A/N: Okay, I'm dedicating this one to my very good fandom friend and fellow author Kelpie the Thundergod, as a thank you for being my W/V muse and for all the wonderful Trigun stories she's written over the past couple of years. (And if you haven't checked out her fics, what the heck are you doing here? Go, go! 8D) The prose in this story has been heavily influenced by her own writing style, although I can't say that I measure up to her unique brand of poetry. I've tried my best, though!
A confession: this is really nothing more than a slashy rewrite of "that" scene in Volume 8 of Trigun Maximum – the escape from the Ark, and the moment where I really became a believer in the Volkswagen pairing – but I felt it was kind of worth writing because, well, this is how I always wanted things to play out. I guess you could think of it as an AU version that logically concludes with Wolfwood confessing his duplicity to Vash (and, uh, his romantic feels) and the two heading off to protect the orphanage together (resulting in a very not-dead Wolfwood, hehe). So yes, pure fangirl indulgence here, but hey, I think I'm allowed to be ridiculous once in a while. 8D
The title (as well as the interspersed lyrics) are taken from the song "Titanium" by David Guetta.
Titanium
The world is black.
You don't know why that's so or how you came to be here. Sometimes you aren't even sure who you are. If you had to resort to the use of a metaphor, you would say that your memories seem to be floating down an eternal black river, being carried farther and farther away from you all the time. Once in a while, on good days (and by "days" you actually mean "stretches of time" – you have no way of judging whether or not a day has actually passed), the black river will reverse, and a few precious memories will trickle to the fore. But for the vast majority of your miserable existence, you have been robbed of the memory of the life you led before you sank into blackness.
You are aware of a few other things. The first is that you cannot open your eyes at all (or move any other part of your body), though it seems that you should have enough strength at least for that. The second is that you often behold images – people, places – in your mind's eye without being able to attach a meaning to them. You know that they must represent true memories of your past life, but the recollection of them feels so much more like dreaming: blurred and inconsequential. An image of two women occasionally flits across your closed eyelids, and an instinctive fondness wells within your heart: followed by guilt and despair, because you can't remember who they are. Hundreds of other faces follow them, to similar (and eternally pathetic) effect.
You're thinly aware of your own breath, each one torn from a ragged pair of lungs; of your atrophying muscles lying heavily on the ground, as though pinned there. Probably you're lying in your own waste, but you don't know. You can neither see, hear, nor smell.
Or – to put the point more finely – you can hear, but nothing from the outside world. No, the only notes that manage to play upon your conscious awareness are those that end and begin in the slave's voice.
Vigilance... vigilance.
You try to remind yourself.
But even that mantra can't protect you from the slave, whose voice persists in your mind, sinuously penetrates all of your mental barriers. He reminds you (not for the first time, nor the second, nor the hundredth) that you are a dangerous creature, a creature that has ended the lives of millions. Moreover, your sins of omission far outweigh your direct iniquities. After all, he is gutting far more cities as we speak...
This black world is where you belong.
How long has it been? How many months have passed since you were able to move a finger of your own volition, open your eyes and glimpse into the blue emptiness of a sunlit sky?
Ha. Maybe the suns don't even exist. Perhaps they're only the invention of a fevered mind, a mind that continues to unravel like a loose thread in the complete absence of light.
And all the while, the slave speaks.
Sometimes you believe the words that are coming out of his (mind) mouth. Sometimes you don't. When you do, you just retreat further into the darkness and pray for death. And even when you hold fast against his words – although you can't imagine why you do – there are other ways to break you.
Sometimes it's not the slave, but your brother that speaks.
That man was always in my employ, you know. There was never a moment when he didn't act directly on my orders. And he gave you up to me. As Judas betrayed Christ, as Rem betrayed Tessla – that man betrayed you.
That man. He keeps saying that, but you know exactly who that man is. It's the one name you cling to after all these months of imprisonment, as desperate to preserve it in your memory as if it was your own name.
Oh, Vash. You are so foolish. Did you really believe that one of them could ever love you? When they treat our siblings as less than the dirt that they themselves are?
It doesn't matter. Even as the tears – the tears that even the slave could not elicit with his cruelty, because despair is different from sorrow – fall to the floor, you decide that it doesn't matter. Even if he didn't feel the way you did, even if he saw you as nothing more than a means to an end, you knew he had his reasons.
You won't blame Nicholas.
