The Gunman and the Priest
Vash set the empty mug down softly, the sound of glass on wood resonating in the now-vacant bar despite his care and attempt at silence. Across from him, Wolfwood stirred, murmuring something incomprehensible before fading into garbled gibberish. Abandoned beer bottles littered the table, their sparse remaining contents forming puddles around their bases. Vash smiled slightly, lips ready to form the words that would rouse his companion from his alcohol-inflicted stupor, but instead emitted a loud and vulgar belch. Grin widening, he smothered the sound with his hand as one of Wolfwood's eyes cracked open.
"Damn," the priest croaked, lifting himself off of the table. "You're noisy."
Vash moved a mug aside, shifting through the bottles in search of one that was yet to be drained. His hand alighting on an unfinished beer, he refilled his glass. "I know. I've been told that it's one of my more admirable virtues." Wolfwood rolled his eyes. "Did you have a nice nap?"
"Wonderful," came the slightly slurred response. "But why'd you have to wake me up?"
"It's after one, Nick. The girls will be worried."
"It's their fault for not coming along." Wolfwood grabbed for the beer bottle and took a swig. "Besides, we do this every time we find a saloon. They should know we like to stay out late by now, right?" He looked up at his companion, furrowed brow loosening as Vash's puzzled eyes stared back at him. Sometimes he found it hard to believe that this donut-eating crybaby of a needle-noggin was really Vash the Stampede, the legendary gunman. Well, make that he always found it hard to believe.
"What about Millie? Won't she—"
"Just shut up about it, alright? The girls will be fine." Wolfwood's head started to throb. Millie was the last thing he needed to think about right now. Actually, it was the first reason he had allowed himself to get this drunk in the first place, which made it even worse. He took a good, hard look at the half-full beer bottle in his hands before chugging it all.
"What, did you get in a fight with her or someth—"
"I said, shut up about it!" The priest snapped, slamming the drink onto the table. The bottles rattled together and one took a dive, shattering into a million pieces on the tiled floor. Vash's eyes grew round and tears welled up inside them, his bottom lip quivering. Wolfwood scowled. "Look, I've got a huge headache. Why don't you head back to the hotel and I'll clean this place up, alright? I'm going to have a few more drinks anyway."
"Okay … if you say so, Nick." The ace gunman rose from his chair, keeping his eyes on the priest in case he decided to lash out again. "Don't be too long."
"I won't," Wolfwood muttered, pouring himself another drink. Only when the sound of Vash's footsteps padding away into the night could no longer be heard did he let his head thud onto the table.
"Dammit. Why does it always end like this?"
***
Vash stepped into the hotel lobby and grabbed the doorframe, bracing himself for the lecture that was sure to follow his entrance.
"If I knew your full name, I'd yell it at you right now. And since Vash the Stampede doesn't have the same effect, I'm just going to go ahead and say what would usually follow it if you were any normal, sane person."
Beginnings of a grin etched themselves onto his features, and he tried to focus on the blurred girl in front of his eyes. If there was one thing he could depend on in this ever-changing world, it was Meryl distributing lectures like Merry Christmases during the holidays. I guess there isn't much to grin about, he thought bitterly. "Well, don't let me stop you." He moved as if to step around the insurance girl, but she blocked his path.
"Do you know how long I've been waiting for you?"
"Here we go again …"
"Hey, are you listening to me? God, do I have to pound every word I say through your thick skull with a hammer? It's one o'clock in the morning, for goodness sakes! Just because you are the legendary gunman with the price of sixty billion double dollars on your head doesn't mean you can stay out till all hours and drive your companions up the wall!" Meryl waved her arms about wildly, clearly in her element. "I said, are you listening to me?!"
"Enough to know that you already said that already, and to know that I'm getting serious déjà vu here."
"Well, there's a reason, Mister!" Now she poked his chest as if to enunciate some point she was trying to make. "And I'm going to say it again and again until you get it!"
"I get it," Vash said, nudging her aside and proceeding to the room he shared with Wolfwood. "I just choose to ignore you."
