Chapter Text
Spring is on the air’s breath this time of year. It’s hardly noticeable yet, not like how it was on Earth. Hayfever doesn’t tickle the senses, grasses don’t seed and the weather isn’t cool. It’s still hot and arid with twin suns unforgiving in their seats in the sky.
But to someone like Vash, despite the sweetness bordering on stale for how long it’s travelled from the cities, he can smell the first blooms.
( They’re growing trees in December now, and May City borders a lake. There’s a house on a lone prairie and there, I managed to harvest my first crop. Tomatoes! Can you believe it? )
The suns hesitate just a little longer now, after months of them being a little more eager to rest below the horizon. Decades, a smidge over a century, has passed from him waking up at the foot of an apple tree left behind by his brother with a hollow chest and a disquieted mind.
A little more, since cigarette smoke ribboned in the air, a bottle of bride glinting in loose hands and a shaky smile on bloodied lips.
( It’s hardly fair, don’t you think? )
Vash rolls out of his bed like he does every other day. A creature of habit, rising when the suns do, soaking in their light just to feel a little warmer.
( We dreamed of this once. A home together. A yard and garden. A kid, or two, perhaps. )
There’s not much in the kitchen. It’s there for looks more than anything else. There’s a pantry lined with bottles of liquor, not food. They’re there for sentiment’s sake. For the sake of what could have been.
Other times they’re used as punishment. Vash prefers those night where his head swims with liquor rather than ghosts.
(“ I’d let you waste money on those cigars you eyed once in July. Y’know, the fancy ones made with actual tobacco rather than worm?” Vash had said, lying on his back, face and belly to the graveyard of stars above them.
“Ain’t you kind?” Wolfwood’s smile is loud in his voice.
“And I wouldn’t get annoyed if you smoked them on the front veranda.” Vash added.)
In the bathroom he glances over features he’s seen over and over, worn and tired. A permanent frown on lips which once found it so easy to smile. Behind him he sees the shadows of people he used to know. Friends who made it with him after the ark, others who didn’t. Some ghosts much older, their features smeared with the fog of time. He can’t remember the colour of Rem’s eyes. He can’t remember.
The scars however, hadn’t faded. He suspects they never will, no matter how long he stays outside of the eyes of bounty hunters. He leaves his red jacket in the bare closet in his room, his gun and holster hidden under his bed. What used to make him him collects dust in shadowed areas of his quiet home. Some parts of him, however, replay on repeat in his mind, a broken record yet hadn’t collected dust from constant use.
(“ Yer pretty in red.” Wolfwood had murmured once, pushing the jacket off Vash’s broad shoulders. They’re safe and alone in the quiet of their rented room somewhere in a town north of July.
“Geraniums were too.” Vash had said in a moment of weakness. At that point, he never talked much to Wolfwood about Rem.
“Gerani-what?” Wolfwood had paused his state of undress, hands hovering awkwardly at Vash’s belt.
Vash huffed a breath of laughter, taking over Wolfwood to undo his belt and get his pants off his legs. “A type of flower, Nick.”
“Kinda like this here?” Fingers prod between his legs, the folds there yet to unfold and bloom forth, it draws a jolt of electricity, beginning underneath Wolfwood’s touch and snaking up Vash’s spine.
“Shut up.”)
Floorboard creak under his weight as he walks past an empty extra bedroom and a lounge room that boasts the world’s saddest couch and coffee table. The old wood of the front door whines when he opens it and steps out onto the veranda. Although a bit sore for proper care and love, the white paint chipping, Vash finds charm in it.
( If I were lucky enough, I’d see you here, on that chair there smoking. Maybe you’d apply a fresh coat of paint, I’d help you, maybe waste some by running a line of white paint down your tanned cheek.
You’ve been gone longer than I’ve had you. Why does it hurt so much, then? I still wonder what went wrong?
Should I have done something different?)