You must have known all along. You just didn't want to face it. You call me blind, but you're the one who clung to a hopeless lovelorn fantasy all this time. Pathetic.
Yes. I did. The first and last words you ever say to him.
There were many times Nicholas raised his gun to shoot you while your back was turned. Many times when he ultimately chose to stay his hand – because he believed you could stop your brother. Not because he harbored any kind of feelings towards you.
And God help you, you let him.
You suck in a labored breath.
Knives doesn't say anything more.
He doesn't have to.
You shout it out
But I can't hear a word you say
I'm talking loud, not saying much
Silence. The void. And then –
An explosion that rattles the teeth in your skull. In a rush of sensation, you find yourself regaining your formerly lost senses as the connection between the slave and yourself is broken. The exposure, once again, to sight and sound and smell and touch is so sudden and alien that you could almost say it's like you're being reborn into the world. The stench of the prison that hits you is incredible (no surprise there), but what does surprise you is when you see the scars covering your emaciated frame, as well as the stump that serves as your left arm. Your memory tries to fill in the blanks, but it is very slow going.
Next, you squint into the dappled light filtering down through a grate positioned above your head. The sight is dismal, yet lovely in its simplicity. You don't have time to marvel, however, for in the very next moment you hear someone call out:
"Spikey... can you hear me?"
You don't say anything. For one thing, you don't know who "Spikey" is; and for another, your voice has been in a state of disuse for so long now that you don't think you're up to the task of speaking. Inside your head, the slave is howling with fury; but in the outside world, silence reigns.
"I'm telling you now, this could get pretty loud," the voice continues. It's rough and cynical and somehow the most beautiful thing you've ever heard. "So cover your ears."
You bark laughter. There's no part of your body you can move. Cover your ears is kind of a tall order.
Another explosion! – this time, much smaller and more localized. A sheet of metal goes flying over the grate: apparently a door was blown off its hinges. The face of the slave suddenly comes into full view, blocking what thin light remains, his face twisted into an inhuman scowl. He means to keep you here until the end. The fact that there is an end in sight sends renewed strength into your soul. It's not a complete recovery, but it's something. The very next moment, a gun is placed against the slave's head, the hammer cocking back like an audible punctuation mark.
"It's been a while," the slave says mildly; but all the while he is inwardly shrieking, the sound tearing up and down one side of your skull. "Do you have business with me?"
"As a matter of fact I do," the voice of your savior – and presumably, the handler of the gun – responds gruffly. "You've reached your limit, haven't ya?" He doesn't give the slave a chance to reply. "Rest in peace, you sick bastard."
And you think oh god, it's a trap, and cursing yourself for your own uselessness, you try to warn the man; in doing so, you use the one name that springs from your troubled memory.
"Nicholas," you croak, desperately. "He..."
In a flash, the gun's position reverses. You can't see the other man but you know that the barrel of the weapon is now being held against his own temple. A sneer curves the slave's features; his mental foothold may be rapidly weakening, but his will is far from broken.
"Treason is such a foolish thing," Legato Bluesummers murmurs in low, triumphant tones. "You bore me. The least you can do is die quickly."
I'm criticized, but all your bullets ricochet
You shoot me down, but I get up
You don't know if you'll be able to be move – only that you have to.
Your arm flies up to seize the grate.
Hissing, Legato turns his attention to you to reassert his psychic control. This gives the other man just enough time to change the direction of the gun's barrel towards his chest rather than his head; and as the bullet fires, spraying blood everywhere, you can hear him grunt with pain. The sound makes something inside you break a little. However...
"You – traitorous – !" Legato bellows with rage as the man whips the gun back in his direction. No longer able to hold sway over two minds at once, he once again releases his hold on you to address the actions of his attacker. The man's shots fire wild as a result, landing harmlessly in the armored shell that encases the slave. In desperation, you use your moment of freedom to wrench the grate free and strike Legato in the head with it. Despite your fleeting strength, he howls with pain; and the distraction is good enough that your rescuer can finally get in a decent shot. Legato crashes to the floor, not dead, but wounded and nearly unconscious – and that's good enough for the man, who quickly seizes you by the arm and pulls you up and out of the dungeon.
"Thanks for helping me with that freak," the man says to you, and you turn to look at him for the first time.
