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Sometimes it feels like he killed her himself.
It always starts out like this, on quiet nights. He keeps on grabbing at his hair, tugging it down all loose and unstyled, and he realizes just how much he looks like her, how much he took on that little girl's shape - and it makes him mourn for his mother. Makes him mourn for all the daughters she lost. If ever there was a shadow living on of Tesla in the wires that held together Vash's frame, what he's done has to be considered another form of killing, because that shadow is gone now. All gone, until he looks in the mirror on a quiet night, when Wolfwood's still tucking the last of the very most restless children into bed, and Vash can hear him using that same voice on the little girls that he must have used for Maylene. Sometimes, when he squints his eyes and blurs his surroundings, melts his vision down until the reflection becomes secondary, and all that he can hear is all that becomes real, he can hear a voice like Rem's bouncing off the darkest shadows on the walls. He wonders if she used that very same voice on him, or if he's reading something motherly into Wolfwood, shaping him into a silhouette disfigured.
The guilt springs like a well in him, and his chest bottles up with heavy, thick weight, an emotion not quite so watery as blood, but hot as fire, and like bile in taste. Nausea grows from him as fungus on a rotting tree. On nights like this, sometimes, he asks Wolfwood to lay down with him until is mind is right, and the world becomes all that much clearer. Usually, Wolfwood comes to bed after Vash has already settled down. Tonight, Vash will try to sleep as such. He has to make do somehow -
and for some reason, something tells him he wouldn't want to burden Wolfwood with this, anyways. There's something sickly in the atmosphere. Like poisoned air. Vash can hardly stand to sleep by himself, he wouldn't want to drag Wolfwood into it, too.
He looks so much like her. It surprises him, on the days when that doesn't frighten him anymore. When it doesn't make him ache to the very center of his core, boiling with some long-steeping anger, resentment - for himself, for others, for the unfairness of it all. On the days when he sees her in his reflection, and he can imagine all the fragments left behind, taping the picture back together piece by piece, he starts to get creative. He imagines that maybe she had the same laugh as him - but higher-pitched, like twinkling stars. Like the sound of crickets chirping late on a summer afternoon, where the dusk dips into dark night, and there's nothing but him. Nothing but him, and her, and that missing third piece.
They were twins - split from the same heartbeat, the same rattling, wild prototype of an animal that would grow into two boys, two young boys - but that isn't what they were always called, is it? Once, there was a boy wearing a stranger's skin, his sister's skin. And if it had just been Knives, maybe it would have been alright. Maybe the last of her wouldn't have gone down with the ship, scattered and lost to the remnants of a burning, fragmented empire. Maybe her bones wouldn't be archeology, reduced to dust and memory, something maybe a thousand years from now, someone might find, and piece together the broken discards of a girl that once was.
A girl with the same face, same bones as Vash.
He tries not to tell Wolfwood about it. About how he really feels. Knows it can't be nice to hear - just because Vash is only talking about himself doesn't mean it's just about him. And he tells himself that, over and over. Uses it as an excuse, a constant defiance; he doesn't have to tell anybody, because he's never sure if he’ll end up saying too much. Most of the time, it feels like he does.
But Wolfwood is smart, and he knows when something's wrong, even when Vash tries to keep it from him. All things considered, it's probably because Vash tries to keep it from him that he ends up finding out. And he doesn't even have to ask -
“Kids are down for the night,” he keeps his voice low, dims the bright light pouring in from the hallway with his silhouette. Vash keeps the lights off when he gets like this, so he can only make out the shape of Wolfwood, contrasted by an almost heavenly brilliance - blaring, off-white light. Vash goes to ask him if he wouldn't mind turning it down, but before he can, Wolfwood already has his hand on the switch, and the white is melting into mellow gold. Every muscle seems to untense. Vash relaxes as much as he can.
Even with his features indistinct, Wolfwood takes on a familiar warmth that Vash could recognize through any of his five senses alone - his smell, faint tobacco and a little hint of something sweet, sugary - his voice, tempered and gentle when he knows Vash is teetering around the edge like this - his touch, when his hand first meets Vash’s shoulder like a warning and a request all wrapped up into one - and his taste - Wolfwood kisses him like he's been starved for it. Vash clings tight, holds on like he's lost at sea. Floating aimlessly, waiting to be brought back down, pulled in from the tides. He wouldn't call Wolfwood his liferaft - shouldn't, really. But tonight he's sore and frightened and tired, and Wolfwood is here with him, and nothing quite feels real enough to keep him grounded here, in one place, one piece - nothing save for the soft grind of Wolfwood’s stubble scratching against his chin, and the herbal scent of sweetgrass still sticking to his clothes.
