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makima-s-most-smile · 11 months

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A hint of resurrection

In which hope dies as it always does

God, do you resent me?

Wolfwood doesn’t know why he does it. Repressing the need to cough out the liquid filling his lungs only causes discomfort and Vash is hearing it anyway. No way that bastard is not listening intently to every sound that comes from Wolfwood. The way his breath gets shorter and shorter and the quiet gurgling sound that joins them. Despite Wolfwood’s stubbornness, the reflex wins periodically and it brings up mouthfuls of lymph, blood, loose cells and other stuff that the overdrive of his metabolism deposits in his lungs. His self control goes far, but drowning in his own fluids is something his body won’t allow to happen even as it is in the process of dying.

Have I angered you?

Vash bridges the line between being present and being frozen in shock. Even without looking at him, sitting on the edge of his seat, knees up, heels digging into the floor and toes stretched up in the air, desperately hugging himself for comfort, his anxiety fills the air. High strung with the desire and the need to help, to do something, anything, but struck with paralysing realisation of utter and true powerlessness. Vash knows. Wolfwood knows. It sits between them in the air with unspoken words and grief for something that will never happen, grief for a future that is too good for someone like Wolfwood, while being the least Vash deserves. No need to talk about it. The dice have fallen. Arguing over the roll won’t undo its reality. And above everything, Wolfwood has always been a true and absolute realist.

What else did you expect me to do?

Wolfwood has nothing else left to give. His hands are empty and his path ends here. If anything, he wants to die with the knowledge that he has tried to spare Vash pain. A last act of kindness, maybe his only true one. A thanks, for meeting him, travelling with him, for Vash’s presence in his last moments. Words aren’t enough. God, actions aren’t enough. And he can’t even act, though, and time is naught. At least… he can make it less painful. Vash deserves that much… and so much more. Above all, Nicholas D. Wolfwood wishes he could have been Vash’s friend. For a little bit longer.

Should I have ignored the responsibilities, no one else was willing to shoulder?

He does neither stop nor turn around to look if Vash follows him. Vash is there. Right behind him. Covering his back one last time. Wolfwood proceeds in his slow trek to find a good place to… to what? Sit down… Relax… At least squeeze out a bit of joy from his last moments… And then die… Perish… Croak like the joyless bastard he is…

Should I have watched them suffer like I did?

“Let me at least try…,” Wolfwood hears Vash from behind. Wolfwood snaps around, angry words about futility and finality already forming behind his snarl. Instead he tips over as his world is plunged into sudden darkness by his sudden movement.

Should I have stayed my hands like the many Good men doing nothing?

Vash has caught him. Of course, he has. The sudden burst of anger has completely evaporated in his short spout of unconsciousness. This is not about Wolfwood. He shouldn’t make it about himself. No one cries for the devil, not even the devil himself. “It’s my fate, Vash,” he whispers. No space for bile or despair left, only desolate acceptance. It empties him, leaving only a shell, ticking off checkmarks on an invisible list, getting his things in order. A list whose only purpose is to diminish the pain his passing will cause. Wolfwood has never thought it would be that long nor that he will be unable to complete it. And that his inability to do so would cause him such suffering. “It always has been. From the day I was conceived, it was either shooting myself or ending up like this.” Wolfwood ignores how Vash’ lips quiver at the words. He can’t take it. Why does he make everything worse? “C’mon, needle noggin. Let’s not waste anymore time on this.” He laughs, it is too loud and too jovial and all he can give. Vash looks down and doesn’t move.

Why is it my sin to have acted?

Doesn’t Vash deserve the knowledge that he has done all he could? For his peace of mind? It’s useless, though, and Vash should save his energy for Knives. But that is the realist talking. By now, they have gotten to an understanding. Knives is the sword hanging over Vash’s life. It is admirable that Vash is able to find joy in everyone and everything around him. That’s why he is here, next to Wolfwood. Because instead of cutting the sword over his head… He chose Wolfwood’s side… So Wolfwood offers his hand to the other. Give and let give. “One try, one minute,” Wolfwood sets the rules. Give Vash his peace of mind at the minimum cost. It’s just rational. “Promise me not to use up… whatever… dunno… mumbo jumbo… yer life force or something. There’s something else you need to do and…” That’s all Wolfwood can give. It is not enough, never enough.

