Chapter Text
To most of the expanse of sand out there, Knives never existed. Or at least—he didn’t exist in the same sense that he lived on in the hearts of the two men at the center of the conflict. They might have known that their world was almost at its end, or not. Many choose to live in blissful ignorance after all.
Wolfwood wouldn’t call himself at the center of anything, however. He was out of commission for most of the final battle; he’s not sure how he made it out alive himself. Time skipped seamlessly while he was out like a roll of film that was clipped and pieced back together, the contents of the eliminated sequence unknown to the world.
Sometimes he’d sit by the window and look at the horizon for no reason. It’s still wild to him; after so many years of fantasizing about the end of the Eye and Knives who’s behind it all, he hadn’t spent all that time thinking about what his life after all that. Part of him never expected to live beyond the organization, he thinks. He continues his work as a priest, yet sometimes the awareness that it’s really over still overwhelms him and renders him speechless. It’s just too good to be true.
The door clicks open behind him and Wolfwood silently notes the careful steps of the ex-gunman throughout the room. He stops at the doorway for a brief second before coming into the room, circling to the other side of the table. The chair drags out a few inches as Vash sits down, his right arm propping his chin up. He can smell the damp, earthy soil and the faint smell of his sweat and he smiles to himself before he can help it.
“Whatchu looking at?”
“Nothing.” Wolfwood finally peels his gaze away from the window panes and focuses on Vash again. There is a smudge of dirt on the long glove of his left arm, barely visible against the dark leather. There is another light streak on his slightly flushed face, right above the bright smile and below the strikingly blue eyes of his. His hair is not as spiky as usual either; the dark strands sit just a little more tamed on his head from the sun and sweat. “Were you working in the gardens again?”
“Am I that sweaty?” Vash chuckles, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Wolfwood watches the smudge on his cheek become even wider and chooses to not bring it up in bemused silence. “But yeah. I was hoping to get the flowers to grow at least.”
“Sounds good.” The center of their table sits empty for now. Wolfwood imagines them bursting with vibrant life and sighs, allowing himself to float in that dream for just a second longer.
The sunlight baths their small yet comfortable living room in a gentle glow, just like how a home should look. Wolfwood thinks about what he wouldn’t give for this life to go on forever.
============
A thin layer of dust veils the cloth covering that Wolfwood himself fastened over the Punisher a few months ago. It stands in the corner of his room now, quite lonely looking, even as his shadow climbs up over it.
Maybe he won’t bring it after all. Wolfwood scratches his nose, reaching out a hand to pat his long-time friend. Dust immediately puffs up in the air and his nostril twitches. Suppressing a sneeze, Wolfwood finally flicks the clasp on the long end of the cross. The belts holding the crude cloth snap away and clatter on the ground around it.
“I could watch that all day.”
“Yeah?” Wolfwood doesn't even bother to turn. That’s right, old pal. It’s not just us two now, he says silently to the gun now revealed. The silver exterior of the gun is dotted with dents and scratches from their battles. He runs his thumb over the sheet of metal that was mended so many times over; some blemishes still remain. Unlike his own body, the machine will never heal the scars left behind by his carelessness.
A hand covers his shoulder and something shifts behind him. Wolfwood knows that his visitor is squatting down behind him by the pressure on his shoulder and a soft grunt behind him. “How do you know which way the belts go? I tried doing them once and it didn’t work.”
“That’s why it was stuck the other day?” Wolfwood turns around at that. Vash gives him that apologetic sad smile again. “Well, whatever. I practiced. This is important for my presentation, y’know?”
Vash watches intently from behind as Wolfwood unwraps it the rest of the way and pulls the cloth out from underneath. “Why take it apart though… Are you going to clean it?”
“Just this cloth.” Wolfwood bunches it up in his hands and leans over to leave a kiss on Vash’s cheek. The latter chuckles, sitting back on the floor and holding him there for a few moments before eventually letting him go.
It’s a beautiful day outside. Even though their place is still too bare to be called cozy, Wolfwood feels more at peace there than he has felt in a long time. He can’t put a name to the feeling; maybe it’s what he’s wanted all along but was too hopeless or scared to admit.