The tomatoes are a little less green than they were yesterday, they’ll be red and ripe by the end of the month, Vash thinks. He’ll sell them at the fresh food market in the west district of December which often smelt like spices and fresh fish. That’s only when he has the guts to go back. It’s next to a building housing the bernardelli news agency that runs strong after all these years. But there’s no faces there he knows. No girl half his size to rile up, no pair of bright blue eyes to light up upon seeing him, no old man to share a shitty black coffee with.
(“ You think He’d forgive me, angel?” Wolfwood had asked, slumped in the old couch he sat himself in. The light’s leaving his eyes.
Vash’s hands were pressed together tightly. If he could have, a rosary would be tangled between his fingers. He broke from prayer to ask, “What? Who?”
A finger pointed skywards. Above them, an eagle cried. “God.”
“O-of course. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Because I’m scared I’ve been a real bad man, Vash.” He never called him by his name. It was always a nickname. Finally uttering it amongst his final breaths made it sting.
“You’re not. You’re a good man with a good heart.”
A breath had caught in Wolfwood’s throat, blood gurgled. “I hope yer not lyin’ ta me. Or I’ll come back t’ haunt ya.”)
Vash finds himself in May, the distant call of a Plant drawing him in. The city that lies next to a lake the Terrans had terraformed not that long ago. Its gentle water reflects the rays of the suns, glittering like a gemstone around weathered mudbrick and sand. It’s a scene he never thought he’d witness. Bodies of water were only ever reserved for tales centuries old, and textbooks just as ancient. He supposes some miracles happen.
On the way to the Plant site, a fish market has its stalls lining the street. A dog with a coat the colour of cream wags its tail the closer he gets to it. It snuffles at his empty hands, its wet nose pressing into his palm. When the vendor isn’t looking, he snags a small piece of diced fish and slips it to the dog.
( “Do you think dogs go to heaven?” Vash asked Wolfwood once. He had seen a Collie dog with its owner. A young Thomas rancher they met in Kasted. Vash asked to pet the dog and the rancher smiled, not knowing any better that the very Humanoid Typhoon plastered all over the walls in the next town over was running his jade fingers through the dog’s thick black and white fur. A small blessing for a town so out of touch, despite Wolfwood’s previous complaints about no servo to fuel up or cigarettes to buy.
Wolfwood regarded him, a lit cigarette was lazily balancing on his full bottom lip. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“I dunno.”
“There was a dog once at the orphanage when I was growin’ up.” Wolfwood started. “It didn’t live long but…” There was a pause. A piece to the story goes unsaid and Vash doesn’t pry when he noticed the distance in Wolfwood’s gaze. He was not there with him at that moment, he was lost miles and miles in the past. “Was a cute lil’ thing. All it ever did was love unconditionally.” Wolfwood then had come back to the present, his grey eyes slid over to Vash’s to catch him in his depthless gaze. “And ain’t that jus’ so pure?”
The endearment in his voice was palpable. That day, Vash learned to love dogs, just for Wolfwood’s sake.)
The Plant at May city produces electricity. She’s a spunky thing, a glint in her eyes that borders mischievous. She wasn’t in trouble, Vash finds when he touches the glass of her tube. She was just lonely, chucking a hissy fit because the engineers didn’t look at her all that much.
He presses his forehead to the tank, it’s cool on his skin, the hum of her power seeping into him from the contact. He kind of gets it, the madness born from loneliness. He really does.
( “So… they’re your sisters, yeah?”
“Yeah, I’ve always seen them that way.”
Wolfwood was quiet for a moment. “Why is she lookin’ at me like that?” Indeed, the Plant's eyes are not on Vash, but trained on Wolfwood. She regarded him with utmost reverence, there’s almost a childlike element in her curiosity. There’s a trill in the air, Plants never speak with tongue. Vash could never really put to words how he could understand them, but when they spoke to him it was clear and loud.
“She likes you.” Vash realised when she trilled again, her fingers had splayed on the glass of her tank, pressing in as if trying to get closer to Wolfwood.