This doesn’t seem right.

Vash grabs his hands like it is a lifeline. A glimmer of hope in all this shitshow that is Nicholas D. Wolfwood’s life. That is something Vash has always excelled at, in finding hope when Nicholas has already given up like the coward he is. Maybe… just maybe… God, please… Maybe this time he is allowed hope? A bitter voice adds quietly, at least Wolfwood doesn’t have to live with the disappointment of the failure.

This doesn’t seem fair.

Vash holds Wolfwood’s hand in his own and presses it to his lips and then chest. He has closed his eyes. As his feathers sprout from his cheeks, his arms, his back. Vash presents himself in all his inhumanity. Maybe that is why Wolfwood has come to trust him. Through all of his masks, his constant escapism and his evasiveness about his person, Vash is honest about his core. The feathers wrap around their hands, his wrist, his arm, reaching for Wolfwood to take him into an embrace. They are cool to the touch, bendy and smooth, not like real feathers. Meaty, not ethereal. Something very real and physical. Wolfwood should be scared shitless. Meryl has been, Meryl has been so scared. And Wolfwood is just laying there, head resting on Vash’ lap and staring with indifferent reverie and distant curiosity. Maybe… in another time, they could have worked together… Wolfwood, Meryl, Milly and Vash… to explore Vash’ weirdness, to avoid Meryl fearing him, to avoid Vash being so isolated from everyone just for having this weird body, when the worst thing the doofus does is throw their money away on donuts, when instead they truly need a shower. But that’s another world and a world Wolfwood could never be part of. He can only sit here and watch and observe, the sole witness. Calling Vash an angel would be distasteful, but that’s the closest thing Wolfwood could compare him to right now. An angel praying to God to save this sinner's life.

Have mercy on this sinner.

Nothing happens. God stays silent as so often before, when Wolfwood has prayed and prayed to no avail. His prayers have stayed unanswered through pain, blood and despair. They stay unanswered now, too. Maybe the Divine wasn’t on the ships that left Earth. Maybe the Divine has turned their back on their creation as they saw how imperfect humanity was in spite of being made in their image. It’s useless, a waste of time and Wolfwood cannot help himself but feel disappointed, disillusioned and worse, pity for Vash. Vash, who is bearing scars too obscene in their creation to be comprehensible. Vash, who still opens his heart to the people around him. Vash, who has let even someone like Wolfwood in and in again. Vash, who is still hoping and caring. Vash, whose hope is about to break against reality. It shouldn’t be on him... There is only one devil willing to break Vash’s hope…

I beg of you, God.

Wolfwood’s tremors feel so much worse in Vash’s unmoving hands. He jerks himself free and gets rewarded with a coughing fit. There is a mercy in it. Occupied by the coughing, Wolfwood is unable to look Vash in the eyes as the hope dies between them. And Wolfwood will follow it too soon to be able to ruminate about it. At least Vash can say that he tried. Wolfwood can only pray that it gives Vash some peace of mind. He clasps Vash’s shoulder and gets up. He feels like he’s an old man, knees trembling and back hurting.

Please, just a little bit…

“Is this the way you want it? Are you sure…,” Vash starts, but Wolfwood interrupts him. “Yeah…” Wolfwood looks up at the sky. “It’s been a good run.” A lie. A truth. An empty phrase. That leaves no words. It feels suffocating. Maybe that’s why, at the end of his life, Wolfwood catches himself opening up. “And… I am grateful, ya know?.” Vash laughs awkwardly. Wolfwood cannot endure the vulnerability he freely offered just a moment ago. No sentimentality, no tears, nothing for Vash to latch on and hurt. “Psych! You’re the one who should be thanking me, Spikey!”

