Archive of Our Own

In the desert tundra of No Man’s Land, storms came on suddenly, without warning or mercy, and they cut like glass. Days spent trekking across the dunes and finally the glittering lights of July laid stark and bare against the horizon. And it was as though God had felt their relief and seen fit to punish them for it. It was but the work of sigh—forceful and breathless as it escaped Wolfwood’s parted lips—to catch the wind and whip it into a flurry of biting sand that cut at their eyes and skin like a million shattered shards of diamond.

Vash had been the one to reach out first, grasping Wolfwood’s hand in his, twining their fingers together. They could no longer see the city. They could not see each other, but as Wolfwood choked on air and sand, flailing for direction, Vash had held him tightly and pulled him hastily to his side.

“Don’t let go!” Vash yelled, and Wolfwood didn’t.

Nicholas D. Wolfwood would be the first to admit that he was a selfish man. If Vash was willing to spare his hand, Wolfwood would take it, for no other reason than because it was offered. He had a role to play after all, but only the barest outline of one.

The script was set in stone, the acts all coming together as planned, but the stage directions were blurred, hand-waved and glossed over. Wolfwood’s role was to ferry Vash safely to July, to Knives. As far as The Eye of Michael was concerned, it was the destination that mattered most. How he got there was inconsequential.

So, for now, Wolfwood would hold on to Vash for as long as he could and let go only when he had to. Only at the point where it would hurt the most. Because he was a selfish man and Vash’s hand was warm in his.

Vash hauled them through the storm, determined and unyielding. Wolfwood clung to him tightly with one hand, using the other to heft the Punisher upon his back. Bent double against the force of the wind, the weight of the weapon pressing harsh against his spine, Wolfwood allowed its barrel to drag against the ground. As they moved across the dunes, unseen in the cacophony the gun gouged a jagged scar in their wake; a line cut across the sand, quickly smoothed over by the wind.

As poor as their luck was, what little they had belonged to Vash. He was an adept at fleeing danger, at running as far as he could and taking what brief respite he could get however he could get it. At finding places to hunker down and hide—a bar to catch a drink, a bed to catch his breath—before picking up speed once again.

It was this skill that had always set Vash apart from others in Wolfwood’s mind. He was a typhoon for sure, a force of nature, unbridled and unceasing and unintentional in his chaos. And he was also a stampede. Unstoppable and unreasonable in his intent to run and never stop running. Yet, even still, for all his entropy, or perhaps in spite of it, there were often times where Vash could be unmoving, settled even. Because the Stampede was also just a man, and on some level, he knew that he couldn’t run forever.

And it was this instinct, Wolfwood thought, that must have led them to their ramshackle shelter. If not, then it could only have been an act of God, and Wolfwood was beyond certain that God simply didn’t like him that much.

It must have been a home once, the shack that they had found. There was weather-beaten furniture scattered about the floor; a broken table, a couple of chairs missing legs. A half-disintegrated quilt hung lifelessly from the back of one of the chairs, its colours faded with what seemed to be a parade of thomas’, barely visible, stitched carefully around the edge. The fading light from several small windows marked the corners of the space, cracked but holding strong against the wind. The door too, once forced open, closed firmly behind them, the wood worn smooth by decade’s worth of sandstorms and pressing hands.

Wolfwood let the weight of the punisher slide from his back, grunting in relief as he settled it gently against the door. He couldn’t shoot the weather, that elusive, intangible thing, but he could at least provide something strong to keep the wind at bay, a shield against the squall should the door come caving in.

It was only then, weight lifted from his shoulders, that he blinked the sand from his eyes and turned to Vash. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling against the dim of the room. There was no light source for them to reflect; it was as though the light came from within him, permeating outwards. And he was smiling. Not one of the fakes; those smiles were all teeth, wide flailing gestures and staccato laughter that sounded, from a distance, like sobbing.

This smile was small, genuine. It crinkled at the corners of his eyes, tugged at the lines around his mouth, and in that moment Wolfwood could have told him that it suited him, but he’d said as much before. Back when they had first met.

“So, you can smile,” he had said. “I was worried...”, and Vash had looked up at him with this expression—raw and open and devastatingly honest—that had carved into Wolfwood with all the finesse and efficiency of a blunt dagger. He could feel it then, as they stood silently together in that empty shell of a home, hands still joined. The blade twisting, scraping against the bone of his ribs.

Vash was still looking at him, relieved and happy, and Wolfwood met his gaze and grinned back in return. There was so much left unsaid between them, too much, but not this. Wolfwood had always been honest with this at least. He had always liked Vash best when he smiled.

The storm continued to howl outside, the maelstrom obscuring the windows and blocking out the fading sunset. So, they got to work. Vash began emptying their packs: sleeping bags, blankets, tinned beans and crackers for what could, at a stretch, be considered their dinner.

Wolfwood lit up a cigarette and chewed it between his teeth as he began clearing the space, shifting and breaking apart old furniture and tossing the shattered pieces to the side, scanning for gaps in the doorframe and windows that might let the cold night air in and blocking them with wads of fabric.

“Hey,” Vash called across the room snapping Wolfwood out of his thoughts. He was waving an open can of beans in one hand and a tin opener in the other. He was shaking them side to side like an overly enthusiastic child might whilst showing off a new toy. “Grubs up,” he grinned.

Breathing a weary sigh, Wolfwood took one last puff of his cigarette before snuffing it out on his heel and making his way over. Vash had laid out their blankets and sleeping bags across the floor and was already sitting atop them digging into his meal. Wolfwood went to sit beside him, crouching down only to still halfway at the sight of their bedding. He raised a scrutinous eyebrow at the sleeping bags, zipped together, creating one large cocoon atop their bedrolls. He turned to Vash and raised his eyebrow again in an expression he vaguely hoped came off as more curious than accusatory.

Vash coloured slightly in the low light, a faint blush decorating his cheeks, as he darted his eyes away, flicking them around the room, apparently suddenly very invested in cataloguing the various patterns of wood grain spotting the walls and floors. Chuckling nervously and shoving a spoonful of beans into his mouth he mumbled defensively, “You’ve seen it outside. It’s gonna be a cold night.”

Wolfwood stared at him long enough to get him shifting uncertainly in his seat, just for the simple joy of watching the pink of his cheeks flush even further across his face, before letting out a snort of a laugh and nudging Vash’s shoulder as he sat down to eat his own meal.

It was a fun distraction, watching Vash get so worked up over silly, inconsequential things like sharing a bed. It was surprising and weirdly funny, for a guy as old as Wolfwood suspected Vash was, to have such a strange obsession with preserving modesty.

The first time Wolfwood had removed his shirt in front of him, Vash had made a big show of diving away, curling up on the ground like a grenade was about to go off, covering his eyes with one hand and waving the other erratically in the air, all whilst yelling, “You’re a priest, aren’t you? Aren’t priests supposed to be chaste or something? Put those things away! It’s not polite to not give a guy a warning!”

Wolfwood had laughed at the time. A full belly laugh like he hadn’t experienced since he was very young. At the orphanage maybe, or perhaps even before that. It had almost been painful; his throat working against the unfamiliar sound, the harsh gulping breaths refilling his lungs, the sound of Vash laughing along, rolling around in the dirt, eyes firmly covered. Wolfwood had wanted to stay in that moment forever. For that brief moment, it had been so easy, tempting even, to forget that this was the man he had been sent betray.

They had grown since then, both closer together and as individuals. The world they inhabited was changing in a way neither could deny or forestall. When compared to that, a slip of skin or a glancing touch meant very little. Besides, Vash had a point, about the cold. Desert nights were far from friendly, and this would not be the first time they had shared a bed to ward off the chill.

As they ate, they settled into a peaceful silence and Wolfwood could feel Vash’s eyes flicking to him, drinking in his every movement, every expression. Vash had a quiet curiosity about him, and it was during little moments like these that Wolfwood truly suspected that Vash knew everything. Or at least he knew enough to try digging for more, prying beneath the surface bit by bit.

He must have been able to see the end coming; perhaps he could see the dark cloud of guilt that hung low over Wolfwood’s head like a shroud. Perhaps Vash could secretly see the way the shame of it ate at him, the way it tore into the flesh of his heart, the fine whisps of his spirit, and was just too polite to mention it. They both had their scars after all.

Any traces of good humour had been gradually and sullenly dampened by the bleak miasma floating about them. Consumed by the familiar wounded animal instinct to hide away and realising with a flash of panic that there was nowhere to go, Wolfwood decided to settle for yet another distraction. Something subtle he thought, not too out of place. Something that could pass beneath his notice. Anything to stop Vash looking at him like that. As if he could see right through him.