“When’d you smudge today?” Vash asks, “Was it with the kids?” He leans in a little closer to Wolfwood, shifts positions. With his head under Wolfwood’s chin, he can lay against his chest, and listen to the steady drumbeat of his heart. Wolfwood’s hand finds his back, and it's obvious he's following the rhythm of what he always does when he's comforting moody, out-of-sorts children, because he does it so well. He rubs between Vash’s shoulderblades. Slow, even strokes. It makes Vash feel like an animal being coerced, coaxed gently into quiet submission. He relaxes, and lets himself be coaxed. There's plenty of time to be frightened another day. Right now, he’s in the arms of somebody he loves, somebody who loves him, and all is right in the world.
Save for off note. A flat or a sharp, he isn't sure, but he's out of tune and it's throwing everything off-kilter. The room around him feels a little too big, and he's just a little too small - but he's taking up too much space at the same time. Wolfwood must notice how he’s tensed up, because he gives Vash a good squeeze, and whispers, “You're alright, Spikes. ‘S okay. You’ve got me here, and I won't let anything happen to you.”
“‘M not afraid,” Vash says, even though he's lying. “Just tired.”
“Gotta be honest with me, Spikes.” Wolfwood says. Vash sours up and scowls. He pulls away from Wolfwood for a minute, wraps his arms tight around himself, and pouts. He won't look Wolfwood’s way. But Wolfwood knows he's just waiting for it. Waiting for the right time. The moment he can finally bring himself to let it all out.
“Guess . . . “ Vash grumbles, begrudging every word, “I guess I’m just - y’know, thinking about stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Y’know, just - “ Vash sighs, “Just stuff.”
Wolfwood doesn't say a word. He leaves the silence up to Vash, letting them both linger in it, until Vash breaks the tension.
“You want a daughter,” he said. So sudden and sharp, it nearly scared him to realize how easily he’d said it. How it came out of his mouth like he was opening a trapdoor, and setting loose some uncaged lion. His chest ached, heavy with guilt. “And don't try to lie to me, either. I see how good you are with the kids. And I know . . . “ he frowns, “I know about your Maylene.”
Wolfwood is careful, measured as he replies, “My Maylene?”
“Maybe she wasn't a daughter to you,” Vash says, “But she was yours. And you were hers. You meant a lot to her, and - and I can tell you miss her, sometimes, and it's not like you're bad with the boys, but with the girls, there's just - you’ve got something special.”
Wolfwood shrugs. “What can I say? Always been a bit of a ladies’ man.” He's smiling, and Vash can tell he only means well, and it does help, it does, but the room feels like it's spinning, and everything is so bright. So dark and so bright. Everything there is seems to swallow up everything he has, and he can't hold onto it tight enough to catch his breath before it slips through.
“Vash,” Wolfwood says, keeping his tone even, a defined equilibrium that betrays no underlying desire or resistance - a blank slate he puts on for the kids, no doubt. For children that would be seeking to appease the first adult they run into, or fearing making the wrong move, one step too many in the wrong direction. Vash can't help but feel a little stung at the thought that he’s being treated like a child, but it's only something he’s brought upon himself, so he can't really complain.
“What's wrong?” Wolfwood asks. Finally cracks the question. Vash crumpled up, half-collapsed against him, head in his hands.
“Dunno what to do,” he says, “Shouldn't be so hard for me. I tried - I tried not to think about it.”
“Hey, hey,” Wolfwood says, “It's alright. You tried, did your best, now it's time to talk about what went wrong.”
“I didn't mean to - “
“Where do you think it went wrong, Spikes?” Wolfwood asks. “What happened that's got you so upset, yeah? Tell me.”
Vash groans. He buries his face in Wolfwood's neck, despite how every ache in his body burns to pull away, and hide himself under the covers. “You don't have to be so soft on me. I’m not a child.”
“I know,” Wolfwood says, “But I want to be. And let me tell you something - here, listen, sh, don't stick your tongue out at me, listen to me! Jesus Christ, Spikes, so much for not bein’ a child - let me tell you something.”
Vash is, unhappily, silent.
“You know you’re somethin’ special to me, don't you?” Wolfwood asks. Vash nods. Laid half-sprawled as he is against Wolfwood, he can hardly do anything more.
“And you know I love you?” Again, Vash nods.
“Then you know I want to talk to you, and really, really work it outta you - you're a tough nut to crack, Spikes. Not that it's hard to tell when you're upset,” Wolfwood says, and Vash scowls again, groaning wordlessly. “It's just that you make it damn near impossible to get you to actually talk about what's botherin’ you. But - “ Wolfwood grins, “I’m stubborn.”
“I know.” Vash says.
“So - “ Wolfwood tucks Vash’s hair behind his ear, strokes his fingers through the long blonde tangle until he's combed out a half-formed knot. “Hit me with it, Blondie.”
Vash is silent for a moment longer. Eyes squinted. Face wrinkled up in a determined pout.
But he can tell Wolfwood’s going to hold him to it, so eventually, he sighs, and gives in. “Sometimes I feel like I gave something up. Something special. Important. When I . . . y’know.”
He gestures to pretty much all of himself, and it's Wolfwood’s turn to be quiet then, as he tries to figure out what Vash means. Vash groans, and shakes his head. “When I decided.” he says. Finally, the euphemism sticks. Clarity sharpens Wolfwood’s resolve.
