Chapter Text
The first part of the drive to Ship Three is thankfully uneventful, besides the fact those two geeks were always by his side. Jen kept trying to give him water, and when he refused, Reid snapped about how he’ll be hooked up to the IV longer if he doesn't drink anything. Wolfwood was trained to withstand torture, so two nerds with glasses and labcoats didn't scare him.
They bartered with him like slimy cops. They were horrible at the Good Cop, Bad Cop routine, though. Neither of them could stick to one role, always flip flopping trying to get a reaction. Jen had tried refusing to help him onto the van heading back to base, but when Wolfwood tried getting on himself with his broken body, Reid quickly cracked and rushed to help him, much to Jen’s dismay.
He thought they would let up eventually, but he was sorely mistaken. However, once Reid got to explaining hemoglobin and brain function, Vash stepped in to ask the two nurses to help elsewhere.
Vash looked a little better today. He’d fixed his buttons this morning and took a washcloth to himself. He definitely needed a second wash, but was at least cleaner. He was hydrated and ate a hard boiled egg Brad had practically forced into his mouth. His skin looked brighter, but it would take a lot more than an egg to fill him out again.
Vash sat next to Wolfwood most of the ride. At first, Wolfwood flicked in and out of consciousness, yet Vash never seemed to nap even a little. Instead he was busy filling out a crossword in an old newspaper he found.
Wolfwood leaned on his shoulder to help with the crossword at first. Down, 6 letters, starts with a T and has a S and C, “hot sauce in a bloody mary”. Easy.
“Tabasco.”
Across, 7 letters, using the second A from Tabasco, “performing in a play, say”.
Vash writes “onstage”. How the fuck did he come up with onstage?
Down, 5 letters, second letter O from onstage, “This famous character is told ‘’Tis by thy name that is my enemy’”.
Vash writes “Romeo”.
Wolfwood never read Shakespeare, let alone would be able to remember any of its nonsensical prose. Crosswords are for old geezers who know that shit.
He resolves to nap on Vash’s bony shoulder for a short while, blinking awake to take in the new puzzle Vash is on, only to get frustrated and fall back asleep. By the time he’s on the sudoku, Vash’s head rests on top of his.
Vash smells good. Somehow, overnight his scent had changed from rotting eggs to an airy breeze. Having not showered or even wiped himself off for seven months, Wolfwood expected him to reek to high heaven for months. Surprisingly, he doesn’t even smell a little ripe anymore. Vash sweats as humans do and his hair gets greasy, but he doesn't smell like anything. He simply smells like skin and metal. Was he not smelling Vash yesterday?
Sometimes in the morning Vash will smell like aftershave or cheap ivory soap, but it's quickly blown away in the wind. Most often he smells like sunshine— the musky warm scent of a tan. That smell is noticeably absent from him.
Still, he smells good. Wolfwood blinks and becomes suddenly aware he probably doesn't smell like sunshine and rainbows. Deodorant was not something the Eye of Michael much cared for when on the prowl. He’d showered the past few months, but it was more of a rinse than a wash.
He clamps his thighs together self-consciously. God, Vash must be gagging with every inhale. The iron scent of blood mixed with smegma that radiates off him must be able to wilt flowers. Worst of all, he knows Vash’s sense of smell is sharper than average. How he's not bent over dry heaving is beyond him. Instead, he's snuggled into Wolfwood’s side.
Should he move away? Maybe he should take the nerd duo’s water just to clean himself off a little…
He’s snapped from his thoughts as Vash’s newspaper falls to the floor. The blonde’s head has grown heavy, bending the branch of his spine as he finds sleep.
Wolfwood relaxes against him, weighing into his side a little more than earlier. He continues to breathe in his familiar presence, his nose pressed against his collarbone. Vash’s throat rumbles with little snores.
It feels good to have him around again. His little mannerisms remind Wolfwood of their old routines and how easy they’d fit together.
His belly lurches as he remembers the reason things are different now. Wolfwood is the reason he lost their more carefree life. Wolfwood is the reason Vash’s cheeks don't have goggle tan lines anymore. Wolfwood is the reason Vash broke.
He continues to rest on his shoulder with his eyes closed.