The final puzzle piece falls neatly into place as you stare into his face. Your memory is offered up to you, whole and undamaged, like a gift the man has been carrying for you until now. You remember that this is Wolfwood, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, and you remember Millie and Meryl and Rem and Luida and Brad and the people of July and hundreds – hundreds – of others, and you remember what it is that you have to do.
I'm bulletproof, nothing to lose
Fire away, fire away
Ricochet, you take your aim
Fire away, fire away
"Spikey."
His relief is so palpable. Like something you could reach out and touch. He notes the unhealthy redness of your eyes – born from grief and a lack of sleep – and the frailty of your body, but he doesn't berate you for it. Apparently ignoring the terrible wounds he's sustained, he takes a step towards you, opening his arms as if ready to embrace you.
"Sorry it took me so goddamn long."
You slink forward and start to take a few steps of your own, like you plan to walk out of there with him; but instead you fall into the circle of his arms, and for a while the world is dark again.
You shoot me down, but I won't fall
I am titanium
You shoot me down, but I won't fall
I am titanium
Nicholas D. Wolfwood hauls ass out of the prison and into the Ark's main hallways. He's been here enough times that he ought to have the place figured out by now, but certain areas still remain a mystery to him – most notably, where the unguarded exits might be. And that's to say nothing of the setbacks he's encountered not even ten minutes into the mission; by his estimation, Legato should have been far weaker than he actually was when he accosted him. Despite his abnormally high tolerance for pain, the priest's heart throbs as though it's being slowly shredded to bits by a sadist with a chainsaw. Christ. This was the worst time to improvise an escape from the Ark.
The Ark. A place to gather animals together if ever there was one; but rather than being turned to some noble, God-given purpose, it's just a hutch to entrap all the same wretched slaves: plants and people alike. And it's all the work of that sick fuck, Millions Knives.
Damn me for ever taking his orders. Damn him for making me!
He's got one hand steadying Vash's body on his shoulder and the other gripped around the handle of the Cross Punisher. He's bleeding out, he knows that, but he's just gonna have to trust that his body will be able to hold together until he can take one of his vials. Vash has lost a hell of a lot of weight though, and as much as he hates to admit it, that does make things a little easier.
He's had a lot of time to think about Vash, while he's on the subject. Time enough to realize what he wants to do. At first his assignment (and that's all he was then, an assignment) irritated the everloving shit out of him. Not only was he a monster like Knives, a monster that needed to be put down, he regularly deluded himself into thinking that he was some kind of saint that could save the lives of everyone. But that just wasn't possible. Only someone as old and experienced as Vash could live in such an idealistic dream world. Other people just didn't have that luxury.
But then Wolfwood saw just how committed Vash was to his cause, that it couldn't be reduced to a matter of ego. Hell, the proof of it was all over his body. Vash truly believed that people could change, could be dissuaded from their evil ways, and he would voluntarily put himself in harm's way to give them that second chance. That was when Wolfwood began to realize just how truly disgusting he himself was. For so long he had resigned himself to a sinner's death, but Vash had awakened a spark in him. Even as his guilt began to accrue, he still continued to keep Vash in the dark about the Gung-Ho Guns and the Eye of Michael. He still continued to murder. All to keep his children safe, yes, but... was there really no other way?
And yet, time and time again, Vash forgave him. He believed that Wolfwood could be something better. Even though he must have known since Karsted that Wolfwood had ulterior motives, he would still smile at him at every day. Wolfwood realized that he loved his smile; he wished so much that he could do better, be better, if only to claim that smile for himself – to make it his, and his alone. And that realization made him...
It made him want to live again.
But more than that, it made him realize that he was most likely going to die, and he was okay with that. So long as it meant that Vash got to live.
Because – damn it all – he really did love that ancient, donut-scarfing, stubborn, childish, dangerous, hopeless doofus.
The rest of it will be up to you, Tongari. Just please make sure my kids will be okay...
And so (even though it really was his worst escape plan; God, you'd think he was cribbing from Vash's playbook or something), he faces off against each obstacle as it confronts him: the appearance of Crybaby Livio (none of this "Livio the Double Fang" nonsense; the boy needs some sense slapped into him in a big way) and old man Chapel, the ensuing gunfight –
Being shot so many fucking times that he's just about ready to cough up his spleen.
It's all over.