An exasperated "ugh!" drifted up the stairs after him, and he would've chuckled if his head hadn't started to hurt something awful. Yep. I can always depend on Meryl to be Meryl, unlike some people, who decide to change their face after every drink they down. Vash pushed open the door and stepped in, his fingers lingering on the light switch. Lying on the between his and Wolfwood's beds was a wooden box, illuminated by moonlight enough to discern it as the preacher's confessional. Leaving the light off, Vash strode into the room, plopped onto his bed, and lifted the miniature church into his lap. A fleeting fancy overtook his plans for sleep as he examined it and wondered what good talking into a piece of wood would have on his sins, as numerous or sparse as they were. Tentatively sliding it over his head, he almost laughed out loud.
"Damn," he said, blinking a couple times. It was pitch black inside. "How can people confess when their nose is about to be squashed into their face?" Vash took the mini confessional off and laid it on the blankets beside him, running his fingers over the designs. He remembered the first time he had seen the wooden box, a segmented proof of Wolfwood's profession. If it weren't for the priest's material possessions, Vash never in a thousand years guessed that he was a clergyman or even a semi-religious man at all; everything Wolfwood said and did was almost a direct contradiction with each stereotype accompanying the position of preacher. But his fervor in offering the confessional was enough to convince the gunman, and the way that, whenever Vash was particularly depressed, Wolfwood's fingers would start to twitch and his eyes dart towards the wooden box made it seem that the priest was only suppressing the urge to remake the offer. But they both knew that Vash would never accept -- or if he did, he wouldn't tell the whole truth. Not to Wolfwood. The last thing the gunman wanted to do was confess his problems to the one man they concerned. Judging by the priest's reaction to Vash's attempts to find an alternate solution other than death, he probably couldn't sit a minute through Vash's confession. And knowing the gunman's complicated and intricate problems, it would take longer than that. Maybe if he was looking for relief from his sins, it would be better to confess to the darkness. Besides, it couldn't turn him down when he was looking for comfort or wrap and envelop him in awkward silences. Tranquil and perhaps lonely silence, sure, but at least not awkward. His mind made up, Vash opened his mouth to speak but instead chuckled. He lay back on the pillows.
"I feel stupid," he said. "I wonder what Wolfwood would say if he saw me here. He'd probably laugh at me. I almost wish he was, though. He could tell me where to start. I guess I could start with …" his voice faltered, and he swallowed hard, determined to continue. "With Rem, but I've had a hundred and thirty years to think about that. Ugh." He rolled over onto his side and curled around the confessional, still fingering its ridges and designs. "This is really, really stupid. At least I don't have to pay for it." Vash sighed. "I wonder when Wolfwood's getting back. I told him not to be too long. Alright … talk to him."
He pictured the priest's face on the darkness stretched before his eyes and began to talk, not really paying attention to what he was saying. The floppy bangs, the stubble-covered chin, the slightly open lips complete with their very own droopy cigarette, the dark eyes that somehow managed to look both hardened and caring at the same time.
"His eyes … make me want to forget all about Knives and Rem's … of her ideologies. I think that now I understand why Wolfwood does the things he does, why he drinks and smokes and rides that busted piece of junk even when it breaks down beneath him. Because life is too short to waste on pondering the past and questioning the validity of decisions that may or may not have been the right ones. Even though … even though I have more time than a normal mortal, the worst thing we can do is to make no choice while we're waiting for the ideal answer to come to us. And yet … is it worse to take the life of another then regret it when the answer does appear? Not even to save some, like Wolfwood and Joey did? Like Knives, when he crushed the spider to save the butterfly? But that kid … the Gung-ho Gun … he had his whole life stretching out before him. And Wolfwood … stole that from him. Rem, what do I do? What did you do when Joey killed Rowan? Did you hate him? But I can't hate Wolfwood because I … because he's … too much of a friend. And he did it to save me. He couldn't know if the kid was going to shoot me or not. But … would that have been so bad? Maybe he should've just let him shoot me. It's not like I haven't been shot before … and besides, would it be so bad to die?" He paused. "You know, Rem, it's occurred to me more than once that even while you taught me all the wrongs of suicide and the wonders of life that you, in the end, committed it. Well … I guess it was to save the lives of millions … so since Legato's set on killing off entire towns just to get me riled up, my death would probably end all of that suffering, right? Except then Knives … would probably destroy humanity. Which would make your death in vain …" His breath caught in his throat and tears rose unbidden into his eyes. He squeezed them shut in an effort to stem the flow, but to no avail. "Dammit! Why is life so confusing? Why does everything have to happen to me? I just want to … I just want to live, dammit!" He flung the wooden confessional against the wall and it split and cracked, splinters clattering onto the floor. "I just want … I just … want to …" Vash dissolved into sobs, throwing his arms over his ears and curled tighter around himself. What am I missing, Wolfwood? Am I missing your ears, so apt and eager to listen? Am I missing your lips, ready to form the words that will make things all right? Was I wrong about you not being able to listen? Was I wrong about everything? Wolfwood … where are you?