Images of the barracks at the Eye of Micheal flood into his mind. Wolfwood had never had a father, nor any older male figure he'd respected, so when he’d first met Chapel he was eager to please him. He made it a point to be quieter and less mouthy when the stoic man was around, and his best behavior became the new standard.
With his Señora, Wolfwood was not a good kid. Señora had told him once that he was a good brother, but not a good enough man to get a job. That was why when the Eye came knocking with Wolfwood’s name on their tongue, he'd been quick to take them up on their offer. Now he knows their money was worth as much as a kernel of sand.
There were other children at the Eye. At night he could hear them shuffle and cry for their mommies; heard them seize after a tazing and the sickening crack and resounding scream as they set their bones back in place. At the time, Wolfwood remembers being proud he was doing better than those children much older than him. He was proud he was the only thirteen year old that survived.
When he was fifteen, the experiments started. The quiet noises of the other children thinned and the smell of death rose from its ashes. Wolfwood was one of six children who survived out of four hundred and fifty three. Each night that passed he thought it could be his last.
Yet it never was. He came close. He had begun to die, then whatever he was pumped full of reversed his brain’s death spiral and he kept living. Round after round he was strapped to that table, and time after time he felt the rejection, then his body’s refusal to die.
Wolfwood’s body lives in spite. Consciously, he wanted to die, to finally rest, but his body wouldn't let him. It wasn't time, his mind would whisper. By God did he want it to be time.
The first time he'd seen someone else live to piss on fate was when he watched Vash push a bullet out of his body. He was unconscious, knocked clean out as his systems communicated to each other how best to stitch him up. Then, the bloody hole where he'd been shot began to birth something silver and covered in viscera.
Wolfwood was horrified. As a man who dug bullets out of his own gut in pure desperation, hoping that his supernatural healing wouldn't trap them inside, he was afraid of Vash the Stampede.
That night, Wolfwood sat next to him as he vomited his guts out. It was one of the only times he'd seen him cry, from physical exertion or otherwise. At first, he thought Vash’s wound was infected and making him sick. Then he watched the most dangerous man on the planet violently dry heave when he saw his own reflection.
Dogs and cats are scared of their reflections because they don't know it's them staring back. Vash was terrified because it was him staring back.
The same fear that chilled Wolfwood to his core Vash felt tenfold. The body and mind permanently disconnected is God’s wrath, and the two of them must sit and bear it, if only so no one else will have to.
How Vash must’ve felt saving Wolfwood with that part of him he loathed is unimaginable. Why he didn't just let him die, bested by his own idiocy, is beyond him.
As Wolfwood listens to Vash breathe with his two lungs and his only heart beating, he closes his eyes. Together, maybe instead of dying, their fate is to live in fear.
At least Vash is still here to feel it with him.
The rest of the ride is smooth and seamless. Eventually, Vash wakes with a small start only Wolfwood feels. His thigh clenches dangerously tight only to relax moments later. When Wolfwood looks up at him, he has a plastered-on neutral expression but his eyes are wild.
Brad addresses the whole of the crew loudly, telling them to pack up their belongings and to return equipment where it goes when on board. Wolfwood doesn't pay attention to his spiel, mostly itching to get off this hunk of junk and get a meal in his belly.
Vash begins to fold the newspaper he was holding earlier, his one hand meticulously following the previously embedded lines as Jen comes over to sit next to him. The blonde offers her a little greeting, but her dark eyes are fixed on Wolfwood.
“Report to the med bay today. There’s some evaluations I'd like to take.” Wolfwood only scowls. She continues, “It won't take long. We need to know if we can help.”
Wolfwood didn't want their help. Whatever was wrong with him would fix itself. The urge to spit and snarl at her how useless her fuss was tugged on his nape like a headache. He drags his eyes over her slightly wiser face, over the beer bottle brown hair that falls to her broad shoulders with a blunt snap. Her glasses are thin but the lenses are wide, almost appearing like they were going to pop out any second. She hasn't been touched by the dunes as he had; how could she ever understand how it had changed his body?
There's a little giggle that emanates from Vash. “He’s not really a fan of doctors, Jenny. You're not gonna get him down there without an army behind you.”
