Summary: In his dreams, she is always happy, always smiling at him like she doesn't have a care in the world. But reality has other plans. [postmanga, romance and bromance rolled into one]
Trigun © Yasuhiro Nightow
This story follows the manga plotline and characterizations. It was inspired by a wonderful set of drabbles called On Marriage by alicorn9, who said all I wanted to say and more in just 200 words. You can read it on the Trigun Shots community on LiveJournal.
I – Fake Plastic Flowers
If he closed his eyes, he could pretend Wolfwood was there, across the table in some dingy bar, swearing under his breath because the barkeep waters the booze, and the stuff they serve there is too mild for his taste as it is. He could pretend, but the church bell rings every half hour, and the sound of a church bell always brings with it a strangled cry and the thump of a half-full whiskey bottle hitting the ground. So he doesn't pretend. Looking at Wolfwood's grave is easier than staring down the memory of his bloody, lifeless body on a couch that used to be just around the corner from where he's standing.
The orphanage looks much better now. The walls are bright yellow and decorated with chalk paintings of eight-legged cat-dog-birdthings, people with square heads and other ridiculously surreal imagery only kids can make sense of. The rubble was cleared up a long time ago, gone, along with the blood and the couch, as if nothing bad ever happened there. Wolfwood would be pleased.
Livio is at the orphanage, too, just like he is every year on this day (and probably on some other dates, as well). He comes out to greet Vash with the humble anxiety of a sinner, but otherwise stays well enough away. It's hard to tell whether he does it just to give Vash some privacy, or because he can't stand to look him in the eye, knowing what he took from him in this yard, five years ago to this day. Vash suspects the latter. He's had plenty of not-awkward drinks with Livio in places that weren't here, on dates that weren't remarkable in any way.
Auntie always leaves flowers – plastic ones, the real thing is still a commodity around these parts – and lights a candle. A white candle and pink carnations that look like they were made by someone who had never seen a carnation in his life. Vash brings the booze. There are many things that he'll never know about Wolfwood, but he does know for sure that he enjoyed a good whiskey. Wild Turkey. The best for the best, as the ads would say. He empties the bottle and tries not to think about the fact that Livio already looks about 55 and worse for wear.
There are notes on the grave, as well. Neatly folded notes with messages to Big Bro Nick. There used to be more of them. A mountain of them, four years ago. And the year before that, they fell from the sky like snow.
"They've just grown up, moved away. They still remember you."
At least Vash hopes they do. He knows for sure that Milly and Meryl do. That they would have liked to be here today, if he had the guts to tell them where he was going. To tell them he was going anywhere at all.
"You know, I think the Big Girl had a thing for you," he says. "She's married now, but she still mentions you from time to time. And she always has this sad look in her eyes when she does."
(Meryl tries not to mention Wolfwood in his presence. Or Knives, or Rem, or Legato, for that matter. Meryl is golden.)
If he closed his eyes, he could see the four of them drinking themselves stiff on the SEEDs ship. He could pretend that night never ended, because, as far as perfection goes on this planet, it was a perfect night in every way.
He could pretend. He's been doing that a lot lately.
The church bell starts ringing. Thump goes the whiskey bottle. Not the empty bottle he's holding. The half-full bottle that only exists in his head. He sighs and thinks to himself that it was probably a bad year to try and do this without the cushion of a good buzz. Maybe he shouldn't have treated Wolfwood to all of the Wild Turkey, after all. He sets the empty bottle on the ground. No thumping, thankyouverymuch.
"I'm in over my head, Wolfwood," he says, rubbing his eyes behind a pair of sunglasses that look nothing like the ones he'd sported for the better half of the last century. His hair is different, too, though not by much. It's jet black, but otherwise just as spiky as ever. He gave up on the idea of taming it when he realized the legend of Vash the Stampede, the legendary gunman, the destroyer of cities – and lately, the misunderstood freedom fighter – made it a fairly popular hairstyle across No Man's Land. Good for blending in with the crowd, ironically.
Besides, wearing it down makes him look like a teenager. Meryl is nearing thirty now. He can't very well allow himself to look like a teenager anymore.
"I don't think she's happy," he whispers into the wind. "Sometimes I think she'd be better off without me."
But, of course, she wouldn't. Not now. Maybe if he had just stayed the hell away five years ago and let her think he really was dead, she would have found a guy who'd prefer having living confidants over dead ones. But that's the thing about dead confidants. You can be damn sure your secrets are safe with them. You can be damn sure no one is going to get hurt when you admit you've walked into a relationship just because you were curious at the time, and now you can't walk out without breaking both her heart and your own and have the door hit you on the ass as you exit.
Vash chuckles, a vacant laugh to match the vacant surroundings.
"I could really use a stern talking to right about now," he says to the cross Punisher, half-expecting Wolfwood's arm to burst out of the ground and beat him over the head with the thing for being such a wuss. "Not many people call me an idiot and mean it these days."
There's no comment forthcoming, of course, but Vash always leaves room for one, just in case. He always expects to hear some words of wisdom carried on the wind, some cryptic advice he could decipher just in time to help him out of whatever pickle he's currently in. Alas, no such luck.
Dead confidants. They have their drawbacks, too.
He's been practicing holding the waterworks in. Wolfwood would be pleased about that, as well. Not once has he let Meryl see him cry since they've started dating. Coincidentally (or not), not once has he seen her cry, either. It's just that, sometimes, when he's alone and thinking about dead friends and living girlfriends and there's not a drop of hooch in sight to take the edge off...
"Wolfwood..."
They say practice makes perfect. He's not a pro just yet.
In his dreams, she is always happy, always smiling at him like she doesn't have a care in the world. Wearing a see-through chiffon dress that flutters in the breeze, she is eternally young, eternally perfect, eternally his. But when he wakes up to find that the pillow next to his own is suspiciously damp and vacant, he knows it's all as fake and plastic as the fake plastic flowers Auntie leaves on Wolfwood's grave.
It could fool you, but only if you've never seen the real thing.
Thought I'd try a different angle to the ever-popular Vash And Meryl Get Together bit and try to write something about the relationship a few years down the line that would make the actual getting together seem easy by comparison. As sweet as Vash is, there's no point denying that he's a deeply traumatized individual behind that Stepford smile of his, especially after all the crap the manga hurls at him. Life with someone like that can't possibly be easy. I've planned three chapters, but the way things are going, it's probably going to be closer to five. Over 5k words, in any case.
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