(Okay--first story ever posted here. Guess I'll see how it goes. Crouches in corner hoping)

I love Trigun, and I love The Sandman, and I was depressed to only find two stories (at least the only two I found) that did a cross-over of them. Actually, the lines "He's too good to die/He's too good not to die" was from the story "A Memory of Truth" by Cadence--please don't kill me for using it (I did change it around a bit)! I'm only doing so because I loved the way it was used in her story. Go read it! Even before you read this, if you want!

Unfortunately, I haven't actually seen Trigun in a long while, so I apologize for the way this kind of all of a sudden starts. It seems realy awkward to me, and I would have really liked to have begun it upon Wolfwood walking into the church, but I couldn't remember everything he said. So instead of winging it and making half of it up in a way I would eventually hate and delete anyway, I decided to skip it. Please forgive. Eventually I'd like to add to the beginning to alleviate this problem.

Also, Wolfwood's age was never quite specified. It seems to be that the general consensus is that he's somewhere in his late 20's, 28 being the most common age I found. And seeing as how a couple years pass in the series, I figured he had to be damn close to 30 by the end. So I made him 30. But age is hardly a major issue in this story anyway.

Obligatory CYA: I don't own Trigun or The Sandman, or any characters involved in either, etc. Enjoy!

With an effort, Wolfwood craned his neck back and raised his head to look up at the massive cross in front of him. "I did not want to die this way!" he managed to barely shout in a strangled voice, irrationally thinking that the louder he was, the more likely God was to let him stay and live. But as soon as the echo of his words off the walls and empty pews died out, an extreme fatigue overcame him,somewhat like a warm blanket on a cold night. His hand dropped to the carpet, next to the barely smoked cigarette. He let his head slump forward, his shoulder against his own cross that he had borne all these harsh years. As he supported the weapon and consequently let the weapon support himself, it seemed a great sigh went through his body. Finally, with the late-afternoon sun streaming in through the stained glass, Wolfwood closed his eyes and let the silence of the church envelope him.

A great beating of wings was heard somewhere in the recess of his mind, as if it was iles away, and he let his eyes drift open again, blinking a couple times in what might have been confusion. Lifting his eyes but not moving his head, he saw a pair of heavy, heeled black boots standing in front of him. He followed them until he saw a pair of petite, feminine legs attached, covered in a black pants and topped with a black studded belt.

She smiled softly down at him, the expression having to be the most compassionate and loving thing he'd ever seen. Despite how he'd been an orphan and had never known what it was like to have somewhere to truly belong, looking up into her kind and knowing and beautiful face, he suddenly had a sense of homecoming.

She offered a small pale hand to him—a hand that had never been touched by the harsh desert suns—and Wolfwood reached up with his own to meet it, allowing her to help him stand. He didn't bother with his cross, and was vaguely surprised when he didn't hear it crash and fall behind him.

"Hello, Nicholas," she said with a smile as he towered over her.

"Do I…" he began unsurely, "…do I know you?"

Again she smiled, and simply nodded. "You do, as does everyone. But very, very few remember when they first met me."

"Then who…?"

As an answer, she gestured with her hand to the spot where he had been kneeling.

Suddenly it became apparent as to why he hadn't heard his cross fall. His body was still leaning up against it.

Wolfwood's face fell into a resigned frown as he realized what had happened. He turned and looked back at the girl beside him. "So you're…" He somehow couldn't finish his statement, but she knew what he was going to say anyway, and nodded, that kind and understanding expression never leaving her face. Death.

He found it hard to believe. "So that's…that's all I get?"

Death smiled slightly, as if amused by something she remembered from the past. "You got a lifetime."

"But it was so short…" He couldn't keep his eyes off his now dead body and the shaggy black hair that covered his head.

"It's always short," she told him, "no matter if it's thirty years or thirty-thousand years."

Wolfwood sighed. "Guess the Big Guy must have thought it was my time to go."

"Actually, things like this have less to do with him that you might think," she admitted with a hint of amusement.

Despite himself, Wolfwood cracked a lopsided short-lived smile. Absently, he reached toward the inside of his jacket for a cigarette, but then stopped when he realized he didn't actually feel like smoking (and since he was dead, he probably wouldn't have been able to anyway). The movement had been done out of habit, not to appease nicotine cravings. He let out a laugh at that, letting his eyes settle on the broken cigarette on the carpet. "Imagine that. I don't want to smoke."

Death grinned. "It was a bad habit anyway," she admitted, placing her hand lightly on his arm. "Come on, Nicholas. It's time for you to go." And she hooked her arm through his, leading him down the blood-spotted aisle-way, their feet not disturbing anything.

He glanced back at his body with a sense of regret, pausing in his stride. "I wish I could stick around for a while," he mused sorrowfully. "See how this all pans out." He looked back down at Death. "You know what'll happen, don't you?"

"Such information isn't my realm," she admitted. "You'd want to take that up with my big brother."

Wolfwood looked confused for a mere moment, then worried. "But Vash and Knives… I mean, what if Vash…?" He wasn't being very good about finishing his sentences, he knew. "He's too good to die."

"He's too good not to die," she told him gently. "And he will, one of these days. But when, and where, and how, and why isn't for me to know. It's just for me to be there for him when he does die."

A sigh escaped Wolfwood as he resumed his slow walk, Death's hand still genially looped around his arm, as if she were the sister he'd never had. "Can I at least say goodbye to the big girl?" he asked, looking down at her with pleading eyes.

Sadly, Death shook her head. "I'm sorry, Nick. I can't let you do that."

"But—" he began to protest lamely, but cut himself off, sighing again and letting his shoulders slope underneath his suit-jacket. "I guess it's for the better," he murmured.

Death nodded in agreement. "It would just make things worse. Don't you worry about her." And she smiled a smile that squelched any fears or misgivings he might have had.

Wolfwood was about to ask if there was any hidden meaning under her words as they passed through the open door of the church and into the dusky sun, but was distracted by the orange glint of light off her silver necklace. He hadn't paid it much attention until now, and he realized it looked vaguely familiar, hanging low over her black tank top. "Isn't that a symbol from old Earth?" he asked, looking at it.

"Yup. Ancient Egyptian. An ankh," she told him cheerfully, knowing the references would be lost on him. "It was the symbol for life."

That brought his black brows together in puzzlement. "Life? But you're Death. Why wear a symbol for life?"

Death smiled up at him kindly. "Because life would be meaningless without me." And she took hold of his hand once more, leaving only the sound of beating wings in the desert air.

Since this is my first (I just lost my fan-fic virginity!) any comments would be much appreciated, thanks!