“Assuming this storm clears up during the night, we should be able to reach July by evening tomorrow,” he said.

Vash jolted almost imperceptibly, hand freezing midair on its way to steal a cracker from Wolfwood’s pile. He froze, fingers twitching as they reached out, and then, in one rolling motion, he seemed to collapse in on himself, shoulders drooping and head dropping low as he released a deep sigh. He sat there still, unmoving, eyes dimming and staring a hole through the floorboards. 

“You got a plan or are we freestyling?” Wolfwood tried, liking this new silence even less than the previous one. Pitching his voice into that teasing cadence that Vash never failed to rise to, he continued. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m down to rush in there, guns blazing, all that us against the world, you’ll never take us alive type crap; but that’s never been your style blondie.”

Reliable as always, that seemed to flip a switch in Vash’s mind. He was a new man, bouncing back like a spring, leaning into Wolfwood’s space and flashing a wide toothy grin. The ghost of a man who had sat in his place just a moment before nothing more than a trick of the light.

“No kidding!” he laughed. “It’s always worked out so well for you, right? Mr priest over here, not a scratch on him. Some of us have to look out for ourselves, you know? We haven’t got God to do it for us.”

Wolfwood knew that Vash was joking, sarcasm bracketed his tone like a shield. But the words still cut deep. He shifted slightly and with each movement he could feel as the vials in his breast pocket clinked together. ‘Not a scratch on him’, indeed.

But Vash was still talking, tone softening into something more reserved, smile growing pensive. “I’ll think of a plan,” he said. “I just— “. He cut himself off, brow furrowing.

Wolfwood felt the urge, the one he had felt a hundred times before. The one that told him to push Vash away, yell and scream and tell him the truth about everything. Tell him to run and never look back. To take him and hide him away, somewhere quiet and comfortable, where time could pass slowly and his scars could fade.

“You know, whatever happens, you’re gonna have to face him eventually.”

He had half expected some sort of outburst in response to that; anger or denial or anything other than Vash’s resignation.

“He’s my brother,” he replied, as if the answer to everything lay somewhere hidden within that simple truth.

Wolfwood had to still his hand from reaching out. He could feel the pain in Vash’s voice like the raised bump of a scar. It was not a defence of Knives that Vash offered but a simple acknowledgement of who he was. Before he fashioned himself a God, Knives had first been Vash’s family, and despite everything, he still was.

Wolfwood could remember what it was like to have a brother and what it felt like to accept that he was lost. Even now, he could feel that crushing weight that came with mourning someone he had loved and dreading who they had become. The pain that came with missing Livio, who had not left but had been changed in such an unfixable way. Drowning in the knowledge that this wouldn’t be the case if Wolfwood had just tried harder, saved him somehow. Indeed, it was a painful sort of love, the love for a brother.

It was not his place to offer Vash comfort. Despite their growing familiarity, the faint tug in his chest each time Vash caught his eye, Wolfwood so often had to remind himself of his status as an agent. He was the anglerfish, the honey trap, a pretty lie sent to lure Vash into the nest of a bigger, meaner monster.

Still then, that meant he could offer up something sweet, right? A grain of truth, a message, a warning; and if his superiors were to learn of it later—Wolfwood was ever aware of Zazie’s minions lurking in the shadows, watching— he could justify it as a tactic, an effort to gain favour and trust.

“Once, when I was a kid, I found a thomas,” he said, and nearly slapped himself because of all the truths he could have told, why did it have to be this one?

Vash just blinked back at him rapidly in confusion, jolted from his reverie by the abrupt change in subject.

“Um, ok?”

Despite his affinity for playing the fool, Vash was in fact quite perceptive when he needed to be. He knew that Wolfwood did not like to share, though whether he had figured out why was another matter. He was being cautious, courteous even. He knew that Wolfwood wouldn’t have spoken had he not intended to, had there not been some meaning behind this choice.

All the same however, he refused to push, just waited, eagerly but quietly. If Wolfwood had any tears left to shed, he could have wept at that. How long had it been, since someone had waited for him, let him take his time?

“There was this thomas, lying just outside the orphanage...dying.” He could see it now, twitching in the dirt before him, breathing harsh and shallow. It had been so small, just a little larger than Nicholas had been at the time. It could only have been an infant.

“Oh,” Vash responded, regretful. He stared down at the space between his knees. He wasn’t looking at Wolfwood anymore.

“Yeah.” Wolfwood looked dejectedly down at the tin of beans cradled in his lap. He wasn’t particularly hungry.

“I don’t know what happened to it,” he continued. “It was in a bad way. And the women all came out, those sisters who took care of us, and they said, ‘just leave it.’ That at least it would make a good meal for the worms. God’s plan, and all that.”

Wolfwood could see it now, looking up at him with bleary eyes. He remembered kneeling in the sand beside it, running his small hands gently though its feathers. At the time he had been so confused. He had never seen a dying animal before. He had assumed that it would be afraid. Instead, it had just looked tired.

“There was something about it, about the way it looked at me, I think. It didn’t matter what the sisters said. I just couldn’t leave it be. So, I stole a chisel from one of the work rooms and I went back to where the thomas was, and I started just...hacking away at the ground.”

It had taken hours just to break through the sun-baked surface. Splinters pierced beneath his nails, his hands had blistered and bled, red pattering onto the parched sands, drinking him up greedily. Once he had broken through the hard outer layer with the chisel, he had begun using his hands to dig, clawing at the earth like a dog.

“It took the entire day. Somewhere in the middle of that the thomas must have kicked the bucket. I didn’t even notice.” By the time he had finally reached for its body it had already grown cold. The feathers he carded his hands through, now stiff and rigid. Once tired eyes stared blankly up at him, half-lidded and empty.

“So, when I’d finally dug a hole deep enough, I buried it. Hell, I even went and found some flowers, cut them out at the root so I could plant them on top. Eventually, one of the sisters came out to fetch me.”

Wolfwood started blankly down at his hands. Vash sat silently beside him. “Do you know what she said to me, when she saw the grave?”

Vash had somehow shifted closer without him noticing. Food abandoned on the floor beside him, leaning just close enough for their sleeves to brush together. Wolfwood, despite himself, was grateful for the warmth.

“What did she say?” Vash asked. His gentle voice sounded harsh and grating in the heavy silence that had enveloped them.

Wolfwood chuckled darkly. That sad little ditch had made a poor excuse for a grave. Messy and unconsecrated. He hadn’t known it at the time, blood dripping from his hands, tears staining his cheeks, that it was to be the first of many.

““I suppose the worms will go hungry tonight,” she said.” He spoke with the cadence of a joke, a small, rueful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It fell instantly as he turned to Vash and saw the expression on his face. He looked so genuinely, devastatingly sad.

“You— “, Vash cut himself off. He was visibly thinking through his next words, eyes flicking back and forth across Wolfwood’s face as if trying to parse how he might react to whatever he had to say. “That was a very kind thing you did, Wolfwood”.

Wolfwood had to huff a laugh at that. He had been accused of many things throughout the twisted course of his life, but never of being kind.

“Not really,” he said, eyes downcast. “Not like I saved the thomas, right? Or the worms for that matter. I suppose, the good sister did have a point there.”

He looked at Vash, twisting his body to face him fully. “The point I was trying to make is...”, he trailed off, having lost the thread of the point he was trying to make somewhere within the swirling midst of his memories.

“The point is, some things are beyond saving, yeah? So, where’s the use in getting yourself worked up over nothing? Just bury it and be done.”

He wasn’t sure why he was suddenly feeling so defensive. Why he had even started this conversation in the first place. Seriously, what had he been thinking? Or had he not been thinking? Had he simply been trying to hide a truth and in doing so exposed one that hurt just a little less? Was it simply that Vash had been trying to see him and Wolfwood, despite himself and everything he had been taught, couldn’t help but want to give Vash everything he desired?

Vash was looking at him again, like he could see straight through to the heart of him and somehow, for some incomprehensible reason, liked what he found there. He was smiling at him, small and sad.

“Maybe it’s not always about saving them,” Vash said, softly. His gaze was piercing but far away, as though he were speaking through Wolfwood rather than to him. “I know I can’t save everybody, Wolfwood, but maybe, sometimes, it’s just about trying anyway. Even if you know it’s impossible, even if you know it will hurt. If it’s the right thing to do, then you owe it to yourself to try.”

He leant closer, bringing his hand to rest lightly over Wolfwood’s arm, fingers tracing the wrinkles in his suit jacket. Wolfwood barely felt it.

“You knew it was impossible to save the thomas’ life, so you did the only thing you could think of to make it’s passing a little easier. You were just trying to help in the only way you knew how. Maybe you don’t think that’s kind or admirable, but I do.”