Wolfwood barks a laugh. It’d be rough to most ears but to Vash’s it’s a tinkling chime. “Right. Does attraction t’ me run in the family?”
“I think it does, but don’t tell Knives.”)
The doughnut place just beside a restaurant has survived over the years, and Vash is overjoyed to see its doors still wide open for customers. The man he used to know is no longer there, probably hasn’t been for a while. Instead a young girl greets him with a winning smile. “Welcome!”
Tending to Plants takes energy, it’s the only time he ever bothers to eat. The glazed confectionery starves off the black dots that ghost his periphery, his limbs feel like his once more and no longer suspended someplace else. He removes what little mess he made from the table he sits at and smiles at the girl. “Thank you!” He bids a farewell, the girl calling out to him a bid to come back again.
He will, most likey. He’s a creature of habit after all, he never stays away from places he’s been before for too long. He’s always curious to see what changes and leaves, what stays.
Just outside the store, he sees two women. There’s a significant height difference to them, and he almost thinks a little too into it at first, their silhouettes a little too familiar. Between their flowing skirts, a child plays amongst them. They converse together animatedly and happily. The woman closest to him almost looks like Meryl, her small hand clasped in the other woman’s. The taller one nearly looks like Milly, the blue of her eyes just a few shades greener than the baby blue from what he remembers.
He watches the child and aches with the unfamiliar thought of jealousy. He’s a being with a belly he wishes saw the softness of nurturing life, his womb unoccupied for the life he’s lived was never quite right for such a thing. He never had the time, the chance, so he always settled on dreaming about it instead.
( “Do you want kids of your own?” They’re passing by an orphanage tucked away in December’s crowded streets. They’re sure the bounty hunter has lost their trail, so their pace has slowed, eyes watching kids chase each other or the stray worm that had flown a little too close to small grabby hands.
“I’ve thought ‘bout it once or twice. It’d be nice.” Wolfwood’s eyes glance at Vash. “You?”
They’re at the point of the relationship where they’re a lot less restrictive on what they say to each other, the shyness of the honeymoon phase gone, leaving behind two men with bleeding hearts on their sleeves. “If it’s with you, yeah.” Vash had said, unabashedly.
“Do you even know if that’s possible?”
“I’m not sure, but I hope so.”
Wolfwood hummed. “Yeah?” A kid trips over, a carer picks them up off the ground, helping them dust off the sand from their red knees.
“.... And a dog. I’d like a dog.” Vash added. Wolfwood had laughed, it had ribbonned between them like the smoke from his cigarettes.)
The taller woman looks up at Vash, there’s a glint of something in her eyes. “Hm, I’m getting a sense of Deja vu . Do I know you, mister?” She asks, her voice is unchanged, soft and so full of love to give.
Vash wishes he could say yes. Yes you were my friend once. Decades ago. How come you’re back? I missed you. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t think so, sorry!”
He hopes she’s not referring to a wanted poster she might have seen in passing. He tore one down when coming here in the east entrance where the lake smells its freshest.
He’s noticed, with each decade that passes by, his bounty posters wane in number. Where once his own face dominated, now is overtaken by the faces of others. Vash the Stampede is becoming a spectre to the public, when he’s been a ghost to himself since he put Wolfwood’s body in a shallow grave. He’s a dying legend and a dying man, Vash supposes it’s for the best, for his own sake and the planet’s.
“Oh, that’s a shame!” The woman breezes past the subject, she’s always been a whirlwind in her own right. Vash is fond to see some things never change. “My name is Milly Thompson, by the way! And that’s my wife Meryl Thompson-Stryfe and our son Evan! Say hi, Evan!” The boy looks up at him with eyes dark blue like Meryl’s, he hesitates behind Meryl’s legs, a quiet mutter is all he musters.
Vash is hardly offended, he’s immediately enamoured and coos at him, bending down at the knee. “Hey lil’ man!” Meryl looks at him, a strange flicker of something too in her eyes, like the Meryl he knew also lives on in this new incarnation of herself.