He's separated from both Vash and the Punisher, reduced to writhing on the floor like a pinned insect, one hand flung over his abdomen to protect the entrails that threaten to spill out of the gash that Elendira the Crimsonnail just happened to come along and deliver in the eleventh hour. The damage is so pronounced that no one tries to stop him when he attempts to rise – still – only managing to get on his knees with an enormous effort. He's completely surrounded on all sides.
But fear – true fear – doesn't pierce his mask of grim rebellion until the boss himself decides to drop in on the scene of slaughter.
Knives makes his displeasure known the best (and only) way he knows how: he makes his blades manifest. It's the one instance where the name "Millions Knives" becomes literal: the walls, ceiling, and floor of the chamber cave in as rows upon rows of the things begin to slowly coalesce, slicing through the metal panels with absurd, horrific ease. In fact, Knives himself is nowhere to be seen; so godlike is the power that he has amassed now. Instead the air becomes heavy and oppressive with his presence, which looms everywhere like a vengeful specter. All it will take is one decisive move from him, and Wolfwood will be reduced to a pile of bloody cubes of meat.
One of the blades, shaped most suggestively like a woodsman's axe, rises from the floor with blinding speed and snaps to a stop just underneath the priest's chin, resting comfortably on a vein in his neck.
Wolfwood cries out to God as he never had since childhood (which for him ended five years ago and counting): please, help me, we were so close, is this how things must end for a murderer like me, that I couldn't even do something good for someone else when it really mattered?
Is it impossible... to be forgiven?
Cut me down
But it's you who'll have further to fall
Ghost town and haunted love
As if in response to a hidden wish, your eyes fly open; and you see Knives, Wolfwood, and the blade. But rather than scream or weep or vomit (as would be your three initial responses) you rise to your feet, tottering unsteadily, with no clue of how to rectify the situation, but moving anyway because you have to do something.
You move forward with maddening slowness, your eyes absolutely focused on Wolfwood's face, as if keeping him in your sight at all times will keep him alive, keep him safe; and after about ten steps (really, a major achievement for you), one of the Gung-Ho Guns calmly walks out in front of you.
"Give up," Elendira pronounces in somber tones, indicating the knives that cover the chamber like jungle moss. "Knives has been gathering power for almost a year now. The traitor is already dead. You'll die, too, if you continue to show him such blatant disrespect."
You stare at her, through her, saying nothing. Then Knives appeals to you, his voice a strange meld of dispassionate logic and boundless fury:
Vash. This man tried to kill me. And if that really means nothing to you, he tried to kill you. Look at him – the man's a priest, yet he's the proof that humans and our kind cannot live together peacefully. You called him a friend, but look at how easily he's manipulated you all this time.
"Give up," Elendira says again, putting the point more simply. "You can't save everyone."
Wolfwood directs his broken gaze at you then. His face is a mask of blood and bruises, but somehow he's – smiling. His eyes are strangely alive with a warm light, as if the sight of you standing on your own two feet is unspeakably precious to him. He moves his lips as if to speak, but no sound comes out. Instead, a thought goes sailing into your consciousness with such rough affection that it brings tears to your eyes.
They're right, you know. I'm a goner – probably from the moment I was brought into this hellish world, really – but you can still save yourself, Tongari. Don't waste what I've done for you. Get the hell out of here, and just... live.
No mention of surviving to fight Knives another day, or of the responsibility that you owe to mankind. It's so uncharacteristic – Wolfwood really believes that he will die here. But more than that, the way he spoke to you... it sounded so much like the reprimand of a lover.
Rendered impotent by the severe emotions that overwhelm you, you simply stand and stare.
Still deluding yourself, brother? Knives chuckles. I can remedy that for you.
The axe cuts deeper into the priest's throat. Nicholas makes an agonized choking sound; a smear of blood appears on his neck. All it will take is just another inch, and the inside of Nicholas's throat will be exposed for all to see, a gushing fountain of red. Maybe not even an inch...
For a moment you falter, stunned. But instead of retreating into paralyzed fear or simpering theatrics, as your brother expects of you, your soul hardens and you resolve – for the first time – to face the threat head-on.
You raise your voice
Sticks and stones may break my bones
I'm talking loud, not saying much
Maybe it's true. Maybe I can't save everyone.
But... I will save him.
You take a step forward. Elendira tenses defensively and raises her suitcase. In the same moment, Wolfwood realizes your intentions, and his attitude instantly changes. His voice does not so much leave his lips as it is violently torn from them, like skin being ripped off of a decaying corpse.
