He doesn't send gratitude back along their connection, but it flows from him nontheless. It's clear, too, in his half smile, the nod of his head – it's not right to ask anything more of this Vash, but they're a resiliant bunch, and perhaps having Wolfwood here to watch over will help Vash put away his own grief and worries for awhile. It's not healthy, but it works, so who's to say what's right?
And then Wolfwood...
He didn't expect that Wolfwood would make his leavetaking easy, but instead of tears, there's anger. The anger's a relief, honestly – tears on Wolfwood just don't sit right. The man was made for big broad feelings, laughter, and protective fury. Not sorrow. Sorrow's too heavy, even for someone as strong as Wolfwood. Vash would rather a thousand accusing glares be thrown his way than to have to endure a single tear. He knows how to respnd to anger! Tears on that strong face just hurt too much.
So his gentle, thankful smile hardens into a comfortable scowl as Wolfwood snaps at him to be happy, to go be with his family, as though the two standing here with him aren't every bit as much his family as the children back in July. As though happiness is something he can go and claim for himself – as though it's something he deserves to claim for himself – instead of finding it in brief golden moments. A smile at the edge of a dust storm. An offkey song, sung at the top of his lungs with a bar full of blurry new friends. The taste of something sweet after weeks of dry hard rations. Waking up before dawn to the fresh emptiness of the desert and the quiet snores from the next bedroll.
Wolfwood drops into the chair, and reaches for his vials, and for a moment Vash's heart stops, holding his breath as he tracks the hand in Wolfwood's pocket with poorly concealed horror. But it's just a cigar, because Wolfwood's right. There's no fighting anymore, no running, no danger. No adventure. The world is saved, the enemy defeated, and there's nothing left but the closing credits and a happily ever after. It's funny, isn't it, how so many great heroic stories all end that way? And then they were happy, like it's that easy. Like everything that had happened can just be put aside, swapped out for farming, or, what, working in a shop. Raising children. Simple, peaceful duties, one day the same as the next, nothing left of the journey but the nightmares and the scars.
But that's fiction. After a hundred and fifty years, how's he supposed to stop moving? How's he supposed to wake up in the same place every day, do the same things, live quietly? How's he supposed to be happy with the trail of dead he's left behind? His world is cinders by now. His family is living at the edge of a mass grave that he's responsible for. Even the promises he's made to the little ones, to watch over their upbringing and make sure they have everything he and his brother didn't, aren't as important as he's pretending they are. There's other Vashes here – there's so many of him! There's Knives, and Rem. He's not needed.
Really, things would be simpler for everyone if he just disappeared, he thinks, and swallows hard against the thought. He can't think like that, not ever. He isn't allowed to think like that.
He has to keep going. Until one of their sisters' portals vanishes him entirely, or until a stray bullet cuts his story short, he can't give up. He doesn't get to stop. So for Nai, and little Vash, he'll return to July. For this Vash here, he'll talk to her about moving, so the rest of his family can visit with a little less grief in their hearts. For Wolfwood, he'll be a destination, a shelter at the end of the road. He'll be happiness for others, and really, what better use of his life could there be?
His Wolfwood is dead, but this one's alive, and looking for connection, so he'll be that connection. He wouldn't want you to suffer, Wolfwood says, and before he can say any more Vash closes the distance between them, catching Wolfwood's flapping jaw with one hand and roughly sealing their mouths together. The kiss pulls the smoke from Wolfwood's lungs and it sears through Vash's chest, hot and poisonous. He could get used to that taste.
Wolfwood wants him happy? Fine. Survive and come back to July. He'll be waiting.
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And then Wolfwood...
He didn't expect that Wolfwood would make his leavetaking easy, but instead of tears, there's anger. The anger's a relief, honestly – tears on Wolfwood just don't sit right. The man was made for big broad feelings, laughter, and protective fury. Not sorrow. Sorrow's too heavy, even for someone as strong as Wolfwood. Vash would rather a thousand accusing glares be thrown his way than to have to endure a single tear. He knows how to respnd to anger! Tears on that strong face just hurt too much.
So his gentle, thankful smile hardens into a comfortable scowl as Wolfwood snaps at him to be happy, to go be with his family, as though the two standing here with him aren't every bit as much his family as the children back in July. As though happiness is something he can go and claim for himself – as though it's something he deserves to claim for himself – instead of finding it in brief golden moments. A smile at the edge of a dust storm. An offkey song, sung at the top of his lungs with a bar full of blurry new friends. The taste of something sweet after weeks of dry hard rations. Waking up before dawn to the fresh emptiness of the desert and the quiet snores from the next bedroll.
Wolfwood drops into the chair, and reaches for his vials, and for a moment Vash's heart stops, holding his breath as he tracks the hand in Wolfwood's pocket with poorly concealed horror. But it's just a cigar, because Wolfwood's right. There's no fighting anymore, no running, no danger. No adventure. The world is saved, the enemy defeated, and there's nothing left but the closing credits and a happily ever after. It's funny, isn't it, how so many great heroic stories all end that way? And then they were happy, like it's that easy. Like everything that had happened can just be put aside, swapped out for farming, or, what, working in a shop. Raising children. Simple, peaceful duties, one day the same as the next, nothing left of the journey but the nightmares and the scars.
But that's fiction. After a hundred and fifty years, how's he supposed to stop moving? How's he supposed to wake up in the same place every day, do the same things, live quietly? How's he supposed to be happy with the trail of dead he's left behind? His world is cinders by now. His family is living at the edge of a mass grave that he's responsible for. Even the promises he's made to the little ones, to watch over their upbringing and make sure they have everything he and his brother didn't, aren't as important as he's pretending they are. There's other Vashes here – there's so many of him! There's Knives, and Rem. He's not needed.
Really, things would be simpler for everyone if he just disappeared, he thinks, and swallows hard against the thought. He can't think like that, not ever. He isn't allowed to think like that.
He has to keep going. Until one of their sisters' portals vanishes him entirely, or until a stray bullet cuts his story short, he can't give up. He doesn't get to stop. So for Nai, and little Vash, he'll return to July. For this Vash here, he'll talk to her about moving, so the rest of his family can visit with a little less grief in their hearts. For Wolfwood, he'll be a destination, a shelter at the end of the road. He'll be happiness for others, and really, what better use of his life could there be?
His Wolfwood is dead, but this one's alive, and looking for connection, so he'll be that connection. He wouldn't want you to suffer, Wolfwood says, and before he can say any more Vash closes the distance between them, catching Wolfwood's flapping jaw with one hand and roughly sealing their mouths together. The kiss pulls the smoke from Wolfwood's lungs and it sears through Vash's chest, hot and poisonous. He could get used to that taste.
Wolfwood wants him happy? Fine. Survive and come back to July. He'll be waiting.