(Did you ever come back? Did He let you come back down here? Or will I just have to find you amongst the stars tonight? )
May City has a park, Vash finds as he’s caught up Milly’s insatiable need to make friends with anyone. This version of Milly runs on a social battery that never seems to dry up, prattling on about her life here to a man this version of herself hardly knows.
This version of Meryl has the same sharpness of the girl decades before, a calculated glaze to her eyes as she watches Vash like a predator would with prey. He doesn’t find anything malicious there, seeing she’s more content to observe rather than engage. To him, it’s endearing. Evan has come out of his shell and is just as lively as Milly, his smile an echo of her’s when he coerces Vash into playing games with him.
The grass is green and alive, the soil fresh and smelling of earth rather than the decay of a desert, the trees providing natural cover from the suns’ harsh light. The thrum of life here a direct result of his sister. In the joy of being able to provide, there’s still that undercurrent of bitter loneliness that makes his palms hurt when he presses them to the grass.
–
In his madness, he convinces himself that Wolfwood would have to be out there somewhere . He only returns to his sad little home to check on the tomatoes. They’re nearly the red he’s looking for, the bottoms still holding onto a little greenness. He waters them once, removes pests from the stalks and leaves, and heads to his first destination: Hopeland.
The orphanage still sits upon a cliff overseeing the rest of the town, a sentinel over the remnants of the SEEDS ship wreckage. The old metal glints in the day’s light, the silver hot to the touch and a touch of starlight etched into the hull that echoes the voices of long dead spacefarers. The town sits right in the heart of the desert wasteland. Although currently in spring, Hopeland’s weather is about as consistently hellish as it was a century ago when Vash was here last.
He never wanted to come back, it hurts him too much when he steps past the town’s entrance.
( How could you do this to me? How could you?)
The journey up the hill and towards the orphanage is slow and arduous, Vash takes his time, the anxiety of not finding Wolfwood there eats at him. When he finally reaches the orphanage, there’s a small group of kids sitting in a semi-circle playing patty cake. Only a few glance up to cast him curious looks, others don’t notice or ignore him.
A man who looks eerily like Livio watches him from a distance, hat tipped down and shadowing his features. “What can I do for you, stranger?” He asks.
“Uhm!” Vash squeaks. This Livio is just as large, with biceps that damn well might be bigger. His platinum hair is cropped short, and his lips are tugged down into a frown that borders on ‘ get the fuck out of here. ’ “I was just wondering if there was anyone by the name of Nicholas here?”
Livio’s eyes don’t leave Vash’s, in fact they harden. “What’s it t’ you?” Vash stutters for an answer, tripping on half formed words and sweat beads at his temple.
“W-well—”
“Listen man, if ya ain’t got a kid t’ drop off then I ain’t got much for ya.” The glare in his eyes softens and his shoulders slump a little bit. The Livio he knew was gentle, without his hackles raised, Vash sees something akin to that gentleness in this Livio.
( It had taken him a while to drag himself from the grave he made — A mound of uneven dirt and sand with a wooden cross peeking out from the top of the grave. Vash went to what was left of the orphanage. It was eerie and hollow without the ring of children’s laughter. He didn’t know how long it took for someone to find him, and that someone had been Livio, the man Wolfwood had fought against while his heart slowly failed in his chest.
Who he, in the end, extended mercy to, where Vash had thought Livio didn’t deserve such a thing.
“Where’s Nicholas?” His eyes were wide, fear licking at his irises.
“He’s dead. I buried him.”)
Vash’s next stop was December, where ferns line the streets, orange trees bloom on street corners and a large park in the centre of the town with a flowing fountain and yellow tulips. Clouds heavy with rain lick at the horizons, they’ve been forecasting the year’s first rainfall for weeks. Vash can taste the rain in the air, can feel the dampness on his palms and neck.