Wolfwood was suddenly lost in the sensation of heat at his elbow, the weight of the man beside him settling so pleasantly in his bones. He looked away but couldn’t bring himself to move. Not yet.

“You’re an optimist, blondie. That thing was dead the moment I laid eyes on it.” The Punisher loomed across from him, an ink blot silhouette obscuring the exit with its bulk, and Wolfwood stared it down with a vengeance. “It was stupid, to waste all that effort on a lost cause.”

“You’re wrong,” Vash said, and Wolfwood wanted to laugh, because only Vash could choose such an inopportune time to be so damn stubborn.

“You were a child, Wolfwood. You were so young.” Vast squeezed his arm just a little tighter and Wolfwood could feel the sympathy in his gaze, even as he refused to look at it.

What was Vash even saying? A child, him? He hitched a breath, caught it somewhere in the back of his throat. Acid flooded his veins and choked his lungs; serum coated his tongue, clogged the gaps between his teeth; his bones ached, his muscles cramped, his stretched skin flayed open. It had been so long since he had been a child.

Vash couldn’t see the memories that seared well-worn pathways through the back of his mind. He continued, ever unaware of the damage he had wrought until it was far too late to undo it.

“Maybe you couldn’t have saved the thomas back then, even if you had tried. But then again...” His thumb rubbed gentle circles into the fabric of Wolfwood’s jacket. “Perhaps, if you hadn’t been alone...”

He trailed off and Wolfwood had never been more grateful for anything in his life. He didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence, didn’t think he could live with the implications. Because here lay the key difference between him and Vash.

Vash was always searching for maybes, what-ifs. What if he hadn’t been alone, what if things could be different, what if nobody had to die? What if everybody could be saved, if people were just willing to try and save them. Vash lived in hypotheticals forged from hope and stubbornness, and despite being met with disappointment time and again, he never let it bury him.

Meanwhile, there was Wolfwood... He couldn’t help but think of that child now, the one Vash had spoken of. Too small for his age, sharp teeth pulling at his gums, dark circles carved beneath his eyes. How telling, that he had seen a dying animal, and his first thought had been to dig a grave.

Wolfwood stood up, leaving Vash’s hand hanging suspended in the space between them before it dropped down to settle in his lap. Back turned, Wolfwood began clearing away the remains of their abandoned meal, shoving cutlery and leftovers into his bag.

“We’ve got a big day ahead of us,” he said. “We should get some rest.”

He was itching for another cigarette, fingers twitching towards the carton in his pocket. Instead, fingers brushed against cool glass and Wolfwood could hear the muffled slosh of the serum held within, like a river rushing past his ears after being forced beneath the surface. He recoiled, sucking in a sharp breath.

Vash mumbled his reply, a quiet assent. He sounded placid, reserved almost. Wolfwood clung desperately to the hope that he would leave it there. However necessary it had seemed at the time, that little walk down memory lane had left him feeling strung out and worst of all, disappointed.

He hadn’t expected to change Vash’s mind, not really. He had hoped though, not that hope had ever done him any good. Vash was ever the architect of his own suffering, clinging to his ideals like his belief alone was enough to make them a reality.

The world could bear down on him with nothing but malice and violence, and he would bear the brunt of it with a smile, all the while insisting that it deserved a second chance, that it could change. That people could one day be better than who they were, and he was willing to wait for it; to forgive and forgive and forgive.

Vash was a walking scar insisting it would fade with time, whilst laying itself upon the mercy of the knife that had made it, time and time again. Wolfwood had tried to offer him an out. A chance to absolve himself. He didn’t have to hurt anyone. For once, he just didn’t have to hurt himself. Vash, as always, hadn’t seen it that way.

“Wolfwood?” Vash sat still atop the sleeping bag, the tint of his glasses obscuring the sky blue of his eyes as they tracked Wolfwood across the room.

Wolfwood repressed a sigh, as he turned toward Vash and caught sight of the deep furrow between his brows, the one that hinted at that stubborn determination so often hidden away behind all the manic laughter and wide, swooping gestures. “Thank you, for the story. It was nice.”

It is so rare at any given time, to be cognizant that you are already living in the past, that the person you are now is just a fraction of what will one day be the person you once were. That the people you share your life with right now, could be memories by tomorrow, just shadows of faces you once knew so well, sharing your space for the very last time.

Wolfwood was all too aware that his time with Vash was ending, that this would be the last night they shared together, and perhaps, it seemed, so was Vash. There was a softness that had come about him somewhere amid the storm that they had sheltered from. It lay in all those subtle gestures; the shared sleeping bag, the shared meal, the soft touches not hidden behind excuses and necessity.

Oh, Wolfwood realised. He’s just as afraid as I am.

Perhaps that was why he couldn’t help but cling to the fragile, tiny voice whispering in the back of his mind. The one that told him, he would miss being known so well. That, however frustrating it could be, nobody had ever seen him in quite the way Vash did.

Tomorrow, Wolfwood would be selling Vash out to the highest bidder, the God who had made him a weapon. A God who, he was sure, had far worse plans for Vash. In July lay a man who would undoubtedly torture and destroy the only person who had ever looked at Wolfwood and seen someone worth saving, and there was nothing he could do to change that.

There was no turning back now. Wolfwood had always been intended to be his escort. That Vash was choosing to meet his fate head on, almost independent of his influence changed nothing. Tomorrow, they would make memories of each other, but tonight, Wolfwood could bare his heart to world one last time, knowing only Vash was there to see it and that he would undoubtedly treat it gently.

“I’ve spent my life digging graves,” he said, as he took in the sight of Vash sitting across from him. “Always figured that by the time I was done, there would be nobody left to dig mine.”

“Not that anybody out there could do me justice, either way.” He shot Vash a grin, sharp teeth glinting in the dim light of the room. “And besides, even after all this time, I suppose I still do owe those worms a meal.”

At that, Vash said nothing. He just looked up at him with eyes far too old for his face, eyes that had seen far too much. It was looks like that which reminded Wolfwood that Vash wasn’t actually human. That somewhere down the line, overcrowded church pews had become synonymous with sterilised gurneys; that rosary beads rang out with the same jarring clink of iron chains. Wolfwood had endured it all, understanding far too late that he was being cultivated to become the downfall of the very thing he had been taught to worship.

When he died, there would be nobody to move earth for him or place flowers, to sing a hymn or mumble a sermon; nobody who would dirty their hands for him and call it grief.

But he hoped he could do that for Vash, if that was what kindness looked like, if that was all the goodness he had in him. He could do that at least and maybe then, when the time came, he would be forgiven too.

He doubted it, but maybe.

The transition from dinner to sleep was a seamless and silent affair, a practised routine well-worn from their time on the road. Vash always slept shirtless, to prevent overheating, or so he said. Wolfwood was inclined to believe him. Despite the freezing temperatures of nights on No Man’s Land, Vash somehow captured heat like a furnace, emanating warmth no matter the conditions.

Wolfwood hesitated to admit he was envious. He took to chill like a drunk to an open bar; no matter how hard he tried to stave it off, the cold had an uncanny tendency of creeping up on him, sinking its teeth into his brittle bones before he even saw it coming. Whether it was just his body’s natural condition or an effect of his mutations, he couldn’t remember, but if it meant that more often than not, he got to wake pressed flush to the steady heat of Vash’s back, called to it in his sleep by soft dreams of sunny afternoons and glowing campfires, then he wasn’t about to complain.

The wind had begun to ease outside, hazy shafts of moonlight peeking in through the windows, illuminating the space, no longer obscured by whirlpools of sand. Floating dust motes seemed to take on an almost ethereal glow as they drifted aimlessly in the air above them. They each took turns to lay down within the sleeping bag, backs facing each other, empty air bridging the space between them.

Braced for a sleepless night, the now calming atmosphere did little to calm the nerves wreaking havoc in Wolfwood’s chest. July lay just beyond the horizon, still and imposing like the shadow of some great beast, hungry and waiting. That obscure tension that had built between him and Vash throughout the evening had lessened somewhat, but Wolfwood could still feel it hanging low in the space between them, a raincloud waiting for a storm.

Wolfwood wondered what Vash must be thinking, knowing so intimately the shape of the monster that awaited him in the Third City, what it must be like having to see its face in the mirror every day. Perhaps even knowing that Wolfwood fully intended to serve him up to it like a feast.

Turning back now would be worse than wasted effort. Guilt was already gnawing at him for the sake of one betrayal. If he allowed one more to take a bite it would surely devour him whole, leaving nothing behind.

