Author's Note: I've probably watched Trigun two times through, some episodes thrice. But as my luck would have it, never the final episode. -;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;; So forgive me if there are some errors here, and please correct me. I just couldn't wait to write this down any longer. It stands as a short story or a prologue. When I finally get around to seeing the last episode, I might have the strength to continue this fic.
I hope the present tense isn't too annoying. I wanted to try something different for a change. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Don't own it.
Far Too Long
He arrives with a mirror image slung over his shoulder lifelessly. A closer look reveals that they are not completely identical, and the slung man is not completely dead. He brings him back here because he has no where else to go.
A tall, pretty young girl comes crashing through the door onto the porch. Waving her hands over her head franticly, she beckons the figures forward. He sees a smallish, dark-haired woman hanging back by the door. She looks distressed, and her eyebrows knit together in worry.
"Mr. Vash!" the tall one exclaims.
The tall, blonde man hauls his living burden into the small house, not really glancing at either insurance girl. He lays his brother on the bed he occupied just a short time ago. Knives lies like a puppet whose master has abandoned him, his limbs hanging off the mattress. In reality, this man was the master, and he used others as puppets . . . so many dead.
He needn't turn around. He senses the two young women behind him. Their fierce, feminine anxiousness hangs so thick in the air, he could touch it. There is silence for a good five minutes.
He is uncertain of his voice, testing it, "He's my brother . . . I – " but his voice cracks.
No matter, they are intelligent women. The large one smiles faintly, sadly. "I'll fix you something to eat," and leaves the room.
The other lingers for a moment, as if she wants to say something, but can't find anything especially worth the effort. He has ignored her for so long. She too turns and leaves.
He doesn't take much food, just enough to make the big girl happy. Her small friend is unusually quiet and fretful. Later that night, the women fumble with dishes in the kitchen.
"Meryl," the large insurance girl smiles at the littler reassuringly, speaking her given name. "Maybe Mr. Vash needs something. Have you asked him?"
Snapping out of her trance, she gives her friend a grateful look. She has brought her back in her gentle, subtle way. Meryl feels she can breathe again. "Yes, Milly. I think you're right." Both of them know this is as good as thanking her.
With her friend's gentle urging, Meryl slips comfortably back into her body. She goes to the linen closet and grabs some towels, heading to Vash's room. She knocks on the door lightly and hesitates for three seconds before entering.
It's dark, the last of the gloaming. The corners of the room bathe in shadows; the mound on the bed is motionless. But in the foreground, standing with shoulders slumped slightly, Vash the Stampede gazes intently out the window.
"Mr. Vash?"
He turns his head slowly, smiles at her: a fake, little smile.
She is not placated. Pursing her lower lips, she puts a small fist on either hip, still clutching the towels. "You're a mess."
The only indication that he's listening is a slight twitch of his eyebrows. He says nothing.
She sighs, points. "Go and bathe. When you're finished, get me, and we'll see what we can do about . . .," her eyes trail down his lean body. Does he notice her slight flinch at the sight of blood? ". . . We'll see what we can do."
It is his turn to sigh. This short-haired little tyrant is determined. He knows better than to argue. Vash moves slowly, as if the past days have been a burden on his limbs. He is extremely tired. She hands him a towel as he passes her obediently on the way out. She notices he is very tense.
While he bathes, she rummages under the cupboard in the small kitchen and finds some bandages. There aren't very many.
"Milly, I think I'll go out. We might need some more of these." She holds the bandages up distastefully.
"No, Sempai, you stay. I'll go."
Meryl relaxes. She's grateful, and the brown-haired girl understands this. Milly dons her jacket, preparing to leave.
"Oh, and Milly . . . bring back a box of doughnuts, will you?"
Milly grins approvingly. Meryl has suddenly preoccupied herself with rummaging.
Vash appears as soon as the door slams shut, looking at it in dull curiosity. He is dressed from the waist down. The skin of his torso is dry, but ruddy from his bath. The damp towel hangs over his head, causing his matted, sunflower hair to hang over his eyebrows. However, t does not obscure his blue-green gaze.
