A/N: My first attempt at a story that incorporates one-sided Wolfwood/Vash shounen-ai. I only hope the fact that it switches POVs frequently, and that this is the first time I've ever deviated from the tried-and-true Vash/Meryl formula, doesn't cause it to suck too much. Also, it takes place in a manga chapter of the same name in the second volume of Trigun Maximum. This used to be part of my drabble series "50 Derringers," until I realized it was waaaaay too long to count as a ficlet and did myself a favor by bringing it into its own.
Desperado
I sport a preacher's suit and a smile as I pass through the ranks of the bedraggled, weary children. While they are yet few, I consider them my flock to look over and care for as I know my heavenly Father cares for me. Nico-niichan, they cry; it is their name for me. Nico-niichan...
Zuli! Eyla! Ash! Ellen! I greet each of them in turn, stop to distribute an article of clothing or a bit of chocolate to satiate their immediate, earthly needs. What's more – though no more words are exchanged – they seem to understand that my life lies primarily with their well-being, that I would give it up in an instant if it meant these little ones could remain safe and sound.
I could, I believe, exist in a moment like this for eternity.
The thought has barely entered my mind when a crimson tear slides down my cheek and lands, spattering, on my outstretched palm.
I blink with confusion as Ellen demands that I hold her – and right this instant! I am only too happy to comply. Before I can move to do so, however, yet another drop of red falls upon my hand. Its shade stands out in sharp contrast against my skin.
I stare at my hand, uncomprehending, until it dawns on me that this must be blood. I also realize that it is not my own; it is the blood of others, those whose lives I took when I could not be bothered to look for a more peaceful solution to my crises.
My soul is crying out for penance, and its pleas manifest in rivulets of blood that issue from my tear ducts, coating my hands in its coppery thickness.
I turn to the children, and deliver the final crushing blow to my spirit:
It would appear... I'm no longer fit to hold you guys.
CRASH!
Nicholas D. Wolfwood was jarred from his nightmare as intrusively as if he'd just been thrown headlong into a sand dune... which, given Vash's track record when it came to navigating motorcycles, wasn't too far off the mark.
The priest scrambled to his feet, found his traveling companion had landed on his side when the Angelina II tripped on an overcropping of marble and skidded off course. He brushed off the sand that had accumulated on his typically spotless suit, then let Vash have it.
"SHIT, SPIKEY!" Nick thundered, conveniently ignoring the fact that Vash wasn't moving – hell, wasn't even breathing – as he delivered every curse word he knew and a few he made up on the spot. "You did it again? At this rate, God Himself wouldn't entrust you with a vehicle – "
He halted the barrage of epithets when he realized, somewhat belatedly, that his companion's condition was more than just a little worse for the wear. Blood issued from an opened wound in Vash's shoulder; his eyes remained staring, unseeing. The initial impression that leapt into Nick's mind was that of a zombie victim.
"Hey, hey, hey," Wolfwood murmured to himself. "This ain't good..."
"For five days – or was it six? – we took turns drivin' that thing," I explain heatedly, trying to inculcate within the innkeeper sympathy enough to let us stay for a while. Truth is, I ain't got the money to spare on Spikey and me; and if the former doesn't come around soon, I'm afraid he just might die. Knives will have my ass – or worse, my head – if I let it come to that.
Not for the first time I reflect on my mission, what I've got to do to protect the kids from that bastard's wrath. The simultaneous guilt and resolve must show up on my face, because the owner's son gives me a suspicious look. His father, thank God, catches sight of Vash leaning heavily on my shoulder and gives in.
"Go ahead," he says gruffly. "But I'm afraid it'll only be one room for you; that's all we have."
"Really?" I cry, grinning hugely. I haven't smiled in so long my facial muscles aren't quite used to the sensation. "Ow! I mean, thank you! You're a real life-saver!"
"Mm," the innkeeper responds noncommittally. His son shoots the two of us an incredulous look before shuffling away, and for a moment I wonder if there's some sort of trouble going on between them. The owner is maintaining a pretty innocuous expression, himself, yet I can sense the underlying anxiety in his voice as he tells me: "You may go ahead and lay your partner down on the couch, if you like."
I take advantage of his offer, dump Spikey on the chair with an unceremonious harrumph. He doesn't stir.
"Good, good," I say, though I can't see much good about his current condition. "Now if you excuse me" – I gesture to my nether regions, none too subtly – "nature calls."
The man who answered to a multitude of names other than the one he was given at birth – including "Broomhead" and "Spikey Bastard" – cracked open one eye as soon as Nick was gone.
This was not to say, however, that he was completely well and in control of all his mental faculties. As the other eye followed suit, Vash found himself groping through a black cloud of confusion that seemed to rebuff his every attempt at acquaintance with his surroundings.
Head hurts... where am I...