Water splashes into the pan and he drops the cloth in, pressing the floating parts of the fabric down until every part of the cloth is heavy and dark with absorbed water. Wolfwood stands up again and stretches, squinting his eyes from the rays of the sun. When he opens his eyes again, something on the clothesline catches his attention. It’s a corner of Vash’s coat, its broken hem fluttering like feathers in the wind.
Wolfwood makes his way across and touches the thicker parts of the coat. It’s warm and dry to the touch. He frees the bright garment from the clips and checks the waistline and shoulders again. Finally convincing himself that the coat is properly dried, he heads back inside to find its owner. “I think your coat is dry,” he calls out.
Vash emerges from Wolfwood’s room. “Oh, thanks.”
“You’re bringing it?” Wolfwood hands it to him—but not without a raised eyebrow. “Now that you’re not blond anymore, if you wear just anything else, I think we’d be able to make it through without people turning you over to the federation.”
“I feel weird traveling without it.” Vash folds it in his arms. “Aren’t you bringing Punisher along too? It’s going to get dusty again if you leave it here, you know.”
Wolfwood looks away. “How long do you plan to stay there?”
“A few days at least. Don’t you want some more time in Hopeland as well? That’s going to take us more than a week.”
“That’s not too long,” Wolfwood protests weakly. He suddenly remembers the wrapping cloth still soaking in the pan. Something inside of him isn’t letting it go. As appetizing as peace sounds, Wolfwood finds himself even more restless than when he was preparing to go against the biggest threat that Gunsmoke has ever seen. He can’t leave without the Punisher; his body realized it before he was ready to acknowledge it.
Vash gives the coat a firm swing and lets the creases in the fabric sort themselves out. Wolfwood’s watched him do this many times over the span of their travels. Even though he hangs it properly every single day, he still straightens it before putting it on every morning—after sorting out the straps on his pants and his undershirt, and before doing his hair. What did he used to do? Probably sit by the window and smoke a cigarette to wake himself up. Through the bitterness of the smoke and under the gentle light of the morning, Vash the Stampede, too, just looks like a regular human being with his messy and fluffy hair, bending down before the mirror.
The hem riddled with bullet holes flutters like fringe trims that he’s seen in ancient stories and he knows that they’ll take this journey as the Humanoid Typhoon and the Punisher. Wolfwood looks down at the floor. He hopes that it’ll be their last.
“When are we leaving?” he asks. He’s done enough checks on his bike that even Vash’s horrible luck can’t possibly make them stall in the middle of the desert. She waits for them on the clearing by the front door, under a piece of canvas that Wolfwood had insisted that they reserve for being a cover.
“Eight, maybe? It gets hot these days.”
“Right.” It’s the end of June. Wolfwood heard that there used to be seasons on Earth and there’s apparently snow in the winter. He used to be more interested in Earth stories when he was a kid and spent days trying to imagine what it would be like to have snow on his skin. It’s not like he’d have a chance to see for himself though; Wolfwood packs his shirts tightly at the bottom of his bag and shrugs. Probably feels like rain frozen solid. Temperatures on Gunsmoke only vary slightly between the months—various levels of hot, that is. It’s never not scorching out there, regardless of whether it’s the middle or the end of the year. The temperature really starts to pick up around ten; two hours should bring them to the next stop so they can evade the afternoon heat for a couple hours before setting out again.
Vash appears in their room a few moments later, picking some clothes out of their wardrobe. “I still think you’d drink less of my water if you just bring something else to wear,” says Wolfwood without turning back. He’s said this too many times without seeing a change and just continues it as a habit. If he puts his mind to it, he knows exactly what Vash will say in response—
“I don’t feel right without it. I’ll bring more water this time!”
Called it. Wolfwood huffs, eying their room for anything else that he should bring and thinking about how he should behave once they get there. He’s always felt a strange intimidation from Ruida. Despite her kindness toward him during his last visit, her firm commands still elicit respect from him. Is this what it’s like to meet the mother-in-law? Wolfwood breathes, not even wanting to think about the orphanage. He should’ve been back there earlier. He should have—
“Wolfwood.” Vash calls out his name softly. Wolfwood sits down on the bed, tension melting away from his shoulders as Vash joins his side. “What are you thinking about?”
