And he's already regretting coming into this conversation sober when Wolfwood starts crying. That's not a sight he'll ever get used to, and Vash sinks his teeth into his lip to stop himself from interrupting, from protesting, from doing everything he can to wipe that expression of Wolfwood's face. It doesn't belong there! Wolfwood should never look so... so sorry.
I spent so much time hating myself, Wolfwood says, and the teeth in his lip aren't enough. Vash presses a fist to his mouth, barely resisting the urge to sink his teeth into his hand, anything to not have to listen to this! He'd been hurt when Wolfwood left, sure! But this is too much. He didn't know that it was this much.
He nods a little when Wolfwood starts talking about the grave at the orphanage – yes, he knew about the plan to go see who was buried there. He'd meant to ask, when they all met up again, but then Vash was so distressed about the broadcast from Rem, and he wasn't about to put that hurt on top of everything else the man was going through. Was it him? Was it the other Vash's Wolfwood?
A sick relief floods through him when Wolfwood confirms that no, it wasn't Nico. Nico. That's a nice name. That sounds like a name that a friend would use. He'll have to find someway to help Vash, he thinks, either in his search for Nico or with distractions to take his mind off the loss. Losing Nico and not knowing where he is, if he's alive or dead? That's horrible.
Almost as horrible as the expression on Wolfwood's face. I desecrated his grave, and Vash is grateful that there's no lemonade in his stomach or else he really might be sick.
Wolfwood's staring at the door like he's waiting for Vash to come back and spare him from this conversation, staring at Vash like he expects to be struck down for his sins, and Vash's body moves before he can think. He drops to his knees in front of Wolfwood, where he's hunched over on that little chair, and takes the other man's hand in his own.
“You didn't desecrate his grave.” No, he wasn't there, but he knows you, Nicholas D Wolfwood. That body in December wasn't taken apart, or harmed, or ridiculed in any way. He's sure of it. “You had to know who was in it. Vash had to know.” And if they did anything other than put the grave back perfectly the way they'd found it, he'd eat his entire coat. Oh, he would have given anything for them to have found their answer another way, but he's grateful beyond words for the portal that took him away before he could convince himself he needed to go with them. Digging up a friend's grave – digging up your own grave! He can't imagine it. He doesn't want to imagine it.
“The dead are dead. I don't think they care much what happens to their bodies. That grave was for him.” No, not Wolfwood. The other him. “Me.” Or it would have been him, anyway, if he'd had the chance. “The Vash in Mesa Probe.” The Vash who didn't get to skip to the end of the story, but living right through every step – Wolfwood's death, the fight with Knives, possibly the loss of his brother soon.
Their sisters should have brought him here sooner, when he could have done something to help that poor man.
“He didn't bury his friend because that's what his friend wanted.” They'd never talked about burials, or wakes, or any of what would come after. Maybe they should have, but if they didn't talk about it, they could keep pretending it wouldn't happen. It was like a magic spell, keeping them both alive, until it didn't work anymore.
“He buried his friend because he loved him. Because he couldn't bear to keep looking at him, waiting for him to get up.” His voice cracks halfway through that last bit and oh, there are the tears. He was wondering how long he'd have before they showed up. A shuddering breath, and a tight clench of his jaw chase them away for the moment, but who knows for how long. “He would understand why you did what you did, what you had to do.” No, it would be more than understanding, wouldn't it? Wolfwood would need more than understanding. He wasn't crying here because he'd been misunderstood.
He reaches up, slowly enough that Wolfwood can pull back of the touch isn't wanted, to lay his hand on Wolfwood's cheek. “He'd forgive you.”
Vash remembers every bullet hole, every cut, every smear of blood on this man's body as they'd sat on that couch. Fragments of another's memories surface, arms that aren't his holding a body that wasn't this body, washing blood of a face that wasn't this face. Another pain he'd been spared, another journey he'd never finish. “I'd forgive you.”
His Wolfwood is rotting on a couch somewhere, while his brother cuts the last of the Earth ships out of the sky. His Wolfwood is dead, his friends are dead, his world is dead. He's heard the reports, seen the damage first hand, talked to the plants in Octovern, and what he's learned is that, if Vash hadn't been there, Knives would have succeeded. Without a Vash, the world would have burned.
And wouldn't it be a blessing if this really were his Wolfwood? If somehow he'd been plucked off that couch just a few minutes earlier, resurrected somehow? He wouldn't dare wish for something so selfish, but if it just happened? If he was granted this one thing?
Throat tight, Vash sits back on his heels and shakes his head, his smile at odds with the rest of his miserable expression. His hand falls back to join the other, still holding Wolfwood's, if Wolfwood allows it. Kneeling at Wolfwood's feet in penance feels appropriate, right now. Because Wolfwood's right – they had been talking, that day, like they'd been from the same world. Like they hadn't both lost everything, like there was one miracle that was only for them.
This Wolfwood's alive. That's miracle enough.
“I'm not him.” And oh gods, how much he wishes that he was. “I didn't get a chance to bury you. Him. But he was dead.” There's no question about that. He knows exactly how long a human body can go without a heartbeat, without breath, even a body as strong as Wolfwood's... and he counted those seconds, after. There were too many seconds. “I'm sorry.”