Somewhere far away a voice spoke. Vash recognized it as belonging to the innkeeper's son after the ringing in his ears had subsided to a satisfactory degree. Even though it would have been infinitely easier to just close his eyes and withdraw into the blackness, the gunman felt compelled to hang on to his every word.
"...way too nice, Dad. How are we going to make any money if you give every random nobody and his grandma free lodging?"
"It's all right, isn't it?" the owner of the inn replied, his own voice tinged with compassion. "The back room near the emergency exit isn't occupied that often, anyway."
"That's not the point!" the boy cried; he sounded near tears. "It's because of your damned kindness that we haven't got any money! It's because of you that the Gomez family went and kidnapped Mom – "
Vash's ears pricked perceptibly; and the boy suddenly stopped himself, as if in horror that he could say such things. "Dad... I didn't mean..."
His father sighed heavily. "Yes, Rob, you're right. It's ultimately my responsibility – and that's why I can't let you get involved. I'm going it alone."
"You're crazy," the boy answered. "My mom is my mom! This is a family problem."
"Whatever you say," the innkeeper answered, but it was clear in his tone that he had already dismissed his son's offer to help. "Let's both of us sleep on it, then."
"I won't ever be able to sleep," the boy muttered; but all the same, he went back into the office. His father followed a moment later.
Vash knew where his priorities lay. Without stopping to wonder where Nick was or even what he was doing here in the first place, the outlaw slowly maneuvered off of the couch and in the direction taken by the innkeeper and his son.
The comforting scent of pure tobacco permeates the air as I take a deep drag from one in a number of new cigarettes, brand name Rite Decision or something like that. The smoke appears to intermingle with the stars that have accompanied the fast approaching nightfall; I watch the spectacle occur from the open bathroom window and ponder.
That idiot's words continue to ring in my ear, long after the ordeal with Rai-dei.
You are the coward here, Wolfwood. No matter what you do... you give it up so easily.
"Fine, then," I mutter, as though Vash were presently awake and well enough to actually converse with me. "It's YOUR life on the line, see if I care."
Silence, as I pinch the bridge of my nose and continue:
"How much d'ya have to rub it in till you're satisfied, anyway? Do you want to get yourself killed? Are you just ignorant of your adversaries' skills? Why put their lives before your own? It makes me sick!
"Are you really so oblivious as to not understand that I'm trying to protect you from these freaks? That it's not just a matter of my employer ordering me to, that I truly care about your damned spikey self?"
Oh, hell. Here I am trying to insult the guy, and it turns out I'm confessing my love for him.
And to be honest, just for a second? I suppose that I really have always nursed a bit of a crush on Vash. It's like there's this holiness radiating off of his person that I can't even hope to emulate. Sometimes I just get ashamed of myself, being near him; so I try to make less of him in my own eyes, calling him an idealistic fool and giving him crap all day long for his convictions that everyone can be saved.
When it's all said and done, however, I really want to be just like him.
Damn. Still, they... they really aren't the kinds of thoughts I should persist in. I know the Bible well enough that I'll never let our relationship escalate into something more, but on the same token I've never honored the command of "thou shalt not kill." And really, what would one or two more sins matter anyway?
Not for the first time, I find myself questioning my mental stability when I made that oath to become a priest – doubly so when I joined the Eye of Michael and voluntarily waded up to my knees in betrayal and subterfuge.
I swear, it's enough to drive a man mad.
As Vash crawled into the office, manipulating his fatigued limbs as best he could, he found himself treated to a most unusual sight.
The innkeeper's son, otherwise known as Rob, jerked back and forth in a desperate bid for freedom from the ropes that had been tied around him. In between labored gasps he cried: "Stupid – old – man – leaving – me – like – THIS – "
He glanced up, caught sight of one of the idiots that had taken advantage of his father's hospitality. The last thing Rob wanted was to rely on either of them, but there was no helping it.
"Thank goodness!" he said as the gunman dragged himself over to Rob's side. "Hurry – can you get this rope – "
He stopped, at a complete loss for what to do as Vash's head fell onto his lap with a prolonged wheeze. After a few moments in which Rob was sorely tempted to abandon all hopes of being freed, Vash suddenly jerked to life and went through the motions of untying him.
Rob exhaled a sigh of relief, felt that he might as well explain just what the hell was going on.
"Our loan was more than we could afford, so my mom was taken away as collateral," he said, watching the gunslinger labor over his ropes. "But when my dad and I looked deeper, we found that the Gomez family had set us up. It was a fixed gamble; we were doomed to failure from the start. Especially because my father is soft-hearted and never made all that much money to begin with...
"Worse still, he's taken it upon himself to put an end to all this," Rob went on, ignoring the hot tears that visibly stung at the corners of his eyes. "I – I really can't forgive his foolishness!" He hung his head in a manner that facilitated humiliation and shame, didn't look up until Vash had unwound the very last cord.