With one glance he knows that Vash knows exactly what’s on his mind. “What if I just don’t go?” he suddenly says out loud. Their luggage is still scattered around them, Vash’s tall cylindrical backpack leaning against his. “You can probably hitch a ride and get to a surrounding town anyways. I’ll…I’ll wait here.”
“No, Wolfwood, we talked about this before.” Vash sits a little closer. The mattress dips from the shift in weight and it tips Wolfwood toward him; seeing no point in resisting, he lets his head fall on the other man’s shoulder. A gentle hand touches his hair and his voice sounds much closer this time. “You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”
“I don’t want to see them.”
“Aww. You don’t have to talk then. Or should we just go to Hopeland?”
“No, you should still go.”
“But I want to go with you.”
Wolfwood purses his lips. This is new to him, although he should have seen it coming. Vash is slowly becoming more assertive when he asks things of him, which is something that he’s decided to take as a sign that Vash is opening up to him. He tries to change the topic. “Why are you heading to the ship again?”
“I have some…souvenirs that I want to keep with us,” replies Vash, quick to return to the issue on hand. “I’ll be quick.”
Wolfwood sighs. “That’s not it. Y’know what, forget it. I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
Vash stares at him even after he gets up and double checks the content of his duffel bag. “Are you…nervous?”
“What—”
“What are you worried about, my lovely husband?”
Wolfwood coughs, hoping that the blush that’s spreading on his face isn’t too obvious. “Told ya it’s nothing.”
“Nervous about meeting my family? You’ll be fine. They love you.”
“Yeah?” Wolfwood decides to avoid looking at him altogether. “It’s not like we asked her anything. Who knows.”
“Luida?” Vash hops off the bed at that. “She’s not the type to give you a hard time.”
It’s hard to explain. He has always thought of Luida as one of his people…a real human, from Earth. Wolfwood knows that this is stupid. Being born on Gunsmoke doesn’t make him any less human, yet he feels distinctively different from the people on the ship. Or it’s their lifespan that he’s weary about—but he’s sworn to spend the rest of his life with the freakiest of them all. He sighs. “I know. It’s just that she’s like family, right?”
“But so are you.” Vash cups his face in his hands, one much warmer than the other, though the metal feels just as tender as his gaze. Lips soon press onto his, gentler than a huff of breath. The way Vash kisses him so carefully always makes Wolfwood a little weak in the knees and he reaches for support, while the other only holds him closer. “We can move closer to Hopeland if you miss them.”
“No, this is fine,” Wolfwood breathes out, picking up their kiss once more, and tries to shake the unease. They’ve gone on so many trips together; this should be the least dangerous of them all. This really is the last time, he thinks to himself. A peaceful life awaits.
Vash exhales, letting some heat seep into their kiss. Wolfwood has learned to recognize signs when he gets needy. The way he grabs onto his shirt. The low moan that escapes his lips. The firm hold on his hips. Wolfwood only follows along, ignoring the fire that’s starting to burn in his core. “I need to get ready,” he reminds him as casually as he can.
“We have time.”
Wolfwood gives him a playful shove, just enough to get him thrown off his balance for a second. “Yeah? Then let me go to the bathroom.”
Vash sits down on the bed again. “Aww.”
“Quit yer whining! I’ll only take a minute.” Wolfwood bends down to leave a peck on the tip of his nose anyway. Vash tries to make it land on his lips and fails, leading to Wolfwood messing up his hair and laughing on the way out. “I’ll be right back,” he promises.
//
Years of journeying through the unforgiving planet has disciplined the two of them into leaving on a decided time. The morning air feels brittle on his face as Wolfwood fixes his duffel bag onto the back of his bike and fires up the engine. It roars to life after only a few tries, a welcoming surprise in this harsh albeit temporary chill. Inside, Vash is picking up the last of their items and stuffing them into his bag where there’s still some room.
Wolfwood leaves the engine running and goes back inside. The figure in the long, red coat is standing still in the living room, apparently looking at something small in his hands. It glints for a split second in Wolfwood’s peripherals as he looks around the space. There shouldn’t be anything that they really need from the kitchen or living room…and he made sure to pick up what they need from the bathroom before going out.
