mercifullyheavy: (Drunk And Angsty)
Nicholas D Wolfwood ([personal profile] mercifullyheavy) wrote in [community profile] nomans_land 2023-08-09 12:16 am (UTC)

There was something about the feeling of his fingers combing through his hair that was strangely electric, tingling as if he could feel every single hair on top of his head being brushed through and soothed, narrowing his focus down to that point of contact and helping pull his attention away from the raw, bone-deep pain roaring through his mind. For a while, he simply melted into it, letting himself be comforted and held. It was nice enough that, even when he did in fact feel his face screw itself into a little frown in preparation of protesting that he did not deserve, he had settled down to more of that calm facade he had always carried himself with before.

And oh, he remembered the flash of love that had been directed at him, but it had been tainted by the shame of realizing that Vash had known he'd come so close to trying to kill him, a mistake he'd carried guilt for ever since he'd very nearly shot him up on that roof. The love had been so incongruous with those actions, how could he possibly love him, knowing that? After he'd personally hand-delivered him to Knives so that he could be held and tortured for months. It had to have been a mistake.

It had taken the state of that grave to finally drive home that it had been real, regardless of whether he felt worthy of it at all. So at the very least, he was able to accept that despite everything else, Vash did care, and it was one of the few things that helped those fingers in his hair keep him soothed, despite feeling like Vash's insistence that he "deserved" anything may not have been a lie, but it was severely unearned.

But then the words he was actually saying began to sink in, and while they were innocuous enough on the surface, something inside of him could feel the way they skirted around something. Dodged around something that was being left unsaid. Understanding crept in slowly, in fits and starts, so that at first he almost seemed not to respond. But it came eventually, and when the full weight of what he was saying sank in, Nicholas' body went cold.

He wasn't saying he would be there, reassuring him that he wouldn't be lonely because he was there. He was talking as if he wouldn't be there at all. They weren't going to travel together again. He was leaving; or more precisely, he was finally staying put, finally had a home, and the expectation was that Wolfwood would not be there.

Because he couldn't be. He'd hurt the kid. For a second, his mind flickered back to the question he'd begged of Blondie back in December, about how to make it right, and his reassurances that they might have been out of synch with each other because of the things he'd done, but it would still be alright so long as he tried, and for a brief moment, a short, bitter, almost hysterical laugh erupted out of him. It had already been too late, even then. He couldn't make it right. Everything he'd done, the killing, the betrayal, almost getting himself killed and making Vash suffer the trauma of losing him, and the thing that hammered the final nail in that proverbial coffin was one moment of mindless aggression made in a state of shock.

He hadn't even pulled the trigger, but the damage had already been done, and there was no coming back from that.

He didn't break down again when realization hit him. On the contrary; he seemed to go still, his rocking slowing and his back straightening until he could pull away just enough that he wasn't crowding against him. But he couldn't look at him, and his face was absolutely pale, his expression somehow both calm and absolutely devastated at the same time, brow pinched and eyes wide but his mouth relaxed. And he just gave a small nod, a jerky, infinitesimal motion that barely carried through into reality. He could feel himself sinking into that floaty feeling, again, the one that had come as they'd walked to the orphanage and he'd mentally prepared himself for what he was about to do, and already, his mind was wrapping itself around the reality of what was happening and working to make sense of it all.

This...this was how it should have been, wasn't it? They were family. Vash had to look out for them, and Nai was so young and had so much potential to fall so far if they weren't careful. He didn't belong with a family, that wasn't his lot in life, never had been, and he'd already done more harm than good before they had even had a chance to settle.

He was just a contract killer, sent to lead this man to his death, who had let himself get attached, let Vash think he was worth caring about to begin with.

He still had people to find, anyway. Nico, the partner of the man buried at December. The kid they'd found in the desert. Maybe helping them find their way home to their family was his penance. Make up for what he did by helping them find their family.

And besides; he wasn't going to live very long, anyway. He'd always known that. At least this way, he wouldn't hurt Vash all over again, making him watch him die in a decade, maybe two at the most.

He didn't seem to notice the way his hands were shaking as they slowely let him go, even as the act made a soft little gasp catch in his throat, the lost of the contact feeling physically painful with the thought that it might be the last time. Instead, they came to rest in the material of the front of his coat, mindlessly rubbing it between his fingers as if memorizing the texture, the color of it, the shape of the closures that held it on.

"I-...I'm sorry I hurt 'im. I-..." The sentence died on his lips. Never meant to hurt him would be a lie. There had been a moment when it would have been so easy, and he'd almost done it. And he didn't know, now, how he was going to deal with the guilt of that. But..."I hope he's alright. I know it...probably won't make any difference, but...tell 'im I'm sorry. I really am."

And it was the truth. Knowing what he did, now, about the things that the two of them had been through at such a young age, and remembering what had happened to Livio and the man it had shaped him into, he didn't blame the kid. He hadn't done the things Millions Knives had done. There was still hope for him. They could help him be better. He didn't have to go down the same path. But Nicholas' actions had certainly not helped him learn that not every human was a bloodthirsty monster.

"I really am sorry, Vash. About...about everything. Everything. I made so many mistakes. You...you were right about me." He is a coward. "I'm sorry I couldn't be better. You deserve better." Inside, his mind was screaming, crying out and begging; please stay, please, please just today! But his voice was soft, level and calm, if not strained. He couldn't ask that of him. He'd already hurt him enough. He tried to glance up at him, but his eyes never quite reached his face, darting away to the far corner of the room. Tears had begun rolling down his face again, but at least he wasn't a ridiculous, sobbing mess, making a fool of himself and making it all harder on Vash.

The thought made his face pinch into a strange little frown, though, and he seemed to come out of the stunned stupor just a bit, glancing back around the room and looking back towards the door with another soft little gasp.

"We need to let Blondie know. I-...I don't wanna just disappear on 'im. When 'e comes back, I guess. He'll worry if I don't go with you and just leave without explainin'."

And it all sounded so reasonable, so why did he suddenly feel like he couldn't breathe, as if the realization that he would be saying good bye to the both of them had suddenly punched him in the chest and his lungs had locked up. His hands clutched tightly into the red fabric of his coat as he began to slowly crumble all over again. Oh God. Oh God, they were leaving, he was going to be on his own, and he'd never see them again! He should be happy for them, they had their family again, but all he could think about was how much he wanted them to stay!

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