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1.
There’s a lady standing next to Angelina when Wolfwood steps into the decrepit warehouse he stashed his bike at all those months ago. He knows her, of course. She’s as familiar to him as the rusty chrome on his ride’s handles.
Her long, dark hair falls over her shoulders and blends with the dark fabric of her cloak, painting a spectral picture against the dust and the stray sunlight that filters easily through the gaps in the tin roof.
“It’s been a while,” she says. She doesn’t smile, but Wolfwood hears the affection in her voice regardless. It makes his heart ache. It pulls his thoughts to the night before; to a dark room in a nameless town, a bed too small to share and two hands on his face, one soft, one hard. Vash, on the eve of his fight with Knives, eyes desperate and his sweet dumb mouth making promises Wolfwood knows he wouldn’t keep. Couldn’t keep.
He lights up a smoke and lets the nicotine distract him.
“It hasn’t been that long,” he says. She hums absentmindedly and touches her delicate hands to the leather seat, beckoning him. It’s gonna be a long, hot trip to the orphanage, even on Angelina.
He thinks about Vash instead; he has half a mind to turn around and hail a caravan into the old town, maybe walk a couple iles north and see if the thoma herders would drop him at the post before sunset. He would find Vash by the main building for sure, bickering with Brad or hiding from the girls. He would find him and tell him… tell him…
Wolfwood chokes on the smoke. Would that be the coward’s way out? Or is his cowardice what moves him to leave Vash behind? Is he running towards redemption or away from something he’s scared of? He coughs, twice, and straightens his back before discarding the cigarette and crushing it with his heel. He swallows his woulds and coulds and maybes and perhaps, and walks towards the woman, towards the bike.
When he thinks his voice won’t falter he says:
“You’re staying with me?”
He fixes Punisher on the bike and gets on it before she can answer. The silence is heavy as she climbs behind him and snakes her arms around his waist. Her breath on his nape is warm, like spilled blood.
“Only until the very end.”
2.
The baby lies very still on the kitchen floor. Nicholas looks at him from where he’s kneeling on scraped knees and expects the cries to start soon, but the baby won’t move. It’s still in the tiny apartment, for once. The faucet leaks over dirty broken dishes, beating a smooth staccato against the gentle buzzing of the flickering lights. It’s so silent that Nicholas can hear his own heart beat.
Someone moves behind him and for a moment he’s scared it’ll be his old man. Instead, a woman kneels at his side. She’s tall and muscular and casts a dark shadow over him.
The woman lifts her hand to touch his shoulder and he recoils involuntarily.
“I didn’t mean it,” he says.
“I know.”
She moves towards the baby and lifts it into her arms and the baby twitches and sniffs and cries a little bit before settling against her breasts. She has a kind face.
“He was trying to hit my brother.”
“I know.”
“He knocked him over to the floor.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t mean to–”
“I know, Nicholas.”
She has a kind face but her eyes are bottomless, like black holes. They swallow all the light around him.
“Who are you?”
“A friend.”
Nicholas feels helpless. He wants to cry but there’s so much blood on his hands, he’s making a mess in the kitchen. He wouldn’t dare touch the baby with those hands. Not the one on the floor, blue and unmoving, nor the one happily cooing on the woman’s arms. He wants to cry but his hands are red and dirty and there’s just too much blood. He–
“It’s all right, Nicholas.” The woman says. “He can’t hurt you or your brother any more.”
-
A well meaning neighbor finds Nicholas two days later, kneeling between the still body of an infant and that of a bloodied adult man. He’s grabbed and taken to an office somewhere in December, to wherever they take unwanted kids born in slums and ditches. The secretary looks at him with fear even though he offers no resistance, and he is cuffed and made to wait on an uncomfortable chair until two men in worn suits tell him he’d be placed in an orphanage soon.
“The kid bashed his old man’s head…” one of them argues.
“He’ll be out of our hair soon enough,” the other one says. He’ll be somebody else’s problem.