“Did you check the bedroom?” he calls from the door.
“Yeah.”
“So we’re ready then.” Wolfwood hoists the Punisher up from the floor. Its weight settles onto his back at once; he straightens himself and makes sure that the machine gun is balancing right. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Ok.” Vash follows closely behind him and deposits his bag into the carrier while Wolfwood buckles the Punisher on the backseat. “When is it my turn to get the backseat?” he asks just as Wolfwood reaches for his helmet.
“Until you can keep your hands to yourself.” Wolfwood would rather not remember what happened last time he let Vash hold onto his waist while they’re traveling 80 miles an hour—he was sure it was going to be the end for both of them that day. “Which will never happen,” he turns and adds.
Vash doesn’t protest anymore after that.
The sun hovers in the sky in a sort of eerie detachment as its light ignores the chill of the night. It’s the perfect temperature for departure, Wolfwood thinks, and finally looks back at the house. It doesn’t look any different from the outside, yet he keeps thinking that it looks lonely now with its residents gone. Vash tells him that he’s locked the door.
It won’t be long until they’re back. With that, Wolfwood looks away, steadies himself, and steers for the road.
There are roads cracking the smooth expanse of land on Gunsmoke, like soil losing its last bit of moisture under the relentless sun. Wolfwood had relied on maps at first when he first left the Eye of Michael, but now the way has printed itself on the inside of his brain.
These roads are of course not nicely paved like those inside of towns. The soil on them has been worn down to a brick-like texture from the various travelers who have passed through and is much easier on his wheels rather than the bumpy soil around, which is good enough for Wolfwood to stick by them.
The scenery is static around them, and even the wind pressure on their faces can be temporarily forgotten once they’re far enough out of the cities. Wolfwood turns to look at Vash, whose expression is hard to read behind the goggles that cover half of his face and the raised collar of his coat that shields the other half.
He has to be careful not to stare at the horizon for too long, that’s it. Wolfwood had fallen asleep once while he was riding for too many hours in a row and didn’t realize what had happened until he was pinned under the machinery, the gas tank crushing his legs.
Of course, he was fine after taking a vial. But he’d rather not crash, especially not with Vash who has surprisingly abysmal survival skills out in the desert.
Occasionally there are ghost towns scattered alongside these roads. They have a habit of stopping there for some shade and sharing rations under shelter so that they don’t lose even more stamina by loitering out under the sun. Wolfwood sees Vash’s head turn toward him, but he’s already steering them toward the specks of artificiality peeking above the sands.
The buildings are holding up surprisingly well. “Spikey,” he warns, even though the other man is already shifting into position, ready to defend themselves against any possible threat that may be lurking behind crumbling walls. Sometimes the inhabitants are hostile, and sometimes there are those who settle in ahead of time to ambush them.
They fan out as much as possible after Wolfwood kills the engine and hops off Angelina. She’ll have to sit out there for a while longer until they can find a secure shady spot for her, Wolfwood thinks with a split second of regret before focusing on the clusters of buildings ahead of them once more. Vash is deliberately making noise as he approaches to smoke out potential enemies and Wolfwood knows that his hand is firm on his handgun.
Wind howls in between gaps where windows should have been. Wolfwood watches as Vash pauses, then cracks a glass pane with his boots. The sound is loud enough to echo off the empty buildings and an even louder signal that someone is treading the streets. Wolfwood winces and holds his breath, a hand on the clasp of the Punisher.
No one shows up. Vash lets his right hand slip out of his coat pocket. “I thought I’d get to see you take it off again,” he says, pointing toward the gun on Wolfwood’s back.
“You’ve seen it a million times.” Wolfwood sighs, looking for somewhere to park Angelina while they eat a bit of something and maybe even take a nap. He’s tired after gripping the handlebars for hours. The sun is beating down from the highest point in the sky anyways; leaving now is too risky of heat exhaustion. “I just washed it too, remember? I’d like it to keep clean for a few days longer.”
“I’ll wash it for you.”