"Dumbass! Did it not occur to you that if we both die, there'll be nobody left to stop your brother?" he thunders, indifferent to the death that grips him in its ravening maw. "You needle-noggined idiot! If you really don't give two shits about yourself, then at least remember what I taught you! What I always tried to teach you!"
Another step. You can feel the Gate in your arm – that one that isn't a stump – slowly working its way open, drawing in your life's energy and gradually metastasizing, like the onset of a tumor. The result is a pile of bloody feathers that floats to the floor with unhurried motion. Molting like a swan, you think with exceptionally clear-headed amusement as you take yet another step forward.
And then, more soberingly: Nicholas betrayed me, but... he also came back for me.
That's because he and I aren't different at all. We both want to protect something. We just have different ways of doing it. Nicholas, you've taught me so much... I've been such a poor friend to you.
Each of the fingers on your slowly mutating arm begin to morph into small, deadly cannons. An unearthly choir of voices crashes in on your eardrums as feminine, yet featureless faces appear in the contours of your skin like quiltwork patches. Your arm is now twice its length, dragging the floor. Wolfwood stares at you helplessly, grief, anger and... something else (fear? love?)... shining in his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Nicholas," you say to him, smiling sadly. "I've had to apologize so many times now, I know..."
Your gaze turns cold then as it turns away from him, as it falls upon each of your enemies in turn: Elendira, the two other Gung-Ho Guns, Knives. The words continue to fall from your lips before you have any idea of what you're going to say. They are natural; they are right.
"But that man bet his life on me. What's more, he could have ended my life at any time to save his own: and the lives of so many others. I can think of no greater kindness now than to repay him for that act."
There's more to it than that, of course... so much more. But you have neither the time nor the words with which to plumb the depths of your feelings. As your eyes continue to sweep the perimeter of the chamber, you can see the other two other Gung-Ho Guns standing by in tense, grim silence, awaiting orders. Elendira, for her part, protests, thinking that you can somehow be reasoned with.
"Don't you realize that this is checkmate? No, it's not even the same game! You cannot win!" she cries in a halting voice.
"You think I really care if I can succeed or not? You think I care what Knives can do?" you return fiercely. "Him." Your eyes fall back on Nicholas, who seems to be rapidly losing consciousness, but still somewhat cognizant of your words: an unreadable expression creeps into his face just before his eyes close from pain and exhaustion. You will never let him suffer like this again, you vow. "He is all the reason that I need to fight. I will not abandon him."
You fool! Will you throw your life away so easily? If you don't stop now, I will kill –
Your own voice fires back, silencing him.
It's tiresome, listening to you talk. I wish you'd be quiet.
And with that, the Gate is thrown open wide: and your wings, the cannons – all of it – unfold.
Stone-hard, machine gun
Firing at the ones who run
Stone-hard as bulletproof glass
Sound, then motion. The sound is coming from the singing faces on Vash's arm, now accompanied by fully-formed arms and legs and torsos. The motion is when –
A multitude of angel wings (or just one really, really big wing; whichever way you want to look at it) sweep out of one of the serrated openings on Vash's arm with incredible speed. Wolfwood can't even track the second they first appear. At the same time, Knives's blade moves to finish Wolfwood off –
The speed and strength of the wings, however, are overwhelming. Upon being struck by them, Knives's blade shatters, as though one of the soprano voices managed to hit the sweet vibrating note that causes wineglasses everywhere to explode; then melts into a runny liquid that seeps, steaming, into the cracks of the floor. Wolfwood gulps down air gratefully, a free man – but the wings aren't done with him yet.
Wolfwood's teeth clamp down so tight he fears they might be ground into dust as the wings wrap around him, bear him forward, carry him to Vash's side; but as fierce and awful as they appear, the actual feelings they inspire in him are those of gentle protectiveness (Auntie, why am I thinking of Auntie now), and he finds himself inured to the presence of Chapel and Livio, who begin discharging several tons of lead at the wings in an attempt to finish Knives's work.
"Idiots!" he hears Elendira thunder, not far off. "If you aim too close to the arm, all your shots will rebound!"
Shit, Wolfwood thinks dreamily. Vash is a tank when he wants to be.