“I promise it's not like it is out there. It'll be quick and easy, Mr. Wolfwood.”
Inwardly he grouses that she had never been out there in any meaningful capacity. How she could be so ignorant yet make such a bold statement is beyond him. “There's no ‘mister'. Only Wolfwood.”
“Wolfwood.” She tuts. “It's safer if you let us check you over.”
“I'm fine.”
Her cheeks are rosy with anger, yet she doesn't direct it back at Wolfwood’s iron wall. Surprisingly, Vash is the recipient of it all as she hits him with the iciest glare he'd seen from her. Through gritted teeth, she snarls as if continuing an earlier conversation, “I now see why you like him so much.”
Vash makes a pathetic little “ack!” noise, hand caught in the cookie jar. “What is that supposed to mean?!”
“He's just like you: pigheaded and arrogant.”
Wolfwood does his best to stifle a smile. He looks away as Vash desperately attempts to defend himself with his best rehearsed platitudes. “So judgemental!” “I defend all with kindness and love!” “I’m a good guy!”
Jen isn't impressed, and when the shuttle starts to rumble and bump violently as a sign of their return, she goes back to where she was sitting earlier to pack her things. Blowing on his stringy blond fringe, Vash pouts.
“Defending yourself instead of me? Some knight in shining armor you are,” teases Wolfwood.
Vash’s expression is stricken as his cheeks go petal pink. “You make it no secret that you are a grumpy, stubborn old moose!”
“‘Old’?! Remind me, what year were you born?”
“Remind me when wrinkles became the new sign of age twenty-four.” A dirty fingernail pokes where his cheeks meet his mouth, where a moat is beginning to appear. Wolfwood tries to bite him, but his teeth snap down on nothing.
“So feisty today! You must actually be feeling better.”
“I don't look better?”
Vash gives him a once over. “No.”
The question was rhetorical. Wolfwood knows he looks like shit and he needs a scrub down. A very long, very arduous, very thorough scrub down. The awareness that he must smell itches at him again, and he decides to end the conversation then and there with a moody huff.
The shuttle boards successfully and there are shiny well-rested crew members there to meet them when they finally reach the docking bay. Whoops and hollers of congratulations echo in the empty chasm like stars in the night sky. The fever of joy is infectious to the on-board crew who start to smile and cheer along, going so far to push Vash up to his feet and drag him outside to see everyone. Wolfwood brings up the rear as they exit, someone helping him out as his ankle still aches.
He feels a little empty without the Punisher guarding him in this sea of people he can't name. The large firearm acts as a foreboding force in town squares, one that keeps people away from him so he can do what he's there to do. Now, he just feels awkward as a few people wave at him and give him little greetings. He doesn't remember meeting that many people on the ship when he was here last.
Where Wolfwood falters in social interactions, Vash passes with flying colors. He gives hand shakes and one-armed hugs to those who offer, greeting each one individually by name and asking personal questions when given the chance. How he weaves through the crowd with practiced ease is enchanting in a way. Almost like a beloved movie princess sandwiched among her adoring subjects.
Of the people he does know, he's glad not to see Jessica flinging herself onto Vash from within the crowd. Disappointment surges through him instead as he realizes Meryl and Milly hadn't met them when they arrived, but they must be busy elsewhere in the ship. Earlier he’d overheard that they took up some sizable roles here while they planned Vash’s safe return, but a tiny part of him had hoped they'd make some time to see everything they had just helped to accomplish.
“Alright, alright everyone, let's settle down. Make some room.” A raspy female voice booms like thunder and all the little chittering critters quiet. The crowd parts like the Red Sea as Luida steps forth, flanked by two other council members.
Vash is absolutely overjoyed to see her, squealing her name like a schoolgirl and swiftly enveloping her in a massive bear hug. Seeing short old Luida get completely engulfed by Vash’s frame is comical, made even more rioting by Luida’s small hand poking out from the massive blonde’s flank to pat his broad back. Even for being as starved as a stray, Vash is still just as towering as he always had been.