***
Nicholas suddenly realized that he liked the carpet. No, more than like. He loved the carpet. He wanted to have an affair with it. He scoffed it with his shoe and ran his eyes over its red and gold designs and wished to God over and over that he could go and comfort the man who was now pouring his eyes out onto his pillow, alone in the darkness. But something told him that it wouldn't be right to go in now, to take Vash up in his arms and tell him that he didn't have to worry and that things would turn out all right in the end. So he stood at the door, hand still on the knob, and waited until the gunman's sobs receded into nothingness. Perhaps it would be best if I … didn't come back tonight. Wolfwood turned away from the door reluctantly, jamming his hands in his pockets, shoes tapping against the carpet he so much adored as he padded back towards the stairs.
He had heard voices when he arrived back at the room -- panic overtook him and his whole body went numb as he strained to catch the meaning of the murmured words drifting out from under the door. At first Wolfwood had thought that Vash and Meryl had … He couldn't bring himself to mention the subject when he was with the gunman, nonetheless think it when he was standing outside their room. He didn't understand why, but he didn't question it. But then he realized that Vash was alone, and he had actually taken his advice about the confessional. He listened, silent, though he knew that it was not the right thing to do. And when the confessional slammed against the wall, the priest thought nothing of the money he had spent on it, only on what drove such a sensitive drunkard to become this wild, raging demon. The priest had thought that a confession would be good for him, wouldn't it? It was always good for everybody. And yet … its results were not what he expected. What went wrong?
He pushed open the door to the hotel lobby and stepped out into the night, a brisk wind whipping about him.
Kill him. Those were my orders. To kill him. I knew even before I saw him sitting there, staring at the ground, radiating pain and despair, that there was no way I could ever bring his life to an end. But when he looked at me, it was like it was him who killed the kid. He's really an expert at pissing me off. I told him that I was sorry for hitting him. In a way that was the truth; I was sorry that it had to come to that. And yet, in some perverse way, it felt so right, so clean when my fist connected with his face and he lay there sprawled on the roof. But his eyes -- at first they were surprised, then angry, then just sad and pained. I've seen that expression too much on his face for it not to effect me. He just tore my heart out and ripped it to shreds, right then and there. If I even have a heart. I killed that kid. I pulled the trigger. It was my gun, it was my bullet lodged in his chest. I killed him. He was a kid, dammit. Gun-Ho Gun or not, he was a goddamn kid. Maybe that needle noggin was right. Maybe there was another way. Life is too short to dwell on the past, even if he lives outside of time. He sits there with that faraway look in his eyes, begging for pity and mercy, rethinking and rethinking his entire life. Which is pretty long, if he is who I know he is.
But when I saw him on the edge of that cliff … you don't know how much that scared me. From when I first saw him I knew that he was a troubled man, that behind that empty smile lay hurt beyond anyone's comprehension, even mine. And I know from experience that when you ache like that, when every moment of your life you're haunted by your past and the knowledge that your future will only bring more pain, death starts to look pretty attractive. Whenever I see him wearing that empty smile, I wonder if he ever feels like that. And when I saw him jump off the cliff … I thought that maybe he really was trying to end his life. So I went after him.
"Actually, I disapprove of suicide more than anything."
