth protecting.
Wolfwood didn’t ask about this either. He was one hell of a coward, a bigger one than he ever thought Vash was. No, Vash was braver than any man for all that he did. And Wolfwood was nothing more than wall decoration that couldn’t stand the thought of moving and breaking the flow of the house.
“Troubled, are you?”
“Ain’t you supposed to be preparin’?” Wolfwood sneered, barely looked back as he took a drag of his cigarette.
“We are,” Popped a dark head with pale hair, a smile too wide and eyes inhuman, “we’re also here. Checking in.”
“Lucky bitch,” Wolfwood snorted, “gettin’ to be two places at once. Is there a message for me?”
“No,” Zazie clicked, walking around the slanted roof. Vash was somewhere far below in the town, eating a dinner that Wolfwood said he wasn’t hungry for. In the dead of night, no one would see two lone figures on a rooftop.
He really wasn’t hungry, but that was because his stomach kept rolling. That, and he spotted the worms earlier that day and knew who was following them.
“Then you’re just here to gloat.” He deadpanned.
“Also no,” Zazie barely cast a glance to the humans below, “I’m here to see what kind of fun this’ll be.”
“Fuck off,” Wolfwood growled, biting a little too hard on his cig, “if yer just gonna do that, I suggest you hightail it. I can still shoot ya plenty.”
“Aww,” Zazie lolled their head back, bent at a monstrous angle with a vicious smirk, “you did get attached.”
It’s so much worse than that, he thought. It is inconceivably worse.
“Yeah, well,” He sighed, holding his cig out between two fingers, “you would have, too.”
“Wellll,” Zazie spun around, suddenly far, far more intrigued, “I expected a little more fight from you, Punisher! At least the self-respect for futile denial.”
“If you ain’t even gonna pretend to believe me, what’s the point?” He muttered. “S’not gonna change anythin’.”
“Poor pup,” They purred, and Wolfwood nearly grabbed the Punisher laying at his side and shot them right there, for all the little good it’d do him. “All that and still too obedient with its real master.”
“He’ll find us anyway.” Wolfwood grumbled, exhaling heavily on the smoke. “Vash’ll get upset if more people die from runnin’.”
“So you think you are kind.”
“Far from it.”
“Kinder than the alternative.” Zazie hummed, slowly walking around Wolfwood again, lazy. “You think leading him to Knives is the kindest thing you could do?”
“Well,” Wolfwood hesitated, then went with it, “never said I’d hand him over.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Zazie condescended, clicking their tongue, “you’ll be torn to shreds. That’ll really upset Vash now, won’t it?”
“I never said it was a good plan.” He muttered. “Never even said it’d work.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be painless when they put down a dog?” Zazie wondered. “This doesn’t feel very painless.”
“If you’re just gonna be a dick—”
“You’re not kind.” Zazie said. They’d stopped moving, but their creepy eyes were all looking at Wolfwood, though their head was facing the town below. “You would make it painless if you were kind.”
Wolfwood read between the lines. Whatever Knives had planned for Vash was bound to be worse than plain old torture. Worse than killing him. It might just be other people that die and Vash would still howl with agony. He was bringing that lamb into something worse than a den of lions—the den of man. How ironic.
“Painless.” Wolfwood echoed.
“If you want my advice,” Zazie rolled their head, “if you were really kind, you’d ensure he’d never reach his destination. Painless, quick, I mean,” They chuckled, “he’s the Stampede. That might just be the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for him.”
And the worst part was that, for the longest time, Wolfwood had been thinking the exact same thing.
Maybe he really was scared to be as good as Vash thought he was.
Wolfwood had spent a long time making sure Vash stayed alive. Here he took his own beliefs to heart: sometimes it was crueler to live than end the misery.
Someone should have euthanized Wolfwood long ago, and the only reason he hadn’t done it himself was because he was so desperately afraid.
Never doubt that Wolfwood wasn’t terrified. His own thoughts and Zazie’s words ate him alive for days, days, and days. Made him look at the fragile bird suffering in his hands and hear Miss Melanie’s voice as she said the kindest thing to do would be to let it go.
In this vision, something slightly different played: he twisted that bird’s neck till he heard the bones snap.
Vash clung closer still. He frowned Wolfwood’s way more often, until they were sitting in the back of a truck heading off to where they were headed. Wolfwood was looking out at the sands, Vash at his side. Stiffened when a hand came and turned his head to Vash’s face.
“You okay?” Vash pressed, light.
“Obviously not,” Wolfwood grunted, “you aren’t, either.”