She mutters some things to Vash and he only squeezes her tighter— closer. His eyes grow solemn and guilty, dropping his guard for her. She must see what Wolfwood does; the exhaustion, the starvation, the fear. Luida comforts him as a mother would, firm and scolding yet relieved and overjoyed. When he finally does part from their embrace, Luida holds his gaze and squeezes his hand firmly with both of hers. Wolfwood can only ache at the sight of her adoring smile and Vash's doleful eyes. A part of him wants to know what she said— what he should say.
Memories of Señora holding him after a long day coat his throat stickily. On those hard days, she would make him her famous too-doughy arepas and sit with him out on the porch. They’d watch the sunset as the littles were tucked into bed, and she would tell him about her day. Sometimes it was better than Wolfwood’s had been, but it was nice hearing that she had lived the day differently, yet parallel to him.
How would Livio have comforted him then? Had he allowed his brother to see him so weak? He always had to be the strongest and never before had he not been. How—
“Nicholas.”
His eyes snap up back into the crowd. Luida gently walks over to him, her arms outstretched. He doesn't have time to take in much else as she embraces him. When she hugs him, Wolfwood feels all-encompassed, despite being so much bigger than the wiser. He can't help but bury his face in her shoulder for a moment, arms gently wrapped around her torso.
At that moment, he wants to ask the Señora about Livio; what he should do— if there was anything to say. In Luida’s bony arms, he feels as helpless and small as the day he'd left home.
Luida pats his back twice and he steps away, crossing his arms in the process. She hasn't changed any from the year ago he’d last seen her, to his knowledge at least. He doesn't know if she's cut her hair, but he does know her demeanor and sweet disposition hasn't changed. She does seem a little happier now that he's not puffing a cigarette on her squeaky clean white and glossy ship.
“I'm so glad we were able to get a hold of you. This wouldn't have been possible without you.” She gestures widely. Wolfwood wants to shrink.
The crew of Ship Three know what he was up to out in the desert. How they'd kept surveillance on him as he worked and still spoke to him now made him feel queasy. When they reached out, it was like a splash of cold water to the face. All he felt was shame. It must have been so obvious to them how strong he couldn't be, how he snapped back into his old position without Vash with ease.
Yet, if even all he was to them was a tool, a tool he will be. He knows how to do that.
“Can I make you take him off my hands?”
Luida laughs quietly. “Hmm, I feel like he was never in your hands to begin with.”
“Don't let him tell you that. I can make him heel.”
The smile on her face only grows wider and more wrinkled. Her slanted eyes get tighter and that little laugh of hers continues to bellow. As her ribs jostle she smacks his shoulder, and when she does eventually smooth her temper, she starts making her way back into the crowd.
“You are both your own people now. Your paths are your own. I hope to see you again as you travel.”
And just like that, the air leaves Wolfwood’s lungs. That's right; he has no obligation to Vash now. He's no longer there to guide him to Knives— so why is he here?
Why does he keep returning to him?
Tearing his eyes from the back of Luida’s head, he spares a glance to Vash. He's still chatting excitedly with his family, asking about children and new additions to families; marriage and death; time in the cryopods and new tech projects. At least twenty people crowd around him, yet he gives them all his undivided attention.
Wolfwood is out of place among them. He's not part of the outlaw’s loving community here or remotely involved in his life anymore. Seven months is far too vast a gap in time to still be considered close.
When he'd first sought Vash out, those two years dragged by with the flimsy justification it was for a job. Now, each of his jobs are complete. Vash was given to Knives, then taken away by the same hands that fed him.
Why had he agreed to come here? Why did Vash want him here?
Wolfwood is an oil stain on his clean laundry. He takes meals by force, even when his belly is full. Vash starves so his fish and bread can be spread among more than just himself.
Is this pity? Is this an offering of a bath and a good head scratch to a rabid animal out of some need to prove a clean soul? What happens when that high of feel-good runs out?
Wolfwood doesn't have the chance to flee as Vash’s eyes lock into his. They're bright and excited, too blue and too full. Then he's coming closer. Wolfwood wants to run, to hop back out into the desert and get away. Suddenly, Vash is too big, too overbearing and standing over him, casting a cold shadow Wolfwood doesn't want to feel.
