Disclaimer: If I owned Trigun or Wallace Steven's poem The World as Meditation, letters from government departments bearing the phrase "the current balance of your student loan is…" would not fill me with the profound terror that it does. I'm not making any money off this either.
Disclaimer 2: This is the first time in a long time that I've actually written something that doesn't have footnotes or anything in parenthesis (yay!). This is my first fanfic, so be kind and forgive the OOC-ness. Or at least please be non-lethal.
Dimly, in the back of her mind, she knew it was morning. Rays of sunshine with the crisp cool of a desert night still clinging to them invaded her sleep, falling across her face with a gentle touch.
Meryl buried her nose into her pillow and refused to open her eyes. She smiled, inhaling the familiar scent of another person. Gunpowder, leather, soap, mixed with the warm, safe smells of a bakery.
She should get up, it was late and work needed to be done. But the heat touching her face, the gentle breaths against the exposed crook of her neck… Gunsmoke could wait. She smiled against the pillow, slightly lopsidedly, and one small hand started working its way along the bed, hidden by the covers. It inched its way into a patch of warm sheet, and stopped. There was nothing there.
So the world wasn't going to wait. Meryl reluctantly opened her eyes, confirming what her hand told her. The bed was empty. The breath on the back of her neck had only been a draught, his scent only lingered because the sheets had once been on his bed. And she was only make-believing that it was his head on the pillow next to her, and not the light of morning.
And he… he was not back yet.
The smile stayed on her face. He was coming back, she truly believed it. And in those few moments between sleeping and waking, she could feel it.
Shaking her head to clear it of such fancies, she slid out of bed. The suns were rising higher, she had responsibilities that needed attention and there were a multitude of tasks to be done. Later in the day she'd berate herself for such dreams, and then she'd frown with worry and fume with anger, letting it out on the customers.
The clink of plates and cutlery downstairs told her Milly was beginning to make herself breakfast, which meant Meryl really needed to get a move on. She grabbed the uniform hung with mathematical precision off the back of a chair, and began the tedious task of getting ready for the day.
She stood in the bathroom, combing her hair in front of the mirror, that same small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. He would come back, and she would be there for him. No more masks, no need for hesitancy or loss. All that was needed for happiness was the two of them.
The brush stopped, and was set down with a small 'clink'.
"… Vash…"
Her business demeanour was put on like a cloak. She would not worry. That small moment where it felt like he was there was enough to sustain her. He was coming home.
This might be better if you read the poem that goes with it. I was intending to post it with the rest of this fic, but apparently that's against copyright (spoilsports). I found some random site with the poem on it if you want to find it without sifting through heaps of lit crit or bookselling sites.It's about Penelope, the wife ofUlysses (of Trojan Horse fame) imagining her husband coming home after thelongttime he's been at war- 20 years, 10 atTroy,10 years ofmisadventures on his way home.
(http/www. angelfire. com/rant/micaela97/poems)
I wrote thisbecause there are so many fics where Meryl's really stressed about Vash going away, and she seemed so confident that Vash was coming back, I figured I'd try one where she showed her confidence. I used the poem 'cos I like it, and I think Penelope and Meryl have some common personality traits – mostly 'barbarous strength'. It's why I think Meryl's a great character.
Wallace Stevens, the more-talented-than-me man who wrote this poem, is apparently the 'Poet of Connecticut', along with two other people. I don't know much about him but I have read some of his other poems. They're great, look 'em up and read if you are so inclined.