To his great surprise, he found himself staring into a pair of compassionate, wholly sympathetic eyes. The gunslinger smiled and extended his forearm, as in physical aid.
No words were exchanged, but the meaning was clear enough.
I take one final drag from my cigarette, then grind it into the dust under my feet. I figure I owe Vash an apology for the way I've been treating him lately, if he's even conscious enough to receive it. Thoughts of this goal fresh in my mind, I swing open the bathroom door and make my way back into the lobby.
I can't say I'm much surprised when I find, moments later, that he's gone missing – along with the innkeeper and his brat.
I take a long breath, then expel it in a tirade of curses that would turn any immediate bystander's brain into jelly.
"When I BLANKETY BLANK find you Spikey I'll BLANK BLANK BLANKETY and BLANK BLANKETY BLANK the toma you rode in on!"
A man with high cheekbones, a jutted chin, and long yellow teeth resembling fangs swung his meaty fist in the air, administered a brutal knock to the hapless innkeeper. His cronies looked on with expressions of barely restrained delight, sniggering as their victim went tumbling in the dirt.
"A bet's a bet," the man snarled, pulling out a machine gun from the renegade holster mounted on his back. "And when you lose, you lose. And..." He paused, his command of the English language more than a little unsophisticated. "Lost property is lost property. Right?"
The innkeeper wiped away a smear of blood on his chin. Despite the fact that he was hopelessly outnumbered, he found it within himself to shriek:
"I looked it up already, you damned swindler!"
His words regressed into a scream of pain as his enemy lunged forward, kicked him with his spiked boot. "Enough already!" the being that was more monster than man cried, his foot pressing down upon the small of the innkeeper's back.
"You're trespassing, y'know," he added, aiming his gun at his victim's head. "You can think about it while I turn you into mincemeat!"
BANG BANG BANG
The sound of vodka bottles erupting, coupled with that of several gun shots, rent the air about them.
"Game over!" the innkeeper heard his son cry, and a wave of simultaneous mortification and pride swept over him. Before he could react, however, Rob had whipped out a lighter and was waving it about in what he believed to be a threatening manner. Accompanying him was the stranger that the innkeeper could have sworn was permanently down for the count when he last saw him. Surely he didn't look frightening, clutching his stomach like a kid that had consumed too much Halloween candy, but then who else could have shot all those bottles?
Rob, for his part, looked like he was moments away from asking the very same questions; but instead of inquiring as to his partner's sharpshooting, he turned to face his mother, who was hiding behind a pile of crates.
"Mom?" Rob asked, his voice holding a mixture of relief and concern. "MOM! Are you all right?"
"Yes, dear, I'm – " His mother halted as one of the Gomez henchmen ran up and clamped a hand over her mouth. With the other, he forced the barrel of a gun against her temple.
"Drop yer weapon!" he demanded, albeit stupidly. Rob obediently dropped the lighter; it fell in the alcohol-soaked ground.
The man with high cheekbones was the first to speak. "Oh, shi – "
The ensuing explosion was long, loud, and detrimental to the health of everyone within a ten-ile radius.
I've driven no more than a few hundred yarz when I hear the KA-BOOM, followed by a deathly silence in which a good portion of this backwater town goes up in flames.
"Dear God," I mutter without sarcasm. "The Humanoid Typhoon has struck again..."
Now, see, that's the other reason I'd never get hitched with Vash: the man invariably runs off looking for trouble and finds it. How the hell is someone supposed to make advances on him when they're in constant fear of meeting an untimely death?
Moreover, what the hell am I doing thinking about my non-existent love life?
Cursing loudly, I swing the Angelina II around. As I pass through the remnants of sandstone buildings and steel towers, I happen upon the motley group of heroes, led by a pretty young thing who could pass as the innkeeper's wife. The kid's yelling to some random townspeople about the importance of helping out your family, or some such shit like that. I confess that I was too far away to hear.
Before I am close enough to alert them to my presence, a giant man with scorched skin wearing what amounts to barely a stitch of clothing leaps up from behind the base of a scraper, screaming:
"I'M GONNA KILL YOOOUUUU – "
"Today is not a good day for your crap," I state simply.
Cut to the mercy of my Cross Punisher.
Cut back to the culprit's mangled body.
Devoting barely a thought to his condition, I stalk forward and begin serenading Vash with curses and whatever else I can think of to express my rage at the moment.
"Even though you're all beat up, you still got into a life-threatening mess!" I cry, holding the barrel of my gun against his head. "Spikey, what the hell were you think – "
"Donuts," he interrupts suddenly, his gaze still averted from mine, arms draped over the shoulders of a grateful innkeeper.
"What?"
"Mmm... jelly-filled donuts... oh, but I couldn't ... "
Oh.
"Famous last words, huh?" I sigh deeply and mutter a silent prayer to God in heaven that we aren't both killed in our travels.
"You're a desperado, if ever there was one."