Yeah, right. Like I'd buy that. You may disapprove of it, needle noggin, but you can't hide the fact that you've considered it. I knew the truth even before you confessed into the darkness. Your eyes are more transparent than you think. You can't fool me.
I wonder how long I can fool myself. I don't appreciate false pretenses or wasted emotion. That's why when you sit there and cry into your hands, or hide behind your empty smile, I can't help but want to help you, to talk some sense into you. You talk about not wanting to take a single life. You say that no one has the right to take the life of another. But how many lives have I taken? How many times have I pulled the trigger and walked away, leaving them to die in the streets? Your fetish for innocence, your ideals of life and peace and love -- they just make me remember how many times I've sinned and how my whole life is a lie. I'm a priest, for God's sake. Strictly a religious man. And yet, I've killed. I've had my share of beautiful women -– and men every now and again -- and I'm not married. I drink. I smoke. Damn, I'm smoking right now and didn't notice. And I'll keep on smoking. What's another cigarette on my long list of sins? It's not like it'll matter much. But you … you're so innocent. So clean. That's part of the reason why you're so good at getting me pissed. Perhaps you'd be a better priest than I would. You're the epitome of all I could ever hope to be but could never achieve. And yet … you wouldn't be the same if you weren't. You're just … Vash. And for some reason, I want –- no, I need to protect that. No matter what the cost.
***
Well, here you go. A two-shot! Okay, well, a one-shot. But I called it a two-shot because it was from both Exhibit A and Exhibit B's perspectives. I donno. Vash and Wolfwood are just so … so … eeks. I support them! Yay. XD I'd like to hope that there's some lovin beneath my text here, but I just couldn't bring myself to write it. Maybe later. And you know, I suck at the relationship stuff. And one-shots will rule the world, eventually. Anyway, I guess it's time for me to succumb to the usual Fanfiction.net formalities—
Disclaimer- What kind of creepy jobless pathetic ex-lawyer would comb through a fan fiction site and sue every person who didn't have one of these pointless things on everything they wrote? Oh, but I already own Vash's glasses. And um … I own Nick's soul. Yeah. Deal with it.
Hey, did it occur to anyone besides me that Chapel sounds like apple?
Vash set the empty mug down softly, the sound of glass on wood resonating in the now-vacant bar despite his care and attempt at silence. Across from him, Wolfwood stirred, murmuring something incomprehensible before fading into garbled gibberish. Abandoned beer bottles littered the table, their sparse remaining contents forming puddles around their bases. Vash smiled slightly, lips ready to form the words that would rouse his companion from his alcohol-inflicted stupor, but instead emitted a loud and vulgar belch. Grin widening, he smothered the sound with his hand as one of Wolfwood's eyes cracked open.
"Damn," the priest croaked, lifting himself off of the table. "You're noisy."
Vash moved a mug aside, shifting through the bottles in search of one that was yet to be drained. His hand alighting on an unfinished beer, he refilled his glass. "I know. I've been told that it's one of my more admirable virtues." Wolfwood rolled his eyes. "Did you have a nice nap?"
"Wonderful," came the slightly slurred response. "But why'd you have to wake me up?"
"It's after one, Nick. The girls will be worried."
"It's their fault for not coming along." Wolfwood grabbed for the beer bottle and took a swig. "Besides, we do this every time we find a saloon. They should know we like to stay out late by now, right?" He looked up at his companion, furrowed brow loosening as Vash's puzzled eyes stared back at him. Sometimes he found it hard to believe that this donut-eating crybaby of a needle-noggin was really Vash the Stampede, the legendary gunman. Well, make that he always found it hard to believe.
"What about Millie? Won't she—"
"Just shut up about it, alright? The girls will be fine." Wolfwood's head started to throb. Millie was the last thing he needed to think about right now. Actually, it was the first reason he had allowed himself to get this drunk in the first place, which made it even worse. He took a good, hard look at the half-full beer bottle in his hands before chugging it all.
"What, did you get in a fight with her or someth—"
"I said, shut up about it!" The priest snapped, slamming the drink onto the table. The bottles rattled together and one took a dive, shattering into a million pieces on the tiled floor. Vash's eyes grew round and tears welled up inside them, his bottom lip quivering. Wolfwood scowled. "Look, I've got a huge headache. Why don't you head back to the hotel and I'll clean this place up, alright? I'm going to have a few more drinks anyway."