Nicholas stays very still, staring at the floor. His hands are still red. Nobody had cared enough to wash them.
3.
Ten years he spends at the orphanage. Ten years worth of boredom, the constant pang of hunger, mischief, being grounded, Sunday mass, changing diapers and not having to worry about anything other than being some kid. Of being around the only people who ever gave a shit about him. Of stealing smokes from the drunk bum at the end of the alley three blocks from the main road and running for his life every time he’s caught. Of begging the thoma herders for extra eggs with pleading eyes and presenting them to the aunties like you would a trophy. Of complaining he’s the only one who gets baby duty without telling the aunties that it comforts him to know he can keep these babies safe, to know he can maybe become someone who nurtures instead of someone who destroys.
Ten years of protecting them, the kids, the aunties. Of getting socked and beaten and spat at for being defiant but never ever letting anybody put a hand on one of his kin.
They come for him on a Sunday, so naturally they have to sit through mass first.
Nicholas kneels obediently on the pew and sings the psalms he knows by heart. He clutches his hands together against his mouth and begs the Lord to take care of the kids while he’s not here. He vows to come back when he’s grown, when he’s better. A promise he intends to keep.
He stays a little longer when service ends, hearing the priest go through his post mass motions at the altar while outside the church, on the side of the cliffs, the wind scourges sand and gravel against the robust walls like a mighty whip.
“On your way, Nicholas,” the priest chides.
Nicholas drags his feet all the way to the entrance of the church. The door has been left ajar and the string of light sneaking through it cuts the aisle in half and blinds him. He thinks he sees a familiar face in the gap between.
There is color outside: little paper confetti flying and falling like dragonflies in the summer sky, kids’ cries and laughter, joy, regret. His friends hug him and the aunties sniffle, their sweaty hands patting his cheeks with affection. Nicholas can’t cry; he never really learned how, but imagines that he would, if he could.
Please, Lord, he thinks, please let them be okay.
He sees the woman again inside the car meant to take him to his new home. By now he is old enough to understand who she is.
She’s sitting placidly against the worn leather, looking through the window. Nicholas gets in and sits beside her quietly, letting the two men who escort him ride at the front of the car. It’s okay that she’s here, he thinks. He never really figured he would live a long life. Ten good years was more than a good-for-nothing kid like him could ever hope to have.
“Are they going to kill me?” he whispers after a while.
Only then does she turn to him, her pitch black eyes an abyss that chills him to his bones.
“No, Nicholas,” she says. Her voice is thick with pity, the kind you reserve for a scared little mongrel about to be torn apart for a feast. “They’re going to do something worse.”
4.
“How come he can’t see you?” Wolfwood asks without taking the cigarette out of his mouth. With his head he nods towards the tall idiot several feet away, elbows deep in sweat, sand and dirt. Of course there’s nobody around at the wasteland where they’re at, so he couldn’t have meant anybody else. She manifests by his side, leaning with her back against the rotten fence, the same casual way he does. Wolfwood has learned she loves to have a chat, and right now Spikey is too busy wallowing in his misery and digging that damn grave to entertain him. Suits him fine. Wolfwood will find himself another conversational partner.
“He doesn’t want to,” she answers simply.
“Bullshit. Besides, I’m sure two old fossils like yourselves will have plenty to talk about.”
He feels her shoulder bumping into his and smiles despite himself.
“I am much older than him.”
“And a lot less annoying.”
Her laughter sounds a little bit like the ungreased brakes of a public bus on a collision course, but he’s used to it by now. Six long years she’s stuck by his side ever since that silent car ride from the orphanage; a strangely comforting presence to bear the heavy weight he carries. A witness of sorts. A friend.
“You like him though,” she continues.
“No, I don’t.”
“Youuu dooo,” she sing-songs, poking his chest. They’ve played this game before.
“Fuck off.”
The same acrid laughter echoes in his ears when he waves her off and she dissolves like the smoke from his cigarette.