Vash rubs over Wolfwood’s shoulder gingerly. There's a shock to his touch, one that tickles his skin and tingles up his spine. The energy flowing through Wolfwood connects with Vash’s; he doesn't know whether to rear up or lean into it. Kind, gentle hands Vash has, but Wolfwood doesn't need feeding or a warm bed.
“I want to pay the girls a visit. Come with me?”
Even now, Wolfwood follows Vash inherently. The touch on his shoulder becomes an arm strewn across his back, hugging Wolfwood into Vash’s side. He can feel his ribs through his thin layer of skin, and feels them rattle as he tries to chatter away.
There's a metal plate on one of his ribs that digs into Wolfwood’s arm uncomfortably. As Vash leads him down the winding hallways, he thinks of his body.
The plates and bars of metal that anchor his bones in place; the gnarled skin goring his chest, hips and legs; the deep gashes and shiny delicate skin that cover old wounds. He’d seen Vash unadulterated before, much to the others chagrin, but feeling it all against his own thick, healthy flesh makes him feel ill.
He must've been giving off an aura of discomfort because Vash shrinks away from him after a while. His hand gets stuffed in his pocket, and his bulging shoulders stand a little tighter. Eventually, Wolfwood resigns to walk behind him.
Vash leads him down into the central communications hub. Wolfwood remembers this is where the signal to Earth was being broadcasted, but there were other doodads and far too many people inside that he didn't quite know what business they had inside here.
It isn't easy to miss Milly among the crowd inside the cramped space. Her long dusty blonde hair sits above most of the staff pittering around, yet her gentle drawling voice blends into the background. Vash doesn't make a move towards her, looming in the shadows before the entrance’s open threshold. Blinking, Wolfwood steps inside, turning to the center of the room where Milly is standing over a screen illuminating her dinky nose and round cheeks.
“Big girl!” Wolfwood waves into the crowd.
Immediately, her head perks up like a startled bird, swiveling around to find him. Wolfwood greets her warm gaze with a smile.
“Mister Wolfwood!” She almost screams. More heads turn to him, faint muttering coming from the crowd. Milly pays it all no mind as he bullies her broad shoulders and thick arms through her coworkers, unfortunately knocking a few askew with her enthusiastic bull-like strength.
As soon as she weaves her way close enough, Wolfwood is drowned in a mammoth of a hug. His tattered dress shoes leave the ground as Milly draws her spine back in a hearty holler.
“Mister Wolfwood! Ohh I thought I'd never see you again!” Wolfwood is squeezed so tight his laugh becomes breathy. He's put down after a minute, only for large hands to envelop his face, caging him in once again.
Milly studies his features, trailing her eyes down his nose and across his jaw. One of her thumbs rubs under his eye and she smiles. “You look good.”
Guilt gnaws at his stomach. “You look really good.” He counters.
“Hehe! Well, there's a lot good meals and restful sleep will get you. I don't know the last time I slept so well! Their beds have such thick mattresses!” Absolutely giddy with delight, she twirls around and makes a show of flexing her arms. Her lips purse and she makes a suave face at him which he can't help but laugh at. “I haven't been slacking either!”
“Yeah, I think you grew an extra inch while I was gone.”
“Oh, no I'm just wearing boots.” She looks to her feet and claps her heels together. “See?”
Wolfwood’s heart swells in his chest. Milly, despite growing up in a big dysfunctional family as he had, came out into the world with such a sweet disposition. She is sincere to a fault, yet not so much so that she's gullible or stupid.
She reminds him of Livio when he was younger. Before everything.
“Wolfwood?” Another familiar voice rises from the swarm of people.
Wolfwood perks his ears and swivels to meet her. “Shortstack.”
Meryl rolls her eyes, notably from a foot underneath Wolfwood’s nose. “Very funny. Can’t come up with something better?”
He tuts. “Little lady.”
All the air vacates Meryl's lungs. Then on the inhale, she stands up straighter. She meets Wolfwood’s eyes and smiles. Her gold dangly earrings jingle as she shakes her head affectionately.
Meryl opens her arms to him and Wolfwood embraces her, too. However, as she squeezes him tighter, Milly speaks again, just as excitedly.
“Mister Vash!”
Meryl tenses against him. The room gets quieter. Then, a lot louder.