"Okay … if you say so, Nick." The ace gunman rose from his chair, keeping his eyes on the priest in case he decided to lash out again. "Don't be too long."
"I won't," Wolfwood muttered, pouring himself another drink. Only when the sound of Vash's footsteps padding away into the night could no longer be heard did he let his head thud onto the table.
"Dammit. Why does it always end like this?"
***
Vash stepped into the hotel lobby and grabbed the doorframe, bracing himself for the lecture that was sure to follow his entrance.
"If I knew your full name, I'd yell it at you right now. And since Vash the Stampede doesn't have the same effect, I'm just going to go ahead and say what would usually follow it if you were any normal, sane person."
Beginnings of a grin etched themselves onto his features, and he tried to focus on the blurred girl in front of his eyes. If there was one thing he could depend on in this ever-changing world, it was Meryl distributing lectures like Merry Christmases during the holidays. I guess there isn't much to grin about, he thought bitterly. "Well, don't let me stop you." He moved as if to step around the insurance girl, but she blocked his path.
"Do you know how long I've been waiting for you?"
"Here we go again …"
"Hey, are you listening to me? God, do I have to pound every word I say through your thick skull with a hammer? It's one o'clock in the morning, for goodness sakes! Just because you are the legendary gunman with the price of sixty billion double dollars on your head doesn't mean you can stay out till all hours and drive your companions up the wall!" Meryl waved her arms about wildly, clearly in her element. "I said, are you listening to me?!"
"Enough to know that you already said that already, and to know that I'm getting serious déjà vu here."
"Well, there's a reason, Mister!" Now she poked his chest as if to enunciate some point she was trying to make. "And I'm going to say it again and again until you get it!"
"I get it," Vash said, nudging her aside and proceeding to the room he shared with Wolfwood. "I just choose to ignore you."
An exasperated "ugh!" drifted up the stairs after him, and he would've chuckled if his head hadn't started to hurt something awful. Yep. I can always depend on Meryl to be Meryl, unlike some people, who decide to change their face after every drink they down. Vash pushed open the door and stepped in, his fingers lingering on the light switch. Lying on the between his and Wolfwood's beds was a wooden box, illuminated by moonlight enough to discern it as the preacher's confessional. Leaving the light off, Vash strode into the room, plopped onto his bed, and lifted the miniature church into his lap. A fleeting fancy overtook his plans for sleep as he examined it and wondered what good talking into a piece of wood would have on his sins, as numerous or sparse as they were. Tentatively sliding it over his head, he almost laughed out loud.
"Damn," he said, blinking a couple times. It was pitch black inside. "How can people confess when their nose is about to be squashed into their face?" Vash took the mini confessional off and laid it on the blankets beside him, running his fingers over the designs. He remembered the first time he had seen the wooden box, a segmented proof of Wolfwood's profession. If it weren't for the priest's material possessions, Vash never in a thousand years guessed that he was a clergyman or even a semi-religious man at all; everything Wolfwood said and did was almost a direct contradiction with each stereotype accompanying the position of preacher. But his fervor in offering the confessional was enough to convince the gunman, and the way that, whenever Vash was particularly depressed, Wolfwood's fingers would start to twitch and his eyes dart towards the wooden box made it seem that the priest was only suppressing the urge to remake the offer. But they both knew that Vash would never accept -- or if he did, he wouldn't tell the whole truth. Not to Wolfwood. The last thing the gunman wanted to do was confess his problems to the one man they concerned. Judging by the priest's reaction to Vash's attempts to find an alternate solution other than death, he probably couldn't sit a minute through Vash's confession. And knowing the gunman's complicated and intricate problems, it would take longer than that. Maybe if he was looking for relief from his sins, it would be better to confess to the darkness. Besides, it couldn't turn him down when he was looking for comfort or wrap and envelop him in awkward silences. Tranquil and perhaps lonely silence, sure, but at least not awkward. His mind made up, Vash opened his mouth to speak but instead chuckled. He lay back on the pillows.