Blondie is more than halfway through his task when Wolfwood entertains the idea of helping him for about two seconds. There’s a dark cloud covering the horizon, which means a sand storm is on its way. They should take their leave soon if they don’t want to end up getting caught in the middle of it. Blondie could probably use the help but they had argued not half an hour ago and Wolfwood wasn’t feeling so generous.
All of this mess for fucking Hoppered and Midvalley.
“He can’t see me,” she continues from Wolfwood’s other side, perching on Punisher's arm, “because he has never actually killed anyone. Voluntarily.”
“Voluntarily.”
She raises her arms.
“It’s a big distinction!”
“Sure is.”
“You’d think by now he would have caved, but nooo.”
“That’s Mr. Most Annoying Ass to ya. You wouldn’t like him anyway. He cries too much.”
She laughs again and Wolfwood finds morbid pleasure in knowing he knows Death intimately enough that he can make her laugh. He lights another smoke.
“And the other guys? Can’t imagine there are many folks on this piece of shit planet who haven’t killed someone on purpose.”
“They see me, just not like this. They see the ugly side. You can see me because you fear me, but you’re not afraid to walk by my side.”
The admission leaves Wolfwood a little breathless, hits a little too close to home. On the other side of the wasteland, Blondie hits hard rock with his shovel and swears loudly. He’s almost done with the second ditch.
There is static in the air, the distant rumbles from the oncoming storm reaching the platform they are on.
Apropos of nothing she adds: “I have always been Death, but death hasn’t always been me. I prefer to stick to those who are not phased by who I am, nor corrupted by it.
“I’ll meet him eventually, your boy. At least a version of me will. I have nothing but time, Nicholas. And death comes for us all, in the end.”
There is a little pop in Wolfwood’s ears and he feels dizzy for a moment, the smell of fresh ozone heavy in his nose and mouth.
“Are you okay?”
Wolfwood blinks and finds Spikey standing in front of him, covered head to toe in dirt and sand. His dumb blue eyes reek of concern.
“Yeah,” he coughs. “Just thinking ‘bout that ugly storm and how much I don’t wanna make its acquaintance.” He takes one last drag of his cigarette and discards the butt under Spikey’s close scrutiny. He may play a fool but his smart gaze betrays him, and Wolfwood wants nothing of it. When he’s close enough, he blows smoke into Vash’s face and petulantly flicks some sand off his duster.
“You smell terrible,” he says.
“Ha ha.”
Vash bristles but still offers him his water bottle; Wolfwood knows a peace offering when he sees one. There’s no point in dragging this stupid squabble any longer, so he drinks and pretends not to notice when Blondie’s eyes follow a stray drop rolling off the side of his neck.
“Let’s get this done and get outta here.”
Vash’s gratitude is nothing short of unbearable, the way his whole semblance softens and he seems to deflate when Wolfwood goes to place the bodies before the graves. Together, they lower both men into each ditch and lay them on their graves best they can.
Wolfwood supposes they’re walking with Death, now.
He has a feeling he won’t be seeing her for a while.
5.
Wolfwood dies.
He feels so much, in that moment. There is confetti flying down, a technicolor sandstorm of little dragonflies diving against him and surrounding him from a passing starship. Hard springs dig into his thighs where he’s sitting, and his mouth tastes of soot and ash and blood, the whiskey fighting a losing battle to try and cover the lingering tang of violence on his tongue. His heart beats hard, too hard, until it rips and bleeds, making his whole chest seize. Everything is so loud.
And then there’s Vash, quietly nursing a shot glass by his side. Uncharacteristically still and somber, a sentinel watching over him. All those unspoken words Wolfwood had kept close to his heart had rushed and cluttered in his throat. He wanted to say… something. He wanted to spare Vash of his death. He didn’t want to be another scar, another name crossed on his list of lost friends, but in the end he didn’t have enough time.
The confetti falls. The kid’s warm welcome rings heavy in Wolfwood’s ears. His heart rips. The church bell tolls two, three, four times, and something amazing happens.