“Oh my gosh, Vash!” “Vash, you're home safe!” “We're so happy to see you again, Vash!” The swath of staff inside the room cheer and whoop as Vash finally steps through the doorway, a sheepish look on his face.
He waves back to everyone, bowing his head slightly in embarrassment. Seeing him so bashful makes the back of Wolfwood’s mind itch.
Milly trucks her way through a greeting, anyway. Though, when she steps forward to hug him it is much lighter. “Oh my gosh, I thought you'd at least be in medbay! You poor thing— you're skin and bones!”
Wolfwood realizes that Meryl is still held tight to his shoulders. He attempts to pat her back in a cue to let him go, but her hands just ball into fists. Instead, Wolfwood pulls away a little more adamantly, and when he does, Meryl is staring at her feet.
Vash forces a small laugh. “I've been worse.”
“That doesn't matter! Bad is still bad! You need some food in you.” The outlaw attempts to protest, but Milly completely speaks over him. “What do you want? Do you still like steak and potatoes? Or do you want something with more carbs? I'm sure the chef will make you anything—”
As Vash tries to assure her that “really he's fine”, Wolfwood redirects all his attention back to Meryl. She simply stares at her friend and Vash, stone-faced.
Wolfwood remembers how rattled she'd been the last time she saw Vash. Was she still afraid? Has time truly not healed her wounds?
Something ugly bubbles in Wolfwood's gut as Vash looks at her, then right back to Milly. His face doesn't lighten. Meryl notices the look, too, but says nothing.
Wolfwood swivels his attention from Meryl back to the other two when he hears Vash huff out a laugh that reeks of trivialities. “I don’t need to eat right now Milly, I'll grab something later. Honestly, I'm okay.”
Meryl goes stiff next to Wolfwood. “You’re ‘okay’?” She deadpans.
With a frown, Vash turns to her, a crease between his brows. “Yes, Meryl. I'm fine.”
“I can't believe after all of that you still want to say you're okay.” Her face goes dour. The way she poises herself infront of Vash, the behemoth of a person he is, it makes her appear smaller in comparison. “Can’t you just say you were in an absolute shithole for the past seven months?”
Vash rears up as her voice gets louder, but she yells over him. A bitten off fingernail gets dangerously close to his eyelashes.
“Or would you have preferred to have stayed there and died?”
It's mind-numbingly silent. The only noise in the room is Meryl’s labored breathing, miscellaneous computer fans and their tinkling alarms. Wolfwood feels all eyes burn into Vash’s flank, boring into his side just for a chance to try and pick his brain— Meryl among their hungry pack.
His face doesn't flare up. He doesn't offer a rebuttal or refusal. Vash stands there, stock still. Silent.
He blinks. He breathes.
That enrages Meryl further. Now, she stands on her toes snarling at his face. Her tone is icy, reticent.
“You could at least act grateful, Stampede.”
With a light tap of his boot, Vash steps away from her. He breaks her gaze, muttering over his shoulder that he's going to go to the mess hall. Milly calls after him, shooting a weary look over her shoulder at Meryl as she follows him out.
The pressure in the room bores down as the sliding door clicks shut behind them. Meryl doesn't turn to address the crowd with any sort of “what are you looking at?!” Her eyes simply stare at the empty galvanized metal, right back at her hunched shoulders and balled fists.
The ship staff in the room courteously, mercifully, give her space and go back to their work after a few pregnant heartbeats. Meryl doesn't rejoin them.
Wolfwood feels static electricity whizz around the space in phantom unanswered questions. Helpless, he sits in his own mind.
The last time the four were together, they'd had no chance to say goodbye. After Vash was shot during a quarrel in the streets, his body caught the bullet aimed for his head. By twisting and malforming into something inhuman, his new awakened instinct had saved his life. In the middle of the street, among a throng of people.
He turned pale as a corpse. Wolfwood remembers Meryl's scream of terror. Her little body quivered and shook in pure, carnal panic and fear as Milly held her close. The people threw rocks, any size and shape they could reach to drive Vash out. He went willingly, a smile on his face with his head and lip busted open and bleeding, his hands shaking.