Whatever favour he had somehow garnered with Vash would be lost the moment he realised exactly how much of Wolfwood had been a lie, aside from what he clearly suspected already. They would be hunted and perhaps Wolfwood could live with that. The gunfights and the beatdowns and the knowledge that they would each spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders, jumping at shadows.

It wasn’t the fear of running that stopped him in his tracks, however. It was the fear that he might have to do it alone. The fear that this man who had walked beside him for too short a time, who had witnessed the violence he could wield and acknowledged it without fear, had felt the weight of the cross he carried and offered to hold it for him, might never laugh at his terrible jokes, or share a meal, or cry in front of him ever again. That Vash might see him for who he truly was and choose to walk away.

Yes, the fear of losing Vash was terrible, but the fear of losing his trust was so much worse. And when all paths laid out before you are laced with pain and anguish, the road best travelled is always the one you’ve walked before. It will hurt just the same, but at least you know where it ends.

Shifting somewhere behind him, Vash turned restlessly onto his back, knocking his arm against Wolfwood. The contact sparked something searing and electric beneath the skin, the odd sensation building in intensity each moment Vash lingered. Wolfwood held the air in his lungs as instead of pulling away, Vash began to edge closer, the glancing touch of a finger blooming into a palm pressed flat against the fabric of his shirt, burning a hole beneath the surface.

Wolfwood’s breath hitched. What was Vash thinking? He was teetering on the edge of a wire they had walked so carefully up until now. The lingering glances over campfire light; the teasing brush of fingers over a shared cigarette; bruising scuffles, both angry and playful, ending in bodies pressed together, just a little too close, just a little too long.

The line they walked—the one that bridged the gap between friendly intimacy and something far more dangerous—went skilfully unnoticed, unacknowledged. It was a careful balancing act for Wolfwood, a metaphysical wire, the only thing standing between him and a fate worse than damnation. There was a stark difference between betrayal and defilement and one wrong step, one abiding touch, could ruin them both.

For Vash, it was a different sort of fear that stayed his distance. A typhoon couldn’t help who it hurt, who was swept up in its orbit. Vash had come to learn that his proximity was a weapon, imprecise and all the more dangerous for it. That Wolfwood had yet to get himself killed must have seemed nothing short of a miracle, and not one worth taking for granted. And yet, there they lay, close enough for Wolfwood to feel breath tickling the back of his neck and Vash’s hand remained pressed firmly in place.

“What are you doing?” He was afraid. Of what, he did not know, but Wolfwood could feel his instincts kicking in; lungs seizing, body locking in place. He felt with indescribable certainty that if he spoke a word out of place, a decimal too loud, his voice would shatter whatever tension had coiled its way around them, and that the fractures of this shapeless, nameless thing would slice him apart like scalpels.

“Nothing,” Vash replied, tone uncharacteristically reserved, barely hiding a thin trace of mischief. His fingers twitched against Wolfwood’s spine. “What are you doing?”

The heat was spreading now, curling up his back around to his chest, encompassing him fully. Wolfwood could feel something building, the same feeling he got just before an ambush, an inescapable instinct that something he could never have predicted was about to happen. Whatever the threat, he had to stop it in its tracks before it grew beyond his control.

“Needle-noggin—”, he growled, a warning lacing his words.

“I was thinking, about that story you told,” Vash interrupted.

Too late. Wolfwod had been too late. His muscles tensed further, flexing beyond his control, an inescapable urge to run clawing at his racing heart. Vash had begun moving, idly tracing patterns into the fabric of his sleepshirt.

“Don’t think too hard, you’ll burst a blood vessel.” Perhaps he could have played it for a joke, had it not been for the almost indiscernible pinch of a whine, not quite locked away behind clenched teeth. He spoke with the cadence of a wounded animal backing away from a proffered hand, fear of pain battling with the desire for touch. “It’s just a story, spikey.”

Vash’s voice echoed off the walls of the enclosed space conjuring faded impressions of chapels and churches; the way the stone walls had been built to house sermons and prayer, confessions and hymns. His words hung suspended in the air like stained-glass sunbeams. Vash whispered, breath ghosting over his ear, and Wolfwood could feel the weight of it settle in his bones.

“You know it’s not true right? That if you died, I would do it for you. If that’s what you wanted, I would bury you, Wolfwood.”

Wolfwood’s heart stuttered to a stop. “What— “, but his voice was frozen too, trapped within the air caught somewhere behind his ribs.

He could picture it so vividly: Vash, alight like gold shining beneath the light of the suns, dirt beneath his nails, tears in his eyes. Vash was one of the few people Wolfwood had met who knew how to cry so freely, so unashamedly. He loved it, in a way. That simple proof he had found in Vash, that there were still some people in their broken little world worth mourning. That there was still one person at least, who knew how to mourn.

Not for him, though. Never for him. Wolfwood could feel the dread prickling beneath his skin like a thousand tiny needles. Please God, his mind reeled. Please, let him not be saying what I think he’s saying.

Vash’s voice had grown impossibly closer, words soft as silk twisting like a noose around his throat.

“I would find you someplace nice, somewhere quiet. I wouldn’t pick any flowers. No offence but you don’t seem like the type. But maybe some of those cigs you like so much, you know that brand with the funny pictures on the carton.”

Wolfwood could feel himself shaking. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Spikey, stop— “. It could almost have sounded like begging.

“It would have to be somewhere shady, of course. No sense in letting the suns have their way with you, and besides, I don’t think you’d enjoy it,” Vash continued. There was a smile behind his voice. “But still, at night, somewhere the moonlight could reach.”

Please don’t. Wolfwood’s pleas were trapped within his lungs, choking him.

Vash was inseparable from him now. His warmth had suffused so fully into Wolfwood that he could almost feel it emanating from inside of himself. Like it had become a part of him, like it was something he could keep.

Vash’s hand, having traced its way subtly up to Wolfwood’s shoulder, now exerted the slightest pressure, turning him to face the ceiling. There was barely any force behind it. Wolfwood went willingly, he had no other choice.

Vash hovered above him, aglow, blinding, a living sun. His hair lay flat for once, framing his face in gold, tickling Wolfwood’s cheek where it hung. They were so close.

Wolfwood was reminded of stained-glass murals of saints and angels, littering church walls. It was so easy to forget that there was something of God in Vash. That it was that quality which had bound them together. Vash was tied to holiness in the same way that Wolfwood was tied to humanity; intrinsic and inescapable, they were each of them bound to a God neither of them wanted.

But that wasn’t quite right, was it? Wolfwood could picture Knives in his mind; distant, cold and terrifying. It was hard to imagine he could have once been a child. How one who had shared a life with Vash, could grow into something so antithetical to everything he believed in. They were so alike in design, but for the one tiny detail of their souls.

The distinction between Vash and Knives lay in one key ideal. Vash loved humanity. He loved them so much he built his image around them. He would give up his claim on the world to become a part of their lives, indistinguishable from the crowd. Where Knives saw parasites leeching off their betters, Vash saw people worth sacrificing for.

There would always be something alien about Vash, something he could never escape. The secret to it lay behind patterns; luminescent lines decorating his irises growing more and more visible the longer they stared down at Wolfwood, both complimentary and contrasting to the uncertain smile tugging at the corner of his chapped lips.

Vash was no God, but he was something close. Maybe, Wolfwood thought, something better. Vash was so far removed from his nature as to become something new, something malformed, misshapen and beautiful. Vash was a duality of being, both devastatingly human and undeniably other. He was, unto himself, divine.

And just like every other divine being Wolfwood had known, he was unrelenting and merciless.

“It suits you, I think,” Vash continued, eyes alight with an otherworldly flame, looking down on him from above. “Have I ever told you that? That to me, you look just like moonlight.”

It was like the flip of a switch, the pull of a trigger. Wolfwood felt the sudden sensation of change collide with his body with the force of an explosion. He burst into motion, instinct propelling him forward as he reared up, forcing distance between himself and Vash, grasping him by the shoulder and using the momentum he had gained from the sudden movement to flip them over.

Within a blink, so fast Wolfwood didn’t realise what he was doing until it was already done, Vash was pinned beneath him, gazing up at him with wide eyes. Wolfwood was surprised and slightly concerned to not see even a trace of fear in that look, just honest to God bewilderment, like he was still struggling to process what had just happened. He could feel the expression mirrored on his own face.

Wolfwood was panting slightly. He hovered, legs straddled over Vash’s stomach, hand fisting tightly in the sleeping bag on either side of his head.

“We’re not—you’re not gonna die tomorrow, ok? It’ll be fine,” he said.

Wolfwood’s heart was racing. He was lying again, wasn’t he? He couldn’t stop. He didn’t know how.