His reverie is broken seconds later, however. Somewhere beneath them the floor begins to shift and fall away, and with a jolt of horror, Wolfwood realizes that a hatch on the Ark has opened up. Before he can warn Vash, or get away himself, the two of them embark on a free-fall tumble into the sky. Whether the hatch was shattered by the combined power of two plants duking it out, or Knives opened it as a last-ditch effort to kill them –
Well, either way they're going to be dead, so it doesn't really matter, does it?
Wolfwood curses the whole way down.
You shoot me down, but I won't fall
I am titanium
You shoot me down, but I won't fall
I am titanium
The wind strikes your face with near-hurricane gale force, leaving tiny bleeding splinters in your cheeks and forehead, as you try and fail to establish some measure of control over your descent. The cannon that was once your arm is impossibly heavy, weighs you down; but in the absence of a conscious wish to maintain its existence, it begins to retract back into your body with surprising speed. You feel the hard shell of the cannon shattering into thousands of pieces and scattering into the wind, catch glimpses of female faces melting back into your skin. In the interim, your wings whip wildly all around you, obscuring your vision of the sky and making it impossible to tell up from down. At one point they give way completely, and the suns that you once believed to be a happy lie strike down your eyesight with unforgiving light.
You're literally flying blind. Or falling blind. But your only thoughts this entire time are for Wolfwood.
"SPIKEY!"
Mercifully, you see him. He isn't falling as fast as you are – the Cross Punisher that he managed to grab hold of and currently grips in one hand isn't as heavy as the angel arm – but his other hand is pressed tightly against his eviscerated middle, and he looks as if he's going to pass out right there in midair. You call out to him, but no sooner do the words leave your lips than a monstrous claw suddenly descends from the shadow of the Ark.
VAAAAAAASH!
The claw is at your throat. You can see it moving forward now, and you watch almost with disinterest as it gouges deep into your jugular, spraying your vision red –
– and instead it retracts, a psychic howl of frustration reverberating in your head as Knives surrenders his resolve at the last minute. In the end, no matter what, you are still brothers. For all your unforgivable faults, he cannot bring himself to kill you.
And still you continue to plummet towards the earth. The hard-packed sand is rushing up at you, and you estimate that perhaps only one ile remains before both you and Wolfwood are dead.
The priest is screaming something at you now, but it is impossible to hear over the whistling of the wind. Almost pitifully, you extend your long-neglected telepathic range and struggle to make sense of his message.
– wings, you moron! You have wings! Why don't you try flying with 'em –
At this revelation, you attempt to flex that invisible muscle once more, gain control over the downy appendages that fill the sky with feathers. But that same slow, excruciating incompetence continues to plague you: the wings simply zip around uselessly, pressed into chaos by the force of the wind. Whatever power you exerted over them in the Ark, it has long since fled. For several more seconds nothing happens at all. Blind panic clutches your heart then, and suddenly you're screaming, your hoarse voice pouring out apologies to Nicholas, telling him how sorry, so sorry, you are –
But now Wolfwood is calm. Even as the two of you continue to fall through the air like stones, he manages to lock eyes with you.
Come on, Spikey. I can't have you buggin' out on me now. We've come this far; we're not gonna die that easy. I just need you to give me a little bit more. Just give a little more...
His strength and calm are contagious. Time seems to slow down, then become completely still; and gray tinges the edges of your vision. The deafening roar of the air ceases and rational thought returns to you. Finally, you give a minute inclination of your head.
Okay... I'll try.
Mathematical calculations run through your exhausted mind as you realize that you need to work with the wind, rather than struggle helplessly against it. You find that you can pretty well conjecture in what directions the winds are moving, and your wings respond accordingly, rushing into the fast-moving currents and being swept into different directions: all of which perfectly converge on a single point far above your body.
A new, immense draft of air billows up below you; the effect is almost refreshing, and you find yourself slowing down considerably. Farther down on the sand an enormous shadow is coalescing, and from your current distance it actually resembles a true pair of angel wings. At the same time, you maneuver the wing that is closest to Wolfwood, never allowing your rational calculations to be overcome by the very real terror you feel for him. The wing angles over and plucks the priest out of the air like a ripe berry; his body hangs in the profuse plumage of feathers with the limpness of a rag doll.
The ground is perilously close now. Less than half an ile to go.
There's nothing more to do than hope and pray.
Five hundred feels... two hundred... fifty...
I am titanium
You are the first to touch down upon the desert sand. Seconds later, Wolfwood follows.