“...yeah,” Vash smiled, fake and deserving of a good punch, sad as he looked down, “s’just…” He took a deep breath, then looked up again, tragically trying to be hopeful, “don’t worry, alright?”
“Might as well ask the sun not to rise. Why the hell shouldn’t I?” Wolfwood snorted, far too aware of Vash’s palm still over his cheek.
“I’m going to take care of it.” Vash promised, thumbing over his cheekbone.
“Tongari,” Wolfwood sighed, “you can’t talk him into submission.”
“I know.” Horrible pain flooded Vash’s eyes, gone in a flash. “But that’s not all I’m good at! You know that.”
Vash, for fucks sake, he thought to say, I know you’re never going to kill him.
He thought to take Vash by the lapels of his coat and yank him forward. Thought to snarl that this is going to end with one or both brothers dead, he knows this. Knows that there will be countless suffering before that death comes, as there always has been and always will be.
I can’t do this comes with startling, blaring clarity. He can’t do this. He knows what he’s leading Vash too and he can’t do it. More than just never handing him over, he can't bring him there. He can't.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Course, spikey,” He croaked. “I know that.”
He can’t do this.
It’s that night they spend in the same bed, quieter than they usually are when they fuck. They’ve both been quieter recently. Wolfwood knew he wasn’t at his best, but Vash didn’t seem to mind. If he did, he didn’t comment on it.
Wolfwood is sitting up on the bed, lighting a cigarette. The motel is quiet and grimy. Vash is laying down next to him, fast asleep, back to him. He even took off his prosthetic, a rare piece of vulnerability he only ever did at night with Wolfwood. An implicit trust in Wolfwood’s ability to take charge should anything go wrong.
Wolfwood looked up at the ceiling, watching his smoke drift off. The ceiling is already incredibly stained from smoke, it won’t do any more harm. Vash is so used to the smell he doesn’t so much as stir. He used to be such a light sleeper.
He’s still a light sleeper. He just didn’t seem to wake up when Wolfwood was there anymore.
He looked down at Vash’s sleeping form. His slightly parted mouth, steady breaths as the blankets shifted over his body. Hair fanned out on his pillow, he looked far more delicate than he really was. Like one more scar might shatter him completely.
Knives will shatter him. What awaits Vash at the finish line is something worse than they can ever imagine. He has done nothing but suffer for one hundred and fifty years, horrifically slow. He spent all this time getting Vash to his destination, and it will ruin him. It will be the cruelest thing to ever happen to him.
Wolfwood looked at the table beside the bed. They’d left some items there. Vash’s arm, their sunglasses, the long colt.
He stared a few moments longer. Then, he reached out, and he picked up the revolver.
Vash’s gun was entirely unique, only one other like it existed. It was too light to physically exist, and he could feel a quiet thrum of the power it was imbued with. Everyone called Vash’s gun wrong. Wolfwood thought it just felt like a piece of Vash himself.
Vash had taught him how to use it. Just in case, he said. Showed him the lever to open the chamber, and Wolfwood flicked his wrist to do just that.
Two bullets. He shut the chamber. How fitting.
Sometimes, death was a kindness. It was something he knew he and Vash would never agree on, which was rather ironic. Wolfwood was too scared to die anyway, and Vash sought it like a moth to flame.
Maybe he wouldn’t be scared now. He couldn’t really imagine a worse death than whatever Knives had for him if Vash never made it back.
Wolfwood’s hand didn’t shake, because such an action had been trained out of him years ago. He lifted the gun and cocked it, waited (hoped, maybe) for Vash to wake up from the noise.
He didn’t.
Wolfwood felt the cool metal burn his hand as he raised the revolver. He stared impassively as the barrel pointed at the back of Vash’s head.
He wouldn’t even wake up. Maybe he would in that split millisecond, but not even Vash could dodge a bullet from this distance, when he was dead asleep, soon to be plain dead. The bullet would enter his head and exit the other side, splattering the motel wall with his blood. His body will jerk with the force and fall still right after. He’ll still look asleep as the sheets stain red.
It would be a mercy. The Stampede was never destined to have a quick and painless death. He had never been granted such pleasantries in all his life. Compared to all alternatives, this would be nothing more than putting an animal to sleep. This would be kind.
Honestly, the cruelest part was that it was with Vash’s own gun. That was a dickbag move, but they didn’t have any others, and he certainly couldn’t use the Punisher. It was fine. There were two bullets. He’d make up for it.
It might even preserve Vash in a way, snuffing him out like this. No one else would get to ruin him anymore. He’d exist as a beautiful entity forevermore, separated from the body he’d become.