Vash’s surprise had abandoned him leaving only a furrow between his brows that spoke to his unease. “I’m not concerned about me.”

“You should be.” It was barely a whisper, but it left him like a scream, taking all his strength and breath with it. He hadn’t meant it as a threat, but Wolfwood was coming to realise there was little meaning behind most of things he did. He tried to steady himself.

“Whatever happens tomorrow, it won’t be me in the line of fire. For once, can you worry about yourself?” He didn’t know who he was trying to reason with, Vash or himself. Either way, it wasn’t working.

“Why worry?” Vash said. “You said it’s gonna be fine. I trust you, Wolfwood.”

The planet ceased its spinning. The stars halted their journey across the sky. The wind stilled. Wolfwood felt it all like a stab to the gut.

“You don’t know me,” he whispered.

“Liar,” Vash said, smiling. “I know enough.”

Their foreheads were near brushing now. Caught up in the chaotic swirl of his emotions, Wolfwood hadn’t noticed the space disappearing between them. His hips had lowered enough to settle lightly over Vash’s stomach. Vash breathed out a quiet gasp at the contact, barely catching the small sound behind parted lips.

Vash had always had a gravity about him, one that never failed to capture Wolfwood and pull him in, like a planet burning up a meteorite. But it was more than that. Vash was the focus of the universe, the suns, the stars and the spaces in between. He was a beacon for the detritus of the world to be drawn into, all so he could hold them close, cradle and caress their sharp, filthy edges as gently as he knew how.

And now he lay beneath Wolfwood, gazing up at him with tired eyes, raising his hand to skate fingers nervously across his ribs. Smiling that honest little smile that made Wolfwood think of effigies of angels and their stained-glass halos.

Wolfwood had never been surer than in this moment, that Vash was made to be adored. Loved in a way that only worship could allow. He was too late, of course. The path they walked was set, the blood spilled, the deals done. Wolfwood was long since damned and as far as he was concerned, he deserved worse for dragging Vash down with him.

But that did not mean he could not give Vash everything he deserved, here and now. To hold him like he was meant to be held, to cherish him with the same care and devotion he had spilled for a century worth of failures.

Wolfwood could not save Vash, but he could do this. He could return the gift that Vash had given him the very first day they had met. He could give him something to believe in, one last time.

At Wolfwood’s lack of rejection, Vash grew more confident, skirting his fingers beneath Wolfwood’s shirt, tracing gentle circles onto his skin. A light dusting of pink flattered his pale cheeks. “If this is something you want, I’ll give it to you, so don’t hold back.”

Pulse rushing, blood burning, Wolfwood lowered his face to the cradle of Vash’s neck, breathing in his scent; the sharpness of gunmetal and something sweet, like flowers. A deep wave of calm settled over him, a calm he had not felt for a very long time. The type of tranquillity that only came with certainty and prayer.

He knew what was being offered, that if he turned away now, Vash would not ask him why. That he could escape to his side of the bedroll, turn his back, and he and Vash could go back to wasting away the night feigning sleep beside each other. However, ...

All his life Wolfwood had been made to kneel; first before the God of Hopeland, then before the God of The Eye. Wolfwood was a being made for worship but this night, for the first and last time, he was being offered a choice, and he would be damned if he didn’t take it. He would choose to give over that sacred part of himself to the only person who truly deserved it, even if it meant he could never forgive himself.

“Wolfwood?” Vash prodded quietly. Wolfwood felt cool metallic fingers carding gently through his hair.

“Dear God...” he muttered, and he began to pray.

Our Father, who art in heaven,

This was prayer, Wolfwood had been told. Back in a time when he was young and had looked his age, wide-eyed and far too trusting. Prayer was bruised knees and clasping hands, beseeching whispers echoed off high walls and arched ceilings. Empty stomachs fed on paper thin wafers, parched lips sipping from silver chalices. Prayer was the cut of a nun’s habit, a chapel in an orphanage.

This was no chapel that he and Vash had found for themselves but as far as Wolfwood was concerned, it might well have been. The cracked wooden beams of the roof creaked above them, the wind-swept sand fanned in from outside pattered lightly against the rafters like rain, and Vash laid sprawled beneath him, the only spec of colour in the otherwise dim room.

The pillow he had made of his red coat pooled beneath him; his sun-spun hair, like threads of gold, glimmered in the moonlight; the blue of his eyes, striking as an evening sky, flared shards of brightness through the shadows.

He was aglow, a single star straining its light against the darkening of the sky. Kneeling before him, head bowed, Wolfwood knew that for all his past sins, this had to be the greatest, the most damning. A stolen glimpse of Heaven before Hell came to greet him.

Trailing gentle kisses down Vash’s chest and stomach, lingering over scar tissue, Wolfwood’s hand came to rest pointedly above Vash’s waistband. Skirting his fingers lightly back and forth along the edge he hesitated, darting a glimpse up to meet Vash’s eyes, searching for permission. A shaky nod was all the response he received. That, and a muttered, breathless, “Please.”

Discarding Vash’s trousers and boxers was the work on one swift, practised motion. Messily tossing them to the side, Wolfwood was shaken by the soft sounds of laughter. Turning to glare at the man beneath him, he was met with a grin.

Vash raised an eyebrow. “Not your first time, huh?”

“No.” Wolfwood mirrored the expression, returning his hands to the sides of the bedspread, once again closing the space between them. “Yours?”

Vash chuckled nervously, his hand instinctively raising to scratch at the back of his head, the movement laying down causing his abdominal muscles to shift, arching his back, drawing himself tighter and closer to Wolfwood.

“Generally speaking, no. For this though...” Trailing off, Vash darted his eyes to Wolfwood’s face, at its place nestled between his parted thighs, dipping his head to the side and chuckling around an embarrassed smile.

Oh. Oh.

Knees digging painfully into the unforgiving floorboards, Wolfwood glanced away awkwardly. Heat boiled up his neck and face, a deep pressure sat heavy in his lungs. He was blushing, he could feel it. Why was he blushing? This wasn’t supposed to be about him.

“Would you be more comfortable with... something else?”

Vash cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

Huffing in frustration, Wolfwood gestured back and forth between himself and the space between Vash’s legs, hoping to get some sort of message across. He would be the first to admit that his past experiences were...limited. Foggy memories drowned in a haze of whiskey and shattered dreams; desperate folks searching for someone to help them hide away from their misery for a night, and him, without a reason good enough to say no.

So, maybe he was no expert, but he knew enough. Enough to know that people never really asked for clarification about this sort of thing. They just did whatever they wanted to him, and all he had to do was lay back and let them. That was how this worked.

He wasn’t used to taking the lead, not for this. He was at a complete loss. Nobody he had been with before had made it seem like it was supposed to be this difficult.

“Do you want...this?” he tried again.

Vash smiled, eyes softening in an expression Wolfwood refused to call fondness, because that would just make it hurt more. Propped up on his elbows, naked and flushed in the cold air, Vash responded teasingly, “Do you really have to ask?”

His playful expression quickly morphed into one of gentle concern when his only response was Wolfwood, hunched in on himself, pressing a deep groan of frustration into the dip of his waist.

Wolfwood had always been bad at this. At identifying the invisible lines his body drew through what it considered acceptable, enjoyable intimacy, and that which always left him feeling ill and unclean afterwards. He had crossed those lines before, with other partners. It had never ended well.

He refused to do that with Vash though, refused to fake his way through this. Vash’s heart had always been too large for his own good, his care for others a loud voice whispering ceaseless observations throughout his mind. He would sense Wolfwood’s discomfort a mile off and he would feel it as though it were his own.

Wolfwood would not allow that. For once, he was the lamb leading himself to slaughter. The sacrifice and the offering, leaving no space for Vash to trade away his comfort. He would lay himself bare atop the altar of Vash’s scrutiny and if he was found desirable, then he would give himself up, wholly and without reservation. He couldn’t allow himself to hold back.

“I—there’s only so much I can...For this sort of thing...” He trailed off, unsure how to put words to this nebulous emotion inside of him. This feeling of too much but not enough. Of having so much to give but never enough of what people really wanted.

He wanted to tell Vash; I am not who you think I am. He wanted to say, I always take too much and give too little. He wanted to say, I have so little left to give. But I will give it, all of it, to you. Just ask and I’m yours.

When the words escaped him, they were quiet, reverent and regretful. He did not have the right to bare his soul to Vash like that, to shift the burden of his inner conflict onto him. What he could do was offer him the simple truth, as best as he could tell it, and hope that it would be enough.

“There is only so far I can go.”