He finds himself at the steps of a cathedral. He’s never seen it before, it’s new going by the quality of the brick and wood. The windows are vibrant with glass yet to fade from the suns’ glare, and inside they cast a rainbow of colour onto the marble ailes and wooden pews. There’s a murmur of a voice in the confessional when he quietly walks by. The church is otherwise empty, there's no mass for the day, no wedding to behold nor sermon for the celebration of the dead. He finds a pew just in front of the altar and sits down and stews in God’s silent presence.
A presence sits beside him not long after, and Vash uses his glasses to hide the flick of his gaze towards said intruder. There’s a whole damn church and yet they sit beside him and make it awkward.
Instead of annoyance, his heart skids to a stop in his chest. He sees what should be only a memory, a figment of the past he’s yet to find the courage to let go of. From the slope of his nose to the tanned complexion of his skin, the man is exactly how he last saw Wolfwood. His chest moves evenly, his lungs aren’t flooded with blood, his hands aren’t shakey and his fingernails aren’t caked with sand and dirt. The vehemence of a dying man isn’t burning in those grey eyes. “You’re lookin’ lonely there, stranger.” Even his damn voice is the same.
Vash almost reaches out, to touch and feel, to make sure this is real and not just some cruel joke. Instead he wills to keep his hands to himself. “What makes you say that?”
Wolfwood has an unlit cigarette pressed between his lips. He smells like tobacco and fresh earth. “Got a faraway look t’ yer eyes. Got somethin’ to confess?”
“I—” Vash pauses. The rain begins to fall outside, he hears each droplet fall onto the roof, onto the concrete footpath outside, the trees and the bushes. “I lost someone.” Wolfwood hums, encouraging Vash to continue. “He was everything to me, and he was taken from me too soon.”
(The first time Vash had told Wolfwood he loved him was a little too cliche. He was under Wolfwood, bare to him and the desert. Meryl and Roberto had gone back to December for a short while, leaving them to their devices.
That meant a lot of sex and a lot more bullet wounds to clean up on Wolfwood’s part. Slick and cum began to go cold between his legs, sweat seemed to crystallise on his arms and chest. The desert night is hardly ideal for something like this, but with Wolfwood Vash never thought through any of his plans. “I love you so much.” He let slip between breathless gasps. Wolfwood had bitten his neck, drawing blood, his hips bruised Vash’s. Vash had thought he felt sand on his ass. It was so unromantic and he would kick himself later for the slipup.
Wolfwood hardly seemed to care though. When he pulled back to look him dead in the eyes, the universe glimmered in eyes the colour of moonlight. “I love you too.”)
“I’ve yet to forgive him, really.” Vash rumbles.
“Were they a lover, perhaps?”
“ More .” Vash croaks. He’d know him in death, when the world inevitably ends, for Wolfwood was a piece of his own soul. It is a devastating thought.
“I think…” And then Wolfwood delivers the final blow. “I think he might be back.” Vash looks at Wolfwood once more. A good hard look. Meryl, Milly, Livio all had something slightly different to them. Wolfwood here is a carbon copy minus all the blood. There’s even a gold ring on his finger, the very same he had given him all those years ago.
“You—”
“I dunno how, but maybe God didn’t wanna have me for much longer ‘cause he saw you needed me more than he did.”
Vash surges forwards, nearly knocking Wolfwood down onto the cold marble flooring. His huff of laughter is muffled with Vash’s mouth, itching to taste the tobacco on his lips after being deprived for so so long. He feels the same under his hands and he holds him like he never parted from him in the first place.
When Vash leaves the cathedral with Wolfwood under the downpour of the rain, he keeps his hands warm within his own. And when he guides him to his home on a lone prairie with a tomato patch out the front and passes the veranda with chipped white paint, he thinks the house looks instantly better now someone else is here with him.
And in the morning when he wakes up with his head on Wolfwood’s chest and wildflowers beginning to bud in the fields outside, Vash is thankful he didn’t have to wait to see him again where the sky ended and eternity began. Spring is nicer than the empty void, and the warmth of a corporal body even moreso.