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And he's already regretting coming into this conversation sober when Wolfwood starts crying. That's not a sight he'll ever get used to, and Vash sinks his teeth into his lip to stop himself from interrupting, from protesting, from doing everything he can to wipe that expression of Wolfwood's face. It doesn't belong there! Wolfwood should never look so... so sorry.
I spent so much time hating myself, Wolfwood says, and the teeth in his lip aren't enough. Vash presses a fist to his mouth, barely resisting the urge to sink his teeth into his hand, anything to not have to listen to this! He'd been hurt when Wolfwood left, sure! But this is too much. He didn't know that it was this much.
He nods a little when Wolfwood starts talking about the grave at the orphanage – yes, he knew about the plan to go see who was buried there. He'd meant to ask, when they all met up again, but then Vash was so distressed about the broadcast from Rem, and he wasn't about to put that hurt on top of everything else the man was going through. Was it him? Was it the other Vash's Wolfwood?
A sick relief floods through him when Wolfwood confirms that no, it wasn't Nico. Nico. That's a nice name. That sounds like a name that a friend would use. He'll have to find someway to help Vash, he thinks, either in his search for Nico or with distractions to take his mind off the loss. Losing Nico and not knowing where he is, if he's alive or dead? That's horrible.
Almost as horrible as the expression on Wolfwood's face. I desecrated his grave, and Vash is grateful that there's no lemonade in his stomach or else he really might be sick.
Wolfwood's staring at the door like he's waiting for Vash to come back and spare him from this conversation, staring at Vash like he expects to be struck down for his sins, and Vash's body moves before he can think. He drops to his knees in front of Wolfwood, where he's hunched over on that little chair, and takes the other man's hand in his own.
“You didn't desecrate his grave.” No, he wasn't there, but he knows you, Nicholas D Wolfwood. That body in December wasn't taken apart, or harmed, or ridiculed in any way. He's sure of it. “You had to know who was in it. Vash had to know.” And if they did anything other than put the grave back perfectly the way they'd found it, he'd eat his entire coat. Oh, he would have given anything for them to have found their answer another way, but he's grateful beyond words for the portal that took him away before he could convince himself he needed to go with them. Digging up a friend's grave – digging up your own grave! He can't imagine it. He doesn't want to imagine it.
“The dead are dead. I don't think they care much what happens to their bodies. That grave was for him.” No, not Wolfwood. The other him. “Me.” Or it would have been him, anyway, if he'd had the chance. “The Vash in Mesa Probe.” The Vash who didn't get to skip to the end of the story, but living right through every step – Wolfwood's death, the fight with Knives, possibly the loss of his brother soon.
Their sisters should have brought him here sooner, when he could have done something to help that poor man.
“He didn't bury his friend because that's what his friend wanted.” They'd never talked about burials, or wakes, or any of what would come after. Maybe they should have, but if they didn't talk about it, they could keep pretending it wouldn't happen. It was like a magic spell, keeping them both alive, until it didn't work anymore.
“He buried his friend because he loved him. Because he couldn't bear to keep looking at him, waiting for him to get up.” His voice cracks halfway through that last bit and oh, there are the tears. He was wondering how long he'd have before they showed up. A shuddering breath, and a tight clench of his jaw chase them away for the moment, but who knows for how long. “He would understand why you did what you did, what you had to do.” No, it would be more than understanding, wouldn't it? Wolfwood would need more than understanding. He wasn't crying here because he'd been misunderstood.
He reaches up, slowly enough that Wolfwood can pull back of the touch isn't wanted, to lay his hand on Wolfwood's cheek. “He'd forgive you.”
Vash remembers every bullet hole, every cut, every smear of blood on this man's body as they'd sat on that couch. Fragments of another's memories surface, arms that aren't his holding a body that wasn't this body, washing blood of a face that wasn't this face. Another pain he'd been spared, another journey he'd never finish. “I'd forgive you.”
His Wolfwood is rotting on a couch somewhere, while his brother cuts the last of the Earth ships out of the sky. His Wolfwood is dead, his friends are dead, his world is dead. He's heard the reports, seen the damage first hand, talked to the plants in Octovern, and what he's learned is that, if Vash hadn't been there, Knives would have succeeded. Without a Vash, the world would have burned.
And wouldn't it be a blessing if this really were his Wolfwood? If somehow he'd been plucked off that couch just a few minutes earlier, resurrected somehow? He wouldn't dare wish for something so selfish, but if it just happened? If he was granted this one thing?
Throat tight, Vash sits back on his heels and shakes his head, his smile at odds with the rest of his miserable expression. His hand falls back to join the other, still holding Wolfwood's, if Wolfwood allows it. Kneeling at Wolfwood's feet in penance feels appropriate, right now. Because Wolfwood's right – they had been talking, that day, like they'd been from the same world. Like they hadn't both lost everything, like there was one miracle that was only for them.
This Wolfwood's alive. That's miracle enough.
“I'm not him.” And oh gods, how much he wishes that he was. “I didn't get a chance to bury you. Him. But he was dead.” There's no question about that. He knows exactly how long a human body can go without a heartbeat, without breath, even a body as strong as Wolfwood's... and he counted those seconds, after. There were too many seconds. “I'm sorry.”