A display of the ugly side of humanity. Their knack for the conservative and safe meant Vash had no place among them, even if he appeared with their elastic skin and sturdy bones.
Wolfwood remembers the bike ride away being silent. He remembers feeling upset that he didn't get to merely wave the girls goodbye, for he knew there would be no opportunity later. Vash was in a stupor after that, and one Wolfwood couldn't break. When he’d gone into the arc, all he wished was for Wolfwood to stay safe. Then he was gone.
By his metric, Meryl is no better than them. Meryl is no better than the blissfully arrogant, ignorant of their demise and danger they're in. She is one of them who drives Vash out not because he's trouble, but because he's not one of them.
Wolfwood itches to follow Vash and Milly. Maybe he should leave Meryl on her own. It would be easier that way, without the trouble. She was isolating herself from Vash and that was her decision.
He watches her body tremble. As her knees buckle, he catches her. Meryl crumples into him, defeated.
Her fear hadn't made her point a gun to the back of Vash’s head. Her heart is too big to stoop to such cowardice.
“Let's go sit down, eh? Get you some water.”
<hr>
He leads her where he knows; where there's a lounge in room 2081B. What he doesn't know is how far 2081B is from 1225B. He might as well have dragged her up three flights of stairs instead.
Nevertheless, they both make it there. Meryl had considerably calmed down during their walk, but she didn't offer any words of wisdom which made Wolfwood a little peeved. She must have noticed how far they were going and his confusion, surely after being on this hunk of junk for so long she could give him some direction!
They take a table towards the back of the room, near a small kitchenette that serves hot water for tea and coffee. Wolfwood grabs both of them one of Meryl’s favorites: a simple lemon tea with one sugar packet.
When he hands the cup to her, she looks relieved. Her body relaxes simply smelling the tart citrus. Wolfwood clasps his hands around the cup for some warmth.
Suddenly this scene seems all too familiar. He’d spoken with Meryl before about Vash and his… thing. Back then, Meryl had expressed her budding apprehension towards Vash’s outbursts of unwarranted destruction. In an effort to save her from the Gung-ho Guns, Vash had bodily protected her, only to enter his “plant state” while under fire.
The sound of his bones cracking into new joints and keratin crunching as odd feathers sprouted from his skin rings in Wolfwood’s ears to this day. Vash had asked her to run away, but it was too late. She’d been frozen underneath him. Meryl saw how his eyes turned from conscious to feral, only focused on instinct.
Vash could have killed her like that, and he wouldn't have known.
He’d never hurt someone when he was himself, but like that, it was up in the air; it still is. None of their group had recovered after seeing that. Seemingly, Meryl is the only one to verbalize her scrambled mind.
Vash had never been the same after. Wolfwood had stayed by his side, loyal to a fault, yet he was a lot quieter. In the night, he'd sometimes catch Vash scratching his skin until blood caked under his fingernails, rocking himself like a baby.
Wolfwood didn't have anything to say to him; nothing ever came to mind. Even now, sitting across from good old Meryl, no words come to him.
“Feeling less faint?” Is what he settles on.
Meryl doesn't give him much, only a nod. Wolfwood purses his lips, humming to himself. Should he distract her or let her air out her feelings?
He tries again. “Is the ship treating you well?”
Again, a simple nod. A lump the size of a hundred year old worm sits in his throat. If Milly were here, she'd know what to say. She would probably offer one of her all-encompassing hugs and quiet reassurance, maybe even a meal. Though, Meryl and he were not remotely as close as the two women, and it’d feel inappropriate to hug her like that.
Vash would know what to do, too. He'd always had this way with Meryl that made her annoyingly fond of his stupid antics, something Wolfwood had fallen for, too. Unlike for Wolfwood, Vash tried to make Meryl feel better with a stupid joke or magic trick that only worked fifty percent of the time. It always made her cheer up— begrudgingly, of course.
Wolfwood grinds his teeth so hard his temples begin to hurt. He stops trying to think.
“What was that back there?”
He tries to not make it sound accusatory, but it definitely seems like it. Meryl looks away from her cup guiltily, her bottom lip jutting out in a tiny pout. It feels weird to see the confident woman curl into herself.