Vash looked at him, considering. Time seemed to still, the air itself holding a breath in anticipation. Sitting up, he lifted his hand and slowly reached out, coming to cradle Wolfwood’s face in his palm. It was so warm and Wolfwood, despite himself, leant into it.

“I want you,” Vash said. It sounded like a confession. “All of you, just as you are. As much as you are willing to give.” Vash traced his thumb across the apple of his cheek, prompting him to look up as their eyes met. He whispered, “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” Wolfwood sighed. “I want you.”

He was asking too much, and he knew it. Pleading for an outcome that was never meant to be, a conclusion he himself would prevent. He had become Judas, weeping in Gethsemane for everything he might have been had God not made him unforgivable.

Drawing himself closer, Vash brought Wolfwood’s face to his, pressing their foreheads together with the softness of a kiss. He looked so peaceful, eyes closed like he was resting, and Wolfwood felt that same calm wash over him.

“Idiot,” Vash whispered. “You already have me.”

Wolfwood willed away the tears behind his eyes.

Vash separated them with that same softness that had brought them together. Easing himself back, he lay down again, the brutal softness of his expression lingering a moment more before easing itself into a playful smile.

Wolfwood continued to kneel before him, stupefied and held rigid by the avalanche of guilt and longing and fear and anger all roiling away inside his gut. He shifted and felt the shadow of The Punisher settle like a worn blanket against his back. Wolfwood welcomed it, and everything else was washed away in a crushing wave of acceptance. He had long since learned the shape of his burdens, and he knew how to carry it.

He was jostled back to attention by a nudge from Vash, knee tapping lightly against his shoulder. His eyes glinted sharply as he gazed down at Wolfwood, who found himself trapped beneath the scrutiny like a butterfly in a storm. It wasn’t a judgmental gaze; it was assessing, patient and observant in a way Wolfwood was wholly unused to.

Vash was waiting for him to set the pace, to decide what he wanted to do, and Wolfwood had to do something before that tolerance for his shortcomings inevitably gave out. So, he drew in a steadying breath, flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and relaxed down onto his stomach, head placed snuggly between Vash’s legs.

He began dotting kisses up his thighs, taking his time, slowly easing his way closer to the core of his arousal. Steadily, Vash’s breath began to quicken. He clung tightly to the fabric at his sides, working his hips in small, restrained movements. Wolfwood pressed them down with a gentle but firm hand, sucking small red bruises into the soft skin, soothing the light scrapes of his teeth with a brush of his tongue.

Vash writhed beneath him, heaving gasps interspersing with breathy sighs and moans that echoed around them like the myriad voices of a choir. If Wolfwood was going to set the pace then he’d decided he was going to take his time, to draw out every ounce of pleasure he could from Vash until there was nothing left but satisfaction. One last gift before the end.

Bringing his lips to rest in the valley of Vash’s groin, he allowed himself one final second to breathe. A precipice lay before him, an abyssal ledge he could not climb out of. This was his last chance to turn back, to stop the fall before it happened.

“I’ll be gentle,” he whispered.

Vash lifted a hand from the wrinkled blankets and used it to brush Wolfwood’s hair away from his eyes.

“I know you will,” he replied. “You always are.”

You’ll hate me tomorrow, Wolfwood thought. Maybe then, this will hurt less.

Then, he bowed his head and took Vash into his mouth.

Hallowed be thy name;

“Wolfwood.”

Vash breathed life into his name, breath fogging in the cold night air, remaking the sound into something tangible, something both visible and distinct. Vash uttered his name with reverence, reforged it in the furnace of his lungs into a nebulous cloud that floated upward on the force of his exhale.

Vash spoke Wolfwood’s name hushed with care, as though it were something delicate, something private shared just between them, and Wolfwood received that call like a benediction, spirit lofted like a feather on a breeze. He felt elevated, seen, and he repaid Vash by bearing down harder, working tight circles against his clit, the rest of the world fading around him.

Vash ground upward forcefully, gasping around desperate, choked-off moans. Wolfwood spared a moment to press his hips down, the dips and curves of the bone beneath digging sweetly into his palms.

He lavished his tongue thoroughly along the delicate folds, working his way around the dripping warmth of Vash’s entrance, drinking in the desperate sounds of the man above him by teasing between delicate licks and bruising suction.

For once grateful for his enhanced senses, Wolfwood could feel Vash’s every reaction thrumming beneath his skin. The heat of his breath, the twitch of his fingers in the bedroll, the aborted groans of pleasure locked tight behind clenched teeth, He could tell that Vash was holding back, not much, barely enough to notice. But it was there, glinting at the edges of his perception like a shard of glass in an ice bucket.

Vash was accustomed to performing. He had forged himself from the expectations of others, wore their presumptions like armour; masked himself in flailing limbs, crocodile tears, a grin stretched far too wide. Wolfwood wanted to tear him apart.

He wanted to break down the walls he had worked so hard to build around himself. Peel back the layers of scar tissue until all that remained was skin and sinew and blood. He wanted his penance to be unquestionable, to carve the memory of his touch into the ribs that guarded Vash’s heart, erase the need for fake smiles and empty pistols.

He needed Vash to know, once their journey was at an end, that for every lie Wolfwood had told, —every sleight of hand, every stony silence, every smile clouded and obscured by cigarette smoke—he had meant this. This was real and true, and maybe, in a way, it was uglier than a lie. But it was honesty, in the only form Wolfwood knew how to show it, and he would be damned if Vash wasn’t honest too. For this, any of this, to mean anything, he needed to see Vash whole and undone.  

Vash’s hips stuttered beneath Wolfwood’s hands in short, aborted motions. Beside his heaving torso lay both his arms, rigid on either side, clenched fists tearing at the threadbare bedroll. His eyes faced the ceiling, head tossed back, jaw tense under the building pressure of stifled moans.

Wolfwood circled Vash’s thigh with one broad hand and hiked it up over his shoulder. His lips closed around Vash’s clit, the small bud flushed and pulsing red with want. Wolfwood drew on it harshly, and he could feel the moment Vash let go, a sharp cry piercing the air as one hand darted from the blankets to tangle in Wolfwood’s hair.

Wolfwood pulled away to take a breath and admire his work. Vash laid out atop their sleeping bag, flushed and wanting, aglow with perspiration and the luminescent blue lines decorating his body with shifting patterns; attention solely fixed on him.

“Vash,” he breathed out, a blessing and a condemnation, all at once. Closing his eyes, he leant in once again.

Thy kingdom come; thy will be done;

His chin was slick with spit and the evidence of Vash’s arousal. He tasted divine; like the sweetness of fresh honey; like the salt of skin cut bloody on thorns; like grapes crushed from the vine, wine cupped in silver. Wolfwood drank him in, chasing the remnants of ash from his tongue.

“More, please,” Vash groaned, fingers curling in Wolfwood’s hair.

Wolfwood moaned, pleasing vibrations working their way throughout Vash’s body causing him to cry out, fighting Wolfwood’s hold even more, grinding erratically in search of the pressure that might bring him some relief.

Wolfwood bore down harder, working his way through different patterns, at one moment building tension only to pull back in the next. Gentle kisses interspersed with ferocious intensity, searching for that sweet spot that would bring Vash the most pleasure.

Wolfwood had never before felt the desire to worship at the altar of so selfless an idol, someone so willing to disguise their requests as pleas rather than demands. As Vash called out above him, whimpers tapering off into incoherent begging, Wolfwood felt a divine sense of euphoria wash over him. A sense of honour at being gifted with this vulnerability, at having the opportunity to give as much as he was being given. That it was a choice he could make at all and not a duty imposed upon him by one who cared far less for him than for the simple act of being served.

And Vash did care for him, he realised. It lay in the tense lines of his muscles loosening beneath his touch, the fingers carding through his hair soothing the sting after a tug, the warmth of his body pulling him in, holding him close and yielding to him all at once.

Wolfwood moved his hands up Vash’s body, fingers tracing the glowing lines twisting down his ribs and thighs, blunt nails scratching just harsh enough to raise fine lines of his own. Vash shivered beneath the touch.

If Vash was willing to give himself over so completely then Wolfwood would do the same; offer up his body, his heart, his devotion. If Vash wanted more, then that is precisely what he would have.

on earth as it is in heaven.

Vash offered up his pleasure without shame, without hesitation, alive with ecstasy and want, and Wolfwood was overcome with the sudden drowning urge to turn away.

As much as he welcomed it, reciprocated and craved it, he knew he was undeserving of this openness. That he was unworthy of the sanctity he was wilfully defiling.

Vash could not possibly understand the weight of what he was offering, he could not spot the guilt clawing its way through Wolfwood’s heart, tearing a hole through his chest. Vash could not have known when he had lured Wolfwood in like a moth to a flame, with those soft touches and whispered invitation, that his acceptance had been about more than just sex.