A little respite… after all of the sacrifice…

It stands in the middle of a ruined house. Nicholas has played hide and seek in there, always being the seeker, always the lookout and always the one who ends up finding even the most hidden, giggling ray of joy. It has been full of laughter and sometimes a scraped knee. One wall of it is left standing, the rest has been destroyed by Livio and Chapel’s onslaught. The couch has survived the destruction impeccably clean for the destruction in which middle it is sitting. Wolfwood cleans the cushions from some debris and sits down, slapping the place next to him. It’s a nice overlook from the couch. Endless stretches of sand meeting the everblue sky. There’s even clouds. They say there is water in them. Wolfwood never believed any of that shit.

Is that too much to ask for?

“Anyway… Come on…,” Wolfwood emphasises his words with a wave of the bottle of whiskey. “I haven’t had a drink with you in a while.” Not waiting for an answer, he uncorks the bottle with his teeth. It pops unceremoniously. Vash sits down next to him, holding one of the shot glasses. “There’s worse stuff to drink out there.” First Vash’, then his own, filled up to the rim, as a treat. Half of it spills over to the ground between when they clink the glasses together in a toast.

I’d just like to have a little bit more time… with him… with them…

The whiskey is warm. Its temperature brings out all of its worst traits. Alcoholic with not much nuance, bitterness that clings to the palate and a tang that scratches the throat on its way down. With Vash at his side, it could be the best he’s ever had. Both refill their glasses. Many words fill the air between them and none is spoken. They all boil down to a helpless despair. No comfort in the inevitable, when one has to leave while the other prevails. No solace when it is dependent on the other being present and staying present. The wish for more, more time, more words, more brawls, more laughs. The wish for a spoken intimacy that has been given nonverbally, back to back, clinking their glasses, bickering about things that have boiled down to be completely unimportant between them. Wolfwood choses silence instead of stirring emotions in Vash that the other then has to deal with alone. And Vash… most likely doing the same.

I’d like to get a few more laughs in…

“Smile, Spikey…,” a request, a plea, if not for now, then one for the future. Move on, find joy again. “It suits ya, when you do.” Wolfwood takes a sip from the godawful whiskey. “I guess… It was harsh of me to say all yer smiles are empty. Sorry.”

I’d like to drive around some more…

Vash’s face is a mask of pain, teeth clenched together by the dire need to stay present for Wolfwood and not give into the tears. Wolfwood would give his world to take that pain from Vash. “Wolfwood…,” the words come out in fragments. “Don’t say… stupid things.” So Wolfwood says nothing anymore. It is just the two of them, eyes to the wide, blue horizon in front of them.

I’d like to have just a little bit more time…

Their silence is interrupted by a scrap of paper fluttering in front of Wolfwood’s face. Then another and another one and suddenly there are many. Scribbles and ripped up drawings, wax crayons, coloured pencil, pens and coal give them colour. All handmade and unique, crafted with care by children’s hands. Wolfwood looks up to the airship. The air is filled with colour calling his name. It’s a simple message. They are safe. They know. His family is safe and welcomes him back. Why does it hurt, though? Why does his chest feel tight? Nicholas’ work is done. He can rest. He should feel relieved. Instead, Nicholas feels his eyes tear up and overflow. He has always known he would end like this. This is peaceful, really, he could not even imagine a more peaceful way to die. He should be thankful. Why is there still this burning desire in his chest? Why is this not enough? Why does he have to cry out loud for something he knows he'll never get?

God, I’d like the chance to live.

The blue sky and the never ending sand. Blue and gold. They flow together to join each other into a new and utter darkness. It takes his sight. The whiskey slips from Nicholas’ iron grip, suddenly infinitely heavy. It takes his touch. Something in the air, like electricity, a passing observation. It takes his attention. A loud impact, the bottle hitting the ground, and the church bell’s chime, eternally clear, but final. It takes his hearing.

Please… just…

Just for a little bit…

It takes his thought.

#trigun #trigun spoiler #it's the couch scene #beware #Revival-AU #It looks like I didn't use my AO3 account enough and I need to wait for a new invite #but I've written this so I will post it #yeehaw #now to move on to nai being a little bastard #my art

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