The two of you watch as the ship passes by overhead, on an inexorable track towards death and destruction. What remains of the wings stubbornly clings to your body like a batch of filthy barnacles. Both of you are on your backs, panting, exhausted; but what little blood there is drains out of your face when you see Wolfwood's injuries in full for the first time.
No human could have survived this. In fact, he should be dead several times over by now.
"Don't go cryin' for me just yet," Wolfwood says dismissively, unaware of how close you are to doing just that. He fishes into one of his bloodstained pockets with spasmodically trembling fingers, eventually turning up a small vial of a strange orange liquid. Without hesitation, he manages to get the container uncapped and tips it down his throat.
And before your very eyes, his injuries begin to... change. You can now see that the aim of the concoction is to accelerate the priest's healing, make it so that these terrible injuries never existed, in fact. Wolfwood grimaces with pain as damaged flesh closes and broken bones knit back together. The loop of his entrails, previously held in place by his arm, shifts back into its natural position, before the open gash that facilitated its escape is closed up like a zipper. All of this is accompanied by a sickening sizzling sound, as if someone is cooking raw meat. You are eternally grateful, and yet repulsed to see him forced to resort to such measures. You trust him to eventually explain to you, though, so you don't voice your concern.
Wolfwood finishes draining the vial, then lets you have it.
"I swear to God, Vash, if you're supposed to be some kind of angel then you're the stupidest fucking angel. You could have died back there. You never listen to me. You always just go off and – "
"Wolfwood," you reply. "Shut up." And you drape your spent arm right over his chest, keeping him pinned to the dusty ground. Wolfwood briefly sputters and tries to rise, then gives it up as a lost cause. He seems to have swallowed his anger, at least. After a long, hesitant moment, he moves his head to rest by your chest, his fingers lifting to trace leisurely patterns over the scars there, as though he were a child. Heat spreads over your cheeks at this boldness, but you let it pass – you're just happy to be alive to experience it at all.
"I really wish you hadn't done that," he murmurs at length, not looking at you. "Now your hair is even... now you're even closer to..." He doesn't finish.
"I don't care about that."
"You know it's more than that, though. I'm not who you..."
"I still don't care."
"Well, we still need to talk about it."
"Of course we do. In fact, you're going to tell me everything. But now's not the time."
He accepts your pronouncement in silence. One of the muddy, blood-spattered wings – wide enough in length that it could span the top of a building – lifts off of the ground slightly and covers you both, blotting out the light and heat of the suns.
The minutes melt into hours, and the hours into minutes; and the time continues to pass, dreamlike. In the cool of the shade, you focus on Wolfwood's breathing, on the fact that this human being is still alive. It seems too good to be true: like a dream that Legato might have meticulously crafted while you were still under his control, only to take away from you in the end. You shiver from the memory of that nightmarish experience, but are determined not to dwell on it. You want to close your eyes and slip away – you haven't had a true rest in ages – but you're so paranoid that you're going to lose Nicholas somehow.
"Didn't happen to give you any smokes while you were up there, did they?" Nicholas chooses to ask at that moment, only semi-seriously.
"No." You smile despite yourself. The nerve of that crappy priest... he even has to intrude on your most vulnerable moments.
"Okay. Just thought I'd ask." Then:
"God, you reek, Spikey." His nose wrinkles, but instead of attempting to create distance between the two of you, he draws himself nearer. "You need a long shower."
"What I need is sleep," you tell him, accepting the close contact and his biting (yet not at all hurtful) words. "Just sleep..."
"So go to sleep, then. I'll keep an eye and an ear out. I let some of your friends know I was gonna bust you out, so they're due to get here soon."
Liar, you think. The minute you give in you just know he's going to nod off right along with you. But you're too tired even to vocalize the thought; and momentarily, your eyelids flutter closed. Only a few minutes later you can sense Wolfwood's breathing deepen, indicating that he's fallen asleep.
In the distance, you hear the roaring of a flying vehicle: no doubt one of your allies from the SEEDS ship, the ones Wolfwood was talking about. All this time, they must have been following the Ark... soon you will rise and signal your presence, but for now you think you will just rest.
Tomorrow, he will tell you everything.
And you will tell him everything, as well.
With a contented sigh, you draw your arm tighter around the only person you've ever cherished as much as Rem, the single most important person in the world; and even before you've fully adjusted to the peaceful darkness behind your eyelids, you're sound asleep.