"I feel stupid," he said. "I wonder what Wolfwood would say if he saw me here. He'd probably laugh at me. I almost wish he was, though. He could tell me where to start. I guess I could start with …" his voice faltered, and he swallowed hard, determined to continue. "With Rem, but I've had a hundred and thirty years to think about that. Ugh." He rolled over onto his side and curled around the confessional, still fingering its ridges and designs. "This is really, really stupid. At least I don't have to pay for it." Vash sighed. "I wonder when Wolfwood's getting back. I told him not to be too long. Alright … talk to him."
He pictured the priest's face on the darkness stretched before his eyes and began to talk, not really paying attention to what he was saying. The floppy bangs, the stubble-covered chin, the slightly open lips complete with their very own droopy cigarette, the dark eyes that somehow managed to look both hardened and caring at the same time.
"His eyes … make me want to forget all about Knives and Rem's … of her ideologies. I think that now I understand why Wolfwood does the things he does, why he drinks and smokes and rides that busted piece of junk even when it breaks down beneath him. Because life is too short to waste on pondering the past and questioning the validity of decisions that may or may not have been the right ones. Even though … even though I have more time than a normal mortal, the worst thing we can do is to make no choice while we're waiting for the ideal answer to come to us. And yet … is it worse to take the life of another then regret it when the answer does appear? Not even to save some, like Wolfwood and Joey did? Like Knives, when he crushed the spider to save the butterfly? But that kid … the Gung-ho Gun … he had his whole life stretching out before him. And Wolfwood … stole that from him. Rem, what do I do? What did you do when Joey killed Rowan? Did you hate him? But I can't hate Wolfwood because I … because he's … too much of a friend. And he did it to save me. He couldn't know if the kid was going to shoot me or not. But … would that have been so bad? Maybe he should've just let him shoot me. It's not like I haven't been shot before … and besides, would it be so bad to die?" He paused. "You know, Rem, it's occurred to me more than once that even while you taught me all the wrongs of suicide and the wonders of life that you, in the end, committed it. Well … I guess it was to save the lives of millions … so since Legato's set on killing off entire towns just to get me riled up, my death would probably end all of that suffering, right? Except then Knives … would probably destroy humanity. Which would make your death in vain …" His breath caught in his throat and tears rose unbidden into his eyes. He squeezed them shut in an effort to stem the flow, but to no avail. "Dammit! Why is life so confusing? Why does everything have to happen to me? I just want to … I just want to live, dammit!" He flung the wooden confessional against the wall and it split and cracked, splinters clattering onto the floor. "I just want … I just … want to …" Vash dissolved into sobs, throwing his arms over his ears and curled tighter around himself. What am I missing, Wolfwood? Am I missing your ears, so apt and eager to listen? Am I missing your lips, ready to form the words that will make things all right? Was I wrong about you not being able to listen? Was I wrong about everything? Wolfwood … where are you?
***
Nicholas suddenly realized that he liked the carpet. No, more than like. He loved the carpet. He wanted to have an affair with it. He scoffed it with his shoe and ran his eyes over its red and gold designs and wished to God over and over that he could go and comfort the man who was now pouring his eyes out onto his pillow, alone in the darkness. But something told him that it wouldn't be right to go in now, to take Vash up in his arms and tell him that he didn't have to worry and that things would turn out all right in the end. So he stood at the door, hand still on the knob, and waited until the gunman's sobs receded into nothingness. Perhaps it would be best if I … didn't come back tonight. Wolfwood turned away from the door reluctantly, jamming his hands in his pockets, shoes tapping against the carpet he so much adored as he padded back towards the stairs.
He had heard voices when he arrived back at the room -- panic overtook him and his whole body went numb as he strained to catch the meaning of the murmured words drifting out from under the door. At first Wolfwood had thought that Vash and Meryl had … He couldn't bring himself to mention the subject when he was with the gunman, nonetheless think it when he was standing outside their room. He didn't understand why, but he didn't question it. But then he realized that Vash was alone, and he had actually taken his advice about the confessional. He listened, silent, though he knew that it was not the right thing to do. And when the confessional slammed against the wall, the priest thought nothing of the money he had spent on it, only on what drove such a sensitive drunkard to become this wild, raging demon. The priest had thought that a confession would be good for him, wouldn't it? It was always good for everybody. And yet … its results were not what he expected. What went wrong?