Meryl procures the bandages, coming to him in the hallway for a closer look. The latest gashes and cuts he's obtained confirm her earlier assumption: they'll need more bandages.
As the woman retrieves a wash basin and cloth, Vash leans against the wall heavily and slumps down, falling gradually onto the floor. Meryl sits to the side and facing him.
"Here," she dips the cloth in warm, soapy water and hands it to him. "Make sure you wash out well."
"I already bathed." It is not his usual, whiney voice. It sounds tired and hollow.
"Don't play with me, Vash the Stampede. I know very well you didn't touch those open cuts with soap." She offers the cloth to him again. "You'll get an infection if there's such a thing as divine retribution."
He's distracted. He keeps looking at the door to his room. Does he fancy at any moment his comatose twin sibling will come sidling out of it? But he takes the cloth and pats it over himself half-heartedly.
The little woman is not satisfied. "No, no, you're doing it wrong," she says bossily, and she confiscates the damp rag, dipping it into the basin. With an uncharacteristic tenderness, she washes his wounds.
He watches her calmly with emotionless eyes. "He killed Wolfwood, you know," he says quietly.
She senses that he is tuned for her reaction, so she pleases herself by not showing any. She's finished with the washing, now fumbling with clean bandages. She'll only cover the worse wounds first. The others could wait for Milly.
Vash lets her work silently. Then, "Do you think she knows?"
After a good half a minute, never taking her eyes off of her task, the insurance girl responds, "I think she probably does." She can't hide the concern edged in her voice. Her female companion is not oblivious. But she'll hide her pain, put on a cheerful face, and nurse her lover's killer back to health.
"Milly –" Meryl stumbles, tying a bandage into place with skillful female fingers. "Milly is a prodigy of the human race. She goes on, no matter how hard things get. I . . . I don't think –" she finishes, places her hands into her lap, eyes lowered. She takes a deep breath, preparing herself for what she is about to say. "I know I could never be so brave."
Vash looks at her, his eyebrows furrowed slightly, because the insurance girl has just admitted to a weakness. Her cheeks are flushed from leaning over the steaming water, and she looks prettier than ever.
"Anyway," she continues. "You can count on Milly. She'll be here . . . as long as you need her to be." She risks a shy, concerned glance at his face. "And so will I."
He nods faintly, acknowledging this. Then he smiles, too brightly. He's just caught himself in his seriousness. Although falling terribly short of his previous known efforts to be cheerful, he still attempts to convince the small woman that he's fine. "Great," he says, mouth smiling, eyes cloudy, "you insurance girls can look after that pain in the neck for me while I go out for a drink!" But he's still slumping against the wall.
His counterfeit cheeriness fades because Meryl is smiling through her tears. He doesn't move, but neither does he try to deceive her again. He watches her evenly, and doesn't flinch when she falls over onto him, leaning her face down against his shoulder, sobbing quietly. His eyes are sad and glassy, with a far away look. He moves an arm and rests it lightly on her back, unsure of how to console someone or why this one is even sad. At his touch, she flings her arms around his neck and buries her face like a child. He can feel her tears dampening the white bandages but lets her cry.
This is how Milly finds them when she returns home with the doughnuts.
The letter from the insurance agency arrives shortly after. It is recalling Milly Thompson and Meryl Strife to report to headquarters, as there is a lull in the insurance claims involving the Humanoid Typhoon. They are to leave immediately.
Knives is still asleep.
Milly lumbers into the small house, announcing that she's brought the thomases just as her sempai instructed. She finds said woman in their room, packing the last of her things in her small suitcase.
"Okay, Milly, I'll be out in a minute."
"Right. I'm just going to say goodbye to Mr. Vash!"