Wolfwood was a starving man, hungry and desperate beyond all reason, and before him lay the sacrifice he was leading to slaughter, bargaining his last shred of freedom on the mercy of the man set to slit his throat.

And he must know, Wolfwood thought. He must know that I am not like him; that I am just a man, and I am weak. And like any starved man, senselessly deprived past the point of hopelessness, he was helpless but to devour.

It felt senseless, cruel even. But beyond everything else, this was an act of atonement, plain and simple. An apology to the man who would not see him for what he was, before it was far too late.

Unlatching his mouth from Vash’s swollen clit, Wolfwood took a moment to appreciate how it glistened, spit-slick in the moonlight. Then, he turned his head, placed a gentle kiss to the inside of a soft, scarred thigh, and bit down hard. Vash arched his back sharply, threw back his head, and screamed.

Give us this day our daily bread.

On reflex, Vash had raised his right hand from where it had been gouging holes in the sleeping bag, placing it over his gaping mouth. Wolfwood didn’t see the moment that Vash bit down, but he heard it. The sound of soft skin giving way to hard enamel, the sharp iron tang of blood scenting the air.

Wolfwood understood the impulse, to ground oneself in pain. The Punisher was a constant weight bearing down on him, bowing his spine and crushing the air from his lungs. Scouring the wastelands for his targets, he could always count on that burden, not to mention the stinging brightness of the suns, the harshness of the sand cutting into his skin.

All this, so that when his weapon settled naked, cold metal in his palms; when the sand sat saturated and soaked beneath his feet; when the suns had set and all that was left was the moon to make the blood on his hands glow black; all this simple pain, so that in the moments when he knew he should feel something despite feeling nothing at all, or in those moments when he would suddenly feel everything—too much and all at once—he could be reminded of all that he had done and all that he did not deserve to forget.

There was a dreaded sort of comfort in the familiar that Wolfwood knew all too well. Even if the familiar stung like the prick of a needle or the cut of a knife.

He had watched Vash settle comfortably into that same sort of familiar before. He had seen it in the forced smiles, the skipped meals, the cold nights with nothing but his coat to warm him. He could see it now, in the litany of scars shining silver across his skin, his prosthetic arm casting watery blue reflections across the walls, overwhelming the shadows cast by the moon.

Wolfwood glanced up from between Vash’s legs, shifting his head and with it the prosthetic that still clung to his hair. He watched as its blue light cast a celestial glow across the expanse of their run-down shack; marvelled as the splinters of broken windows turned to stained glass under its touch, as rotten beams and moth-eaten curtains were transformed into marble spires and silk vestments. By simple virtue of existing, his body a testament to suffering and sacrifice, Vash had built a cathedral from their shelter.

As the scent of blood assaulted his nose accompanied by the sound of a muffled whimper, Wolfwood pulled away completely, the hand slipping from his hair. Vash made a confused sound, glancing down warily.

Wolfwood reached out slowly, like one might approach a wounded animal. He pushed himself up on his knees, took Vash’s hand delicately in his own and pulled it towards him, marking the small scarlet beads dotting the bite mark.

With a careful reverence, Wolfwood leant down and kissed the blood from Vash’s knuckles. He heard the sharp intake of breath and began to trace soothing circles across his palm. He licked across the forming bruise until it was clean before pulling back and twining their fingers together, locking eyes with teary blue.

“None of that,” he said, voice rough for more than one reason.

Vash nodded dumbly in response, seemingly at a loss for words. Wolfwood drew back as Vash pulled their joined hands to his chest, cradling them above his heart. Wolfwood nodded in approval

Familiar or not, pain did not belong in this place.

And forgive us our trespasses,

There were tears gathered at the corners Vash’s eyes, sitting pretty in the smile lines that etched the proof of his humanity so clearly on his face. Wolfwood absently reached out to brush them away.

Lost for a moment in the bloom of his irises, the sound of a hitched breath broke his trance. Jolting back, he could see more clearly the flush of Vash’s skin, a dusting of pink flattering the highs of his cheeks and painting the plains of his chest with splotches of sunset red. Beads of sweat dotted his hairline, the fine locks slicked back and ruffled, dishevelled far beyond the standards of their usual, artful mess.

“Nicholas, are you okay?” Vash asked tentatively, drawing his attention. He levelled Wolfwood with a cautious look, painfully soft and understanding. “I’m sorry. We can stop if you want.”

Wolfwood was caught in his gaze, a fierce swell of fear and sorrow rising in his chest. This was supposed to have been his final gift to Vash, and he had ruined it by getting distracted.

“What are you, my mother? You never call me that,” he replied gruffly.

“Had to get your attention somehow.” His gentle laughter echoed through the room like the tolling of a bell, the moonlight shining through the sand-scratched windows casting a halo through his hair.

“And you still haven’t answered my question,” he said, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind Wolfwood’s ear.

Wolfwood allowed himself a small smile and he felt Vash relax. “You want my attention, believe me Spikey, you’ve got it.” He pressed into the fleeting contact, closing his eyes as Vash cupped his cheek in his palm, warmth emanating outwards. “Trust me, you’ve got nothing to apologise for. I’m ready to keep on if you are.”

Vash hummed in response, lingering a moment longer, stoking his thumb down the bridge of Wolfwood’s nose. He released him, gently lowering himself back down as Wolfwood mourned the loss of touch.

“Well, if that’s the case, you better not leave me hanging.” His tone was light and teasing, easing them both back into the moment. “That is, unless...”, he trailed off, sly grin playing on his lips. “...You’re too busy enjoying the view.”

Vash was a vision, a statue carved by sunlight. He lay spread out, body unapologetically on display, toned muscles flexing as he eased himself back on his elbows. His pale skin glowed blue with alien light, the blonde of his hair framing his flushed face in a halo of gold. Between his legs, his arousal glistened in the moonlight, pearlescent and dripping like honey.

Wolfwood grinned in response, eyes trailing down. “No offense blondie, but right now, there is something else I would much rather be enjoying.”

His left hand was still tangled with Vash’s, and it didn’t seem either of them planned on letting go. He traced his free hand slowly down Vash’s sternum, fingers raising goosebumps in their wake as Vash arched into the contact, sighing in relief.

He reached the space between Vash’s legs and set to working him up again, rubbing circles with his thumb over his clit. Vash gasped and shuddered beneath him, grinding his hips in steady motions, and this time Wolfwood let him.

As he continued to work, Wolfwood adjusted his wrist, so that his fingers rested over the pulsing heat of Vash’s entrance. His eyes widened at the contact and his grip clung tighter to their joined hands.

“Is this something you want?” Wolfwood had to ask. He had to know for certain, had to hear those words. He had to be sure that one day when he looked back on this moment, he could do so with the knowledge that at least he had done something right. That when he crossed this line that could not be uncrossed, at the very least, he had not done so alone.

Vash nodded vigorously. Not good enough. I’m going to defile you, he thought.

“Let me hear it,” Wolfwood pleaded as Vash stilled beneath him. He had to be firm with this, to work to revive the dead animal remains of his honour, so that he might do this one last good thing. “Please,” he begged. “I need to hear it. Do you want me, Vash?”

Vash blinked up at him. There was so much in that look, so much that Wolfwood could never hope to decipher, but worst of all were the things he could comprehend. It was the understanding he saw there, working its way between the crease in Vash’s brows, the softness of his eyes. All they had done, everything they had been through, and all it took was that one look from Vash for Wolfwood’s suspicions to become a harsh and unyielding reality. Vash knew. Everything. Maybe he always had.

Vash pushed himself up slowly and Wolfwood let him, pressing into the contact as Vash raised his hand to rest at the base of his neck, cold metal stark against his burning skin.

They locked eyes, Vash’s fingers stroking soothingly through the short hairs at the back of his head. Then, Vash leant forwards and kissed him. It was a short kiss, sweet and tender. Their lips parted as softly as they had met.

“Always,” Vash whispered.

Wolfwood tucked his face into Vash’s neck and breathed him in deeply. Clenching his teeth around the sob that threatened to escape, he pressed his fingers into Vash and held him close as he cried out.

as we forgive those who trespass against us.

Vash’s warmth drew him in hungrily, walls clenching as Wolfwood pumped his fingers, gently at first, and then picking up speed as his moans grew louder and more desperate. Vash’s hand moved from his neck to grip more firmly at Wolfwood’s hair. The sting of the strands pulled taut against his scalp was electric, the hold on them just loose enough not to tear.

