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The cigarette had long burned out, but Wolfwood still clung onto it as if it were his cross. He only had one pack left, which he had forgotten in the other room when they arrived at this old, run down house a few hundred miles north of May City. He wouldn’t have dared to leave the room, even for as short a trip as to retrieve them.
He dozed in and out in the light from the closed window. A lone bird tweeted on the other side of the glass in its search for anything to help it survive. It found nothing. It fled like a thief in the night.
He hadn’t moved in hours. He had adjusted in the uncomfortable wooden chair, crossed and uncrossed his legs, but he hadn’t truly moved. Two empty bottles of Maker’s Mark and a full ashtray rested on the table beside him. He remained in purgatory between the sleeping world and the waking one, just as he had since the incident. He was much more scared of falling asleep than he was of the headache that would accompany staying awake.
The squeaking of the mattress snapped him back to lucidity. Vash the Stampede slept mere feet from him under a paper thin sheet and a quilt not much thicker. He was breathing through his mouth, each breath as cruel a punishment as the last. His skin reflected the first rays of light streaming in from the window. Wolfwood could have sworn in the moment that he shined like an angel.
He listened attentively to his labored breaths for any signs of slowing. He had missed it the first time. He wouldn’t let himself make the same mistake twice.
What met his ears was not the sound he was expecting.
The sound of Vash’s stomach rumbling almost gave him hope. Maybe after a week of forcing whatever they could get down his throat, he was finally regaining his appetite.
The cigarette fell from between his fingers and onto the floor below. It fit right in with the sand built up in the corners and strewn around the hardwood. Wolfwood approached the bed and placed the back of his hand onto Vash’s forehead. He was burning up, just as he had been for days.
His hope dwindled once more. The pit returned to his stomach. One of these days, he would learn to stop holding out for miracles.
Gingerly, he slid his hand from his forehead to his cheek. “Hang tight, Spikey.” He whispered, as to not disturb him. “I’ll find you something.”
No response. He didn’t know why he expected anything different.
The floorboards creaked underneath his weight as he walked to the bedroom door. The room they kept him in was the only complete room left in the house. Broken windows and collapsed portions of walls made up the only shelter they could afford to take when racing against time. Nobody wanted to say it out loud, but they knew they did the right thing by taking the first thing they could find. Last night proved that much as fact.
The drastic temperature difference as soon as he opened the door was enough to take him off guard. The hot desert sun had more access here than it did the bedroom. The Insurance Girls were nowhere to be seen, but all of the luggage they dropped at the front door the night before remained untouched. He assumed they were still asleep. Any reasonable person would be. He was aware he had lost his mind. He lost it when he nearly lost the only person he could call his family. He lost it when he lost Vash.
He dug through the pile of bags until he found the rations. The black duffle bag was lighter than any of them were comfortable with, but they were in no shape to replenish them now. Even if money wasn't all but expended, they were a few days from the closest city by Thomas, and the van had taken them as far as she could. He dug through to see if he could find something, anything, he thought Vash would be able to keep down.
He finally settled on a can of soup, if one could call it that. The noodles tasted like glue and the broth was like drinking salt water, but it was food. If it would keep him on No Man’s Land for one more day, he would take it.
He debated tearing apart some of the wall to start a fire, but he didn’t want to leave him for that long. Even this was longer than he would have liked. It wasn't worth the food tasting slightly more edible. It would serve its purpose, hot or cold.
He took a seat on a torn open plush couch. Dust and stuffing bursted into the air in a flourish, twisting and shining in the early morning light. Wolfwood pried open the lid of the metal tin with