Meryl can hear them through the walls in the hallway, both of them painfully cheerful and optimistic. She suppresses a giggle as Vash melodramatically proclaims that Milly is suffocating him. Milly has given him a vice-like embrace. Then the blue-eyed girl trots out of the house to await Meryl on the porch with the animals. She's happy to be going home.
Meryl can hear Vash re-entering his room. He's always hovering over his brother. For the past week or so, he has been his characteristic self, but his jovial foolishness is less sincere than usual. Meryl makes sure to be slightly less nagging, and she senses that he appreciates it. Still, he is impersonal to her, as polite as a newly made acquaintance, not one who has shared and saved them from numerous dangers. If he thinks anything about the way she cried that night, he doesn't show it.
Meryl cringes. He is kinder to strangers.
She wheels her suitcase out of the room and into the hallway, pauses outside his door, and knocks. He comes out swiftly, and Meryl just catches a glimpse inside. The man on the bed is glaring at her with deeply cold eyes. They are so blue. She is shocked. But Vash closes the door quickly and softly behind him, leaning against it.
He gives her a small, hopeless smile. "I don't know what I'm going to do with him," he says quietly.
Meryl tries to return the gesture. Hers is more sincere. "You'll figure out something. You always do."
They stand for a moment in silence. She is relieved that he is not trying to put on a mask for her now. He is beautiful and serene, not his usual inane self. Now is her chance to say something . . . anything. "Vash . . .," her voice catches thickly in her throat.
"Yes?"
Tell him! "It's . . . nothing," she turns, the disappointment weighing her small shoulders down. Will she do it again? Will she let him go and not say anything? This is probably the last time she will ever see him. She takes two steps away, then turns around fiercely.
Slowly, carefully, "Just . . . I do believe that you are the most beautiful soul I've ever met."
He looks surprised at her calm revelation; she rushes forward now, before she loses her nerve.
"And you are a broom-head, and a lecher, and a complete idiot, and I wish, I wish to heaven that more people were like you. No, I wish I were like you . . . with your foolish optimism, and silly dreams, and determination and courage to go out and get what you want! And I think you're the only truly sympathetic person alive. You've achieved in less than two centuries what humanity's strived for since the beginning – and your "love and peace" is beautiful and true because you believe in it and because you follow it with all your heart. You love everybody, Vash, you love everybody, and it would just be so simple; that's all it would take . . . for anyone." She slows, catches her breath. Once the words start to flow, they spill forth like water from a broken faucet. She is thoughtful. She has delved deep inside her to bring these things to light.
He's watching her strangely, his jewel-colored eyes soft and glimmering. Hasn't anyone ever told him before?
Softly, she continues, "You love everyone . . .," she seems startled now, but her voice is barely audible. "You love everyone so much that there's no love left for me – uh, us!" She ends in a shrill, catching herself fearfully. She glances up sharply. Does he notice her slip? Mentally, she berates herself for the scarlet she knows is gathering in her cheeks.
He hadn't comprehended before now. So that was it.
Vash is looking at her painfully. He finally realizes. And Meryl knows he knows.
He's ignored her for so long.
She hefts her suitcase awkwardly, her eyes moist with the tears she won't allow. They gaze at each other, only for a second, before she lowers her grey, gleaming eyes to focus on the much safer region of his neck.
Her voice is so quiet, quiet and pensive. "You know . . . you've never called me by my name."
"Sempai!" Milly is impatient.
And Meryl dashes away before she has to digest that awful, unbroken silence – the one where she would feel heavily the absence of his affection for her.
Down the porch and onto the sandy street, she reaches and takes the reigns from Milly, mounting the thomas wordlessly. Milly senses her friend's distress, but also picks up the warning signal – don't mention it.
Milly leads the way down the road, and Meryl is just pulling on the reigns to follow.
"Meryl!"
He's standing in the doorway, smiling faintly but a true smile, a genuine one. And it's for her. "Write me, okay?"
Wide-eyed in shock, she nods, hope blooming in her like springtime.
He's ignored her for far too long. He thinks, I've ignored her for long enough.