“Nah, it’s fine.” There’s a patch of shade behind the outermost building of the town. Wolfwood leans the Punisher against the wall and starts pushing Angelina over until both the carrier and the entire bike is covered by the shadow of the roof. He hesitates, but finally decides to bring the Punisher along just in case.
They decide to not go too deep into the city. Newly abandoned towns always make Wolfwood feel uneasy. Even though the paint on some buildings are starting to peel and some windows are smashed in, this place couldn’t have been empty for more than a few years. Vash seems to agree with him since he’s also surveying the buildings around, trying to locate one that they can use to take a break in.
Wolfwood enters what appears to be a lobby in a short building. Judging by the way that the register is placed and the chairs are scattered around, it would have been an inn when there were still people around. “This looks fine to me,” he calls out back to the street. The sunlight that reflects off the road is blinding once his eyes have adjusted to the shade. Wolfwood closes his eyes briefly and turns toward the inside of the building again. The blinds are drawn and still, meaning the windows are intact behind them. The cool humidity of the room weighs down on them, a comforting, soothing touch against the blistering sunlight outside.
“Ok.”
Wolfwood nearly jumps out of his skin. “At least make some noise when you walk,” he tells the voice behind him. He often forgets that Vash has the ability to walk extremely quietly even in his buckled shoes; he tried asking the other how he does it but never received a straight answer.
Vash is now removing a chair from its upside-down location on the table. As much as the tables are now left with squares of wood showing underneath the layer of dust, at least the chairs are good enough for them to sit in. He takes one off for Wolfwood as well. “Sorry.”
They sit, both of them choosing to keep an eye out on the doors. It’s only a few day’s time for them to get to the ship and they’re traveling light. Vash takes out a portion from his bag and passes it to Wolfwood, who eats in silence.
“How far is it until the next town?”
“Not bad. Five hours, tops.”
“This afternoon heat is a bit much, isn’t it?” Vash sighs, loosening the collar of his coat. “Do you want to rest for a bit?”
Wolfwood swallows. He can see dust floating up like flies behind Vash, where the sun lights them up. “In here?”
“The couch is covered.” Vash points toward the row of heavier chairs along the wall. Wolfwood squints; it does seem like the shapes of them are a bit unusually smooth. “If we lift it, the seat itself should be good enough.”
“Sure.” Wolfwood nods. “What about you?”
“I’m fine. I’ll keep watch if you’re worried.” Vash blinks. His eyes have a strange shine to them and Wolfwood watches them scan their surroundings like lasers. It used to bother him when he was just… well . Starting to share a room with Vash, but not anymore. Just like the many other peculiarities, he has simply accepted everything and labeled them all as “Vash the Stampede”.
Wolfwood finishes the last of his lunch and walks toward the couch he mentioned earlier. He was right; there is a piece of cloth covering it. He carefully picks up the hanging edge and folds it over, then one more time from left to right to take it off the couch.
The fabric has faded over time, or he’s just having trouble seeing in the transparent darkness. The edges of the cushions are slightly worn with threads poking out; Wolfwood runs his fingers over them, but they come back clean. He takes a tentative seat on the edge of the couch. The cushion sinks down easily beneath him and the softness comforts him more than he thought it would. Wolfwood shuffles toward one edge, gauging whether he has enough room to lay down.
Vash joins his side, this time taking the time to make the floorboards creak as he walks. “How is it looking?”
“Not bad.” Wolfwood yawns, swinging his legs over the armrest. It smells like dust and shade, but nothing he can’t stand for a little nap. Vash sits beside him—to his dismay. “What’re you doing? Get out of the way.”
Vash puts on a rather dramatic display of sadness and rejection. “Lay on my lap.”
Wolfwood turns to look at the buckles and belts on his thighs in silence. “Give me a good reason to.”
“No?”
“I’ll try,” mumbles Wolfwood as he lays back. The back of his head immediately lands on a metal square and he moves to the side with a frown. It takes him a while to find a spot on his lap that won’t put a buckle right through his skull, and he exhales, letting the rest of his body fall limp against the couch.
Vash is looking at him from above, most of his face hidden by the shadow save for his eyes that reflect like metal. “Sleep well,” he whispers.
Wolfwood closes his eyes.
To be Continued.