For the first time in his short life, Wolfwood lets everything go, and cries.
-
For a moment, there’s silence. Wolfwood breathes, whatever he is now. He’s standing close to where he was a few minutes ago: he can see the back of the couch in the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t turn to it. A few moments ago there was nothing but regret. Right now he feels at peace.
He supposes there are worse ways to go. He never really figured he would die peacefully, let alone on his own terms. A drink, a welcome and a friend by his side? More than he could ever hope to get.
He pats himself and finds a brand new pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket.
“You’re welcome,” she says. She looks different on this side. Solid. More real than she has ever been. Wolfwood risks looking into her eyes and her dark bottomless pupils are less bottomless and less dark. She looks like a person.
Wolfwood grunts and lights a smoke.
“So what now?”
The closer she comes to him the further away he feels from everything else. In the back of his head he thinks he hears someone wailing.
Her hands are on his chest, but his heart is not beating.
“Time to say goodbye,” she says.
Time, he thinks, is what he doesn’t have.
The next moments happen in quick succession. He opens his hands wide at his sides and in a blink of an eye they whip and close around her neck, a flytrap sensing a moth inside her teeth. Her eyes widen and Wolfwood feels the smooth skin under his fingers give as he presses harder and harder. She opens her mouth; the inside of her is dark red like a gunshot wound, but no sound comes out. Just smoke and dust. Wolfwood presses on, closing his hands with supernatural strength. His thumb breaks her trachea as her neck snaps. The smoke is all around him, the flesh turning into ash in his hands. Flies rise from underneath her clothes and swirl around him, an upwards whirlwind buzzing and shrieking, the sand and smoke clogging his mouth and ears. He can barely see now, her face just a black smudge disintegrating against everything else flying around them. He feels his own palms crashing together and the essence of her, the soot and the ash crawling like spiders under his skin and filling his whole self up.
He burns. He is burning. He can’t see. There is nothing but pain and chaos and a loud, shrilling, terrible scream.
It comes from him. He lets the flames consume him. Whatever he is now. Whatever he will be.
She was right. Death comes for all in the end.
+1.
It’s barely morning when Vash opens his eyes. The gray dawn light filters through the window and bathes everything in a tenuous glow. His whole body groans when he tries to move, and even though he isn’t in intense pain, he can feel the soreness creaking in his old bones.
He’s not sure where he’s at. A room he can’t recognise. A bed he’s been dozing in, falling in and out of consciousness. There’s a faint memory of Knives dragging him across the desert somewhere in his mind, of an unknown man tending to his wounds.
“Rise and shine, Needles," someone says to his right. It takes him a moment to place where the voice is coming from, but soon enough he sees the figure he would recognize anywhere.
“Wolfwood,” he smiles. The man is lounging on a chair nearby, a cigarette in his hand. This is how Vash knows he’s dreaming.
“You’re not dreaming, idiot.”
Oh.
“Am I dead?”
“Nope.”
Vash nods to himself. He remembers the couch and the whiskey and the grave he dug all too well.
“But you are.”
Wolfwood shrugs. He blows smoke to the ceiling and stands up. There is something dark about him. His glasses are on but Vash can see it regardless; the void in his eyes.
Vash is transfixed by him, every single bit of his body begging him to run. But he has never been afraid of Wolfwood. He’s not about to start now.
“Do you regret it?” He asks. “Killing that guy.”
Does he regret taking Legato’s life to preserve the legacy of one man?
Vash shakes his head.
“Then I’m here, Spikes.”
Vash jumps out of the bed so fast he trips with the blanket covering him and nearly falls face first on the floor. He hears Wolfwood’s sudden laughter from somewhere in front of him, a vulture’s cackle, careless and beautiful. Tears flow through his cheeks as he springs back up.
There will be time for the whys and the hows.
Vash takes a step forward and crashes into Wolfwood’s open arms, bullseye.