“It’s not something that you chose, Spikes.” he says.
Vash disagrees, “But it is! It is, in a way. I mean, I know I never would've felt quite . . . right as a - you know. But it wasn't the same for me as it was for you. I didn't always just . . . feel it. Sometimes - “ and his throat gets tight, “Sometimes I still doubt myself.”
“Y’ever consider the fact that you're a plant might have somethin’ to do with it?” Wolfwood asks. “Doesn't have to be easy for it to be true. Nobody’s gonna take it from you if you stop holdin’ on tight as you can for just a minute. Long enough to breathe.”
“I don't want to let go,” Vash says, suddenly feeling awfully lost, like he's treading water in the deep end, with nothing but his own stubborn effort to keep himself afloat. He almost wants to flail, to scream and cry out like he's really there, like there's really something wrong with him - a body adrift, even if it's all just inside his head. But Wolfwood is here with him, and shameful as it is to admit, as helpless as it makes him feel sometimes, too dependent, that's all he needs to gather up his senses and collect himself. He sighs, and rubs his right temple. “I think I’m getting a migraine,” he says.
“All ‘cause you think too hard,” Wolfwood says, “And besides - you don't have to let go. It's not about letting go. It's not all or nothing, Spikes. You gotta remember that; the options aren't bein’ a miserable man, or a miserable girl. This isn't something you lose by not thinkin’ about it over and over again. You don't need to keep making sure. You can just let it be.”
Vash stills. Quiets down. The swirling mass of dark, black depths spinning in his head had finally started to settle. He can breathe again. Breathe deeper, better. He can feel the chill in the air against his fingertips, especially the closer he reaches out his hand to the frost-fogged window.
“Wolfwood,” he starts to ask, “Could you - “
And Wolfwood’s on his feet before he even has time to finish. As he's settling back down, Vash leans against him again, and clears his throat. “There's more to it than that,” he says, “It's not just about worrying if I’m wrong.”
“If you’ve been wrong for about a couple hundred years.” Wolfwood corrects him. Vash smiles, despite the way his cheeks are still hot with the residual almost-tears.
“Just one-hundred,” Vash says, “Don't go making me any older than I already am.”
“Grandpa.”
“Shush,” Vash says, “Like I was saying, it's not just about the what if’s, y’know, there's also . . . well - “ He pauses, takes a moment to find his footing. “You know I had a sister. Have a sister.”
Wolfwood is suddenly very, very still, and very patient, very quiet. He nods, in that solemnly attentive manner Vash has come to associate with all the gentlest humans - something they always do when they believe they're in the company of something so severe, it would be almost sacrilegious to look away. Vash tries not to make himself seem too stiff or serious as he goes on explaining, “And you know I have a mother. You know - you know most of what happened to her - the sister - “
“Tesla,” Wolfwood says, and it's the first time Vash has heard her name said aloud in what feels like forever. Even longer by a voice that speaks of her with love and care, humanity, rather than objectified reverence.
“Yeah,” he says, “Tesla. Uh, she was - well, she was - she was Rem’s first daughter, but it's not like she was her last.”
Wolfwood’s severity turns soft, half-melted, and Vash has to look away. It's not that he's expecting pity. It's that he's sure he’ll see it, even if it isn't there.
“And then - with Knives, it was his right. He was the one to know first. And - and y’know, when I said I wanted to be a boy too, some of the adults on the ship thought I was just trying to be like my brother.”
Wolfwood quirks his brow, and Vash giggles, despite himself. “Listen,” he says, “In their defense, it was sudden.”
“But you know who you are,” Wolfwood says, “And nothing can take that from you.”
“I know,” Vash says, “I know. But, just - Rem. She took to it so quickly. She always wanted me to feel safe, loved . . . seen for who I was. I guess,” he hesitates, “I guess she wanted me to feel like I had some kind of control over myself. At least, more control than . . . “
“Your Tesla.” Wolfwood finishes for him.
“Yeah,” Vash says, “My Tesla. Sometimes, I just feel so bad for her. Rem. If there is a God out there, then He gave her three good shots at a daughter, and she didn't even get to keep one.”
Wolfwood holds him a little tighter. “She loved you. She didn't want a daughter, she wanted you.”
Vash smiles. It's only a half-crescent. “Maybe,” he says, and takes Wolfwood’s hand. Squeezes it until the sensation of skin against skin becomes real.
Wolfwood squeezes back. “Maybe’s good enough for now,” he says, “But eventually, I’ll get you to be sure of it.”
And Vash laughs. Outside, the sky is blue-black, lit up by the stars and the pearlescent glow of its many moons. It doesn't look so dark anymore, nor so impossibly endless.
“I’ll hold you to that,” he says. The world beyond them doesn't shine, it shimmers. And the vast, open plains twinkle with a pale blue frost, frozen in placidity until the morning sun will rise to thaw their wake.