While he kneeled in the dirt of that crumbling, old homestead, Vash gasping and trembling in his hold, Wolfwood’s mind was cast back to a different time. Another life where he had kneeled in the dust of the broken remains of what had once been a home. Hands clasped together, pledging service to a God he did not yet believe in nor understand.

He had been young then, foolish, so easily lied to. First, eager to please, and then eager to rescue what little he had left in the world. Livio, the orphanage, the children and the sisters who had raised him. If worship was the cost of preservation, then he would pay it with interest.

Now, was the first instance in his lifetime that Wolfwood had come to kneel by choice. Vash, the only being he had ever willingly prostrated himself to. Wolfwood had spent a lifetime in prayer and not once had God thanked him for it. Not once, had there been a hint of understanding or reciprocation. Not once had Wolfwood ever believed that God could be as devoted and forgiving of him as he was.

But now Vash squirmed against him, all soft touches and desperate pleas and Wolfwood had not known that worship could be this. Loving something gently without shame, even when you know it will abandon you. Watching someone dig your grave and feeling grateful for the care they took in it.

Wolfwood’s hands were not so delicate now as they had once been. They had been worn down by years of sand, splinters and gunmetal. Calloused and scarred; they had spilled rivers of blood, buried countless bodies and he had not prayed for a single one of them.

Twisting his wrist just right, Wolfwood hit a sensitive spot deep inside of Vash and worked against it. Hips thrusting in time with the pump of his fingers, Vash worked himself in tandem with Wolfwood’s thrusts, grinding his clit against his palm.

They clung to each other tightly, Vash’s moans ghosting breath over Wolfwood’s ear as he clutched their conjoint hands to his chest, a shield for his beating heart.

And lead us not into temptation;

“Please, Wolfwood! I—I need...” Vash groaned deeply. Wolfwood leant further into his space to lick a long stripe up the side of his neck as he continued to work Vash’s clit, lightly scraping teeth along his throat. Vash shivered beneath the contact, tilting his head further to the side to allow him more room.

“Almost there now, blondie. Doing so good.”

Vash keened as Wolfwood closed his lips over the dip his shoulder, sucking a bruise into the pale skin. He could feel the mounting pressure in the air. It was the whistle of the wind before a storm, the creaking of a floorboard before a building collapse, the cocking of a gun in a standoff. It was the palpable and insurmountable knowledge that something was about to happen. Something significant and destructive and undoable.

As Vash ground into him Wolfwood hid his face against his skin, pressing kisses to the scarred flesh. Vash knew what he was, a scion of destruction and death and empty words. And still, knowing that, he hadn’t turned him away. His body all-encompassing, like it had been made to hold him, still drawing him in, sharing its heat.

Vash’s breathing was growing more erratic, his moans of pleasure louder and more frequent. His hips stuttered into Wolfwood’s hold with increasing fervour and Wolfwood was sure to meet every thrust with one of his own. He pressed his fingers deeper into Vash’s entrance, stretching and grinding the heel of his palm against his clit in wide, firm motions.

Wolfwood sucked in a breath through his nose, Vash’s clean floral scent igniting his senses. “Anything you need Vash,” he whispered, half-hoping he wouldn’t hear. Vash’s cheek brushed against his own, stubble scratching pleasantly against soft skin. “Anything you need, take it. It’s yours.”

Wolfwood could feel the glow of Vash’s smile against his own, picture the crinkles his eyes made. He could trace those smile lines in his sleep; they had carved themselves into the valleys of his memory. He couldn’t help but shudder as he surrendered to the crushing knowledge that once dawn came and with it the consequences of his actions, he would miss them. When all he had left was duty and severance, he would miss that smile and all that it had meant to the man who wore it.

Or perhaps, he wouldn’t. Vash had seen him laid bare, the gruesome and terrified truth of him, and he hadn’t turned away. He was here, now, holding him as close as could be, and he was unafraid.

Perhaps, if that were the case, Wolfwood could be too. Perhaps, there was another way. Perhaps, there was no faith worth turning to more than the faith they had in each other.

Vash clung to him tightly; his thumb rubbed gentle circles over Wolfwood’s knuckles; his breathless laughter tickled at his ear, the sound like music stirring something deep inside his chest.

Maybe, he could keep this after all.

but deliver us from evil.

Heat stirred in the small space between them. Vash was the brightest point in the room, skin glowing with an ethereal light that seemed to pulse in time with the frantic beating of his heart.

“Wolfwood!” Vash cried. “It’s—I’m—I’m gonna...”

He clung to Wolfwood like his life depended on it, the joints of their entwined hands scraping almost painfully together beneath his bruising hold. Wolfwood lifted his face, leaping at what would likely be his last chance to see Vash like this.

Vash’s face was blotchy and red, sweat glistening over his pale, marred skin. The corded muscles of his arms strained under the pressure of holding himself up. Purple bruises formed on his knees from his time spent kneeling, straddled over Wolfwood. His inner thighs were slick with a fine sheen of fluids which caught in the coarse hairs smattering his groin. Tear tracks bled down his cheeks and kissed the corners of his plush, chapped lips.

Wolfwood looked at him and knew with a certainty that he had never seen anything quite so beautiful before and that he never would again. Vash was resplendent.

I love you, Wolfwood thought, the words weighing down his tongue. He knew he would never forgive himself if he said it aloud, so instead, he simply tilted his face towards Vash’s own, pressing their foreheads together, as gentle as any kiss.

He hoped Vash could feel the meaning in his actions, read the apology on his face as clearly as a wanted poster. He hoped that should Vash ever look back on their time together, that although the memory of the coming days would burn like salt in a wound, that this small moment could act as a balm to stem the bleeding.

Wolfwood closed his eyes, bowed his head and whispered one single word. The only word worthy enough to carry the weight of the meaning behind it. The only word that could withstand the collapse of a universe, or the fall of an angel. An ending and a goodbye.

“Amen.”

Vash came with a rapturous cry. Wolfwood held him close as they both fell apart, each shaking in their own unique ecstasies.

Soon, Wolfwood would fetch some water from their packs to wipe them both down. He would warm a cloth between his hands and use it to clean away the sweat and the spend. He would help Vash dress himself, dust off his trusty red coat and wrap it securely around his shoulders. They would lay down together and huddle close beneath the blankets, wrapped in each other’s gentle hold. Wolfwood would watch Vash pretend to fall asleep before slowly but surely drifting off. Then, and only then, he would follow.

For now, though, he was content to simply work Vash through the final throes of his pleasure. To hold his hand and hold him close, joined together in rapture.

They set out early the next morning, suns still rising steadily in the sky, cradling the dark silhouette of July on the horizon. That looming spectre of the city no longer seemed quite so foreboding, however.

The wind had stilled its maelstrom, the sands had settled, and the air smelled clean and fresh. And in the early morning light it suddenly seemed so clear that July was no monster. It was just a place, home to a God and his people, and it was glowing. Wolfwood knew how it felt to be caught in the heart of something like that.

He sat atop the porch step, cigarette smouldering to ash in his hand. Since lighting it he hadn’t taken a single drag, just watched the smoke dissolve into the air, vanishing on the breeze. For once he felt oddly sated.

The click of the door closing behind him alerted him to the approach of booted footsteps, casual in their stride. They stopped beside him, and before Wolfwood could even look up, Vash had already sat down on the step, shoulder knocking against his.

There was silence between them for a time, surprisingly peaceful. Vash had closed his eyes, basking in the light of the rising suns, cheeks flushed from the cool morning air. Wolfwood was content to sit back and watch him, his cigarette burning down to nothing between his fingers before he was forced to snub it out.

“You ready?” Wolfwood asked, as he brushed ash from his fingertips. Vash opened his eyes and turned to him with a smile.

“As I’ll ever be,” he replied.

Wolfwood stood, reaching out his hand and Vash grasped it in his, allowing himself to be pulled up.

Turning to the Punisher leant against the wall behind him, Wolfwood took one final moment to take in the dilapidated shack he and Vash had found shelter in the night before. In the light of day, he could see more clearly what it used to be. Cosy, secluded and quiet; a home. The sort of peaceful home a sad little boy from a faraway orphanage had once dreamed of having.

He turned to Vash and imagined him in a place like that. Hair down, soft hands, coat hung at the door. It suited him, Wolfwood thought. The idea of Vash at peace, in a space they shared, a shelter they had built together. No more running for either of them.

Vash lifted their bags and turned to Wolfwood with a grin, sunlight casting a halo around his face.

Perhaps one day, he would ask him.

For now, though, Wolfwood hefted the cross upon his back, offered a grin in return, and together they set out across the desert. They both knew what they would find once they reached their destination. It didn’t stop them from hoping for more.