Wolfwood stared at Vash’s back, the twisted scars. He couldn’t hear anything, not even a single breath between either of them. Maybe it was his imagination or maybe it was real. Maybe Vash was just pretending to be asleep. Maybe he was waiting to see what Wolfwood would do.
He can do this one thing for Vash. He can spare him the fate that tightens around their throats. He can be kind. Just imagine that he was sent to kill Vash, like every other mission. Just imagine he was the worst thing to ever happen to him.
Wolfwood’s lungs stutter.
Here is a truth he will finally admit into the quiet before the gunshot: he has fallen in love with Vash the Stampede. He loves him so much it makes his heart burn, makes him put his own head in the guillotine for refusing to do his job, makes him force a vial of sin between those lips just to keep him alive.
A death like that, by those old steps, wouldn’t have been kind. But this, this was. He loved Vash so much he was willing to pull the trigger and grant him this mercy. He loved him, so he couldn’t let him suffer like this.
He pulled the trigger.
And then he pulled the trigger.
And then he—
His finger was right there. He could feel the signals being sent from his brain, telling his finger to twitch and get it over with. Be a damn good guardian for once and save him, save him from what’s going to come. Just like putting down a rabid animal.
His hand was shaking.
Wolfwood flicked the safety back on. He stared at the back of Vash’s head and dropped the gun to his lap. Then he stared at it.
“Fuck.” He hissed, came out broken and garbled, and dropped his head into his arms.
Did he love Vash too much, or too little? Loved him enough that he couldn’t kill him, didn’t love him enough to save him. He didn’t know. He’d never been in love before.
Vash is still. Not so much as a twitch. Vash was always a light sleeper. He doesn’t want to know if Vash is awake or not.
He doesn’t know what's worse. The idea that Vash trusted him enough to sleep through all of this, that Wolfwood would never hurt him—or that Vash was lying there, awake, and knew everything Wolfwood was doing. Everything he almost did.
God save him. God save them both. They weren’t born to be meant for love.
They woke up that morning. They get dressed, and they grab their guns. Wolfwood doesn’t look at Vash as he hands over the keys to the receptionist, and then they hit the road.
Wolfwood doesn’t say a word. Neither does Vash. He still has no idea if he was awake or not. He never wants to know.
He watches Vash's side profile in the rising sun. His shades are reflecting enough that he can't see his eyes. He doesn’t particularly want to.
He still can’t do this. But he clearly can’t do anything else, so he’ll have to bite back that bile all the same. He was going to tear himself apart.
If he weren’t a coward, he’d say this: he wanted to amend something he said, long ago. He knows Vash will never get sick of loving, because that’s all he’s been doing from the moment he was born. Wolfwood was not made so lucky, and so love is pulled from him until he’s finally declawed and tame. He resents his claws being taken. And yet he never wants to use them when Vash is there.
He said no one had ever met Vash in the middle, when it came to love. He still believes that. But he thinks he might just be the only person in all of Noman’s Land who was willing to try. Maybe he was the closest anyone had ever gotten. Maybe their lines just barely missed each other.
“Tongari,” Wolfwood started, licking his lips, “Vash.”
“Yeah?” Vash turned at once, and suddenly there were his eyes. Bright, open, and deeply curious.
It didn’t matter if Vash was awake or not, he realized. He can still feel the light weight of the long colt in his palm. His fingers twitch where they carry the Punisher.
“I just,” He began, stopped, “there’s this…I wanted to…” He fumbled, badly, trying to fight the eyes boring into him. Sighed and started walking again, passing by Vash. “Wanted to say sorry, s’all.”
“Oh,” Vash murmured. He didn’t ask what he was apologizing for. There were a number of things.
Wolfwood felt a metal hand lay over his shoulder. He made himself turn back, and then Vash was nose-to-nose with him, smiling bright. It wasn’t fully real, but it was the realest it’d been in weeks. He could see his own face reflected in those sunglasses.
“Well, don’t be.” Vash said, sure as ever. “I forgave you ages ago.”
“Ah,” Wolfwood swallowed. He didn’t ask what Vash was forgiving him for, “well…your loss, I guess.”
“Not really,” Vash grinned.
Wolfwood found he couldn’t ever get sick of loving if it always had a piece of Vash in it. But it would hurt like a bitch, so maybe on that front, they were finally one in the same.
What he would’ve given to have loved Vash in a kinder world. What he would’ve given to be Vash’s kinder world.
At least the signs weren’t flashing over his head anymore. He’d die with a hundred regrets weighing on his chest, but this wouldn't be one of them.
He could never regret falling in love with Vash. He was just sorry it had to be him.