He pushed open the door to the hotel lobby and stepped out into the night, a brisk wind whipping about him.
Kill him. Those were my orders. To kill him. I knew even before I saw him sitting there, staring at the ground, radiating pain and despair, that there was no way I could ever bring his life to an end. But when he looked at me, it was like it was him who killed the kid. He's really an expert at pissing me off. I told him that I was sorry for hitting him. In a way that was the truth; I was sorry that it had to come to that. And yet, in some perverse way, it felt so right, so clean when my fist connected with his face and he lay there sprawled on the roof. But his eyes -- at first they were surprised, then angry, then just sad and pained. I've seen that expression too much on his face for it not to effect me. He just tore my heart out and ripped it to shreds, right then and there. If I even have a heart. I killed that kid. I pulled the trigger. It was my gun, it was my bullet lodged in his chest. I killed him. He was a kid, dammit. Gun-Ho Gun or not, he was a goddamn kid. Maybe that needle noggin was right. Maybe there was another way. Life is too short to dwell on the past, even if he lives outside of time. He sits there with that faraway look in his eyes, begging for pity and mercy, rethinking and rethinking his entire life. Which is pretty long, if he is who I know he is.
But when I saw him on the edge of that cliff … you don't know how much that scared me. From when I first saw him I knew that he was a troubled man, that behind that empty smile lay hurt beyond anyone's comprehension, even mine. And I know from experience that when you ache like that, when every moment of your life you're haunted by your past and the knowledge that your future will only bring more pain, death starts to look pretty attractive. Whenever I see him wearing that empty smile, I wonder if he ever feels like that. And when I saw him jump off the cliff … I thought that maybe he really was trying to end his life. So I went after him.
"Actually, I disapprove of suicide more than anything."
Yeah, right. Like I'd buy that. You may disapprove of it, needle noggin, but you can't hide the fact that you've considered it. I knew the truth even before you confessed into the darkness. Your eyes are more transparent than you think. You can't fool me.
I wonder how long I can fool myself. I don't appreciate false pretenses or wasted emotion. That's why when you sit there and cry into your hands, or hide behind your empty smile, I can't help but want to help you, to talk some sense into you. You talk about not wanting to take a single life. You say that no one has the right to take the life of another. But how many lives have I taken? How many times have I pulled the trigger and walked away, leaving them to die in the streets? Your fetish for innocence, your ideals of life and peace and love -- they just make me remember how many times I've sinned and how my whole life is a lie. I'm a priest, for God's sake. Strictly a religious man. And yet, I've killed. I've had my share of beautiful women -– and men every now and again -- and I'm not married. I drink. I smoke. Damn, I'm smoking right now and didn't notice. And I'll keep on smoking. What's another cigarette on my long list of sins? It's not like it'll matter much. But you … you're so innocent. So clean. That's part of the reason why you're so good at getting me pissed. Perhaps you'd be a better priest than I would. You're the epitome of all I could ever hope to be but could never achieve. And yet … you wouldn't be the same if you weren't. You're just … Vash. And for some reason, I want –- no, I need to protect that. No matter what the cost.
***
Well, here you go. A two-shot! Okay, well, a one-shot. But I called it a two-shot because it was from both Exhibit A and Exhibit B's perspectives. I donno. Vash and Wolfwood are just so … so … eeks. I support them! Yay. XD I'd like to hope that there's some lovin beneath my text here, but I just couldn't bring myself to write it. Maybe later. And you know, I suck at the relationship stuff. And one-shots will rule the world, eventually. Anyway, I guess it's time for me to succumb to the usual Fanfiction.net formalities—
Disclaimer- What kind of creepy jobless pathetic ex-lawyer would comb through a fan fiction site and sue every person who didn't have one of these pointless things on everything they wrote? Oh, but I already own Vash's glasses. And um … I own Nick's soul. Yeah. Deal with it.
Hey, did it occur to anyone besides me that Chapel sounds like apple?