There's a few moments of silence before she inhales sharply. “He's the only hope for us. Yet, he turned himself in. He asked for no help and told no one. He was just gone.”
Wolfwood feels a pang of guilt. “He asked me to turn him in.”
“You were there?”
The heavy weight in his chest grows by tons. “I was involved.”
Meryl shakes her head and her eyebrows knit together. “I just don't understand why. I want him to say something. Get angry. I—” Her voice catches. She swallows, quieter now. “I want him to tell us what's going on.”
He can't tell her. It isn't safe to tell her.
“He's trying to protect you.”
Meryl’s eyes catch his, bright with fury. “I don't need protection! I need him to ask for help or– or he's just committing a long, drawn-out suicide!”
Her voice rings off the walls in a way that makes the lack of noise in the room palpable. Wolfwood listens to her breathing grow heavier.
“He wants to do it by himself.”
“Then why does he involve you?”
His jaw snaps shut. Suddenly, his hands feel dry with gunpowder and yellow with cigarette smoke. It feels like there's blood on his face.
“He's a fucking hypocrite. He can't do anything alone— that's why he's beaten to shit, and— apparently he sees no problem with that. Am I supposed to just accept that? Am I supposed to accept that he's going to die if he keeps this up?!”
“I— I don't know. He doesn't even know what he's up against. He wants you to be safe.”
Meryl's eyes begin to water. “‘Safe.’” She says the words delicately, like a flower petal falling onto still water. “Nobody is safe. People are dying in the thousands. Radiation sickness has become prevalent in iles and iles of land, destroying wildlife and the people that have managed to survive. They aren't ‘safe’.”
His home. Señora and those kids are out there still. Chapel had promised their protection, yet—
Wolfwood’s hands close around his cup tight as a vice. Three days. Was that too long? Should he leave now and help how he can?
Vash.
Vash. Vash. Vash. Vash. Vash—
“I will be there for you when it becomes too much. Make room for me in that big heart of yours, then take a deep breath and remember my love for you, Nico.”
“I'll come back home stronger. And I'll be protecting you next time!”
The memory makes him nauseous. The smell of his home floods his mind and he yearns for the Señora to hug him again and tell him everything would be okay. He wanted someone to tell him it wasn't too late and he wasn't as deep as he thought.
Wolfwood shakes his head. He's grown now. He shouldn't need comfort to keep marching forward.
“Those… people,” Wolfwood tries not to spit, “Only want Vash. They want him to suffer— to get angry and lash out, when he's more likely to be weak. He chooses to stay strong. For the sake of everyone.”
Meryl’s eyes shine in the harsh light, looking at her lap. Her voice is quiet and weak. “Why doesn't he just kill those horrible people? If they won't stop until they die, why not make the choice simple? Why do they deserve to live while so many others die?”
Who are you to decide god?
Wolfwood spat the words at him many months ago, his fist stinging from Vash’s cheekbone. Vash didn't answer him. He just looked into Wolfwood’s eyes, hollow and defeated.
The dilemma of priority. Triage. When given the ability to save, who should you choose?
The judgment had been easy for him these past couple years. Vash. Always prioritize Vash. Though that answer was given to him instead of chosen. He supposes he did follow through on it time and time again, but how much of that was truly his choice? Was it all his choice? When faced with anything, despite everything, would he always choose Vash?
Would Vash always choose him?
How could he, when all of this time he's been alive, he's been choosing his brother?
Objectively, or quantitatively, he should kill Knives. Knives had taken the lives of so many, only truly valuing his own and Vash’s. Meanwhile, Vash had caused the death of many, valuing Knives’ life. Who is truly to blame in the scenario of a wolf-on-wolf brawl?
When asking what is important to him— who is important to him— would Vash always answer Knives before a human being? Does Vash even know his answer?
Wolfwood is at a loss for a rebuttal. Meryl isn't wrong, but his gut twists in a way insinuating that she is. However, he doesn't disagree with her. He wants to know what is keeping Vash from what should be done.
Yet, when that white hair blew with the wind, over that deathly mask covering half his face and gleaming in the reflection of his gun, Wolfwood understood. He downs the cup of tea in front of him like a shot, savoring the burn in his throat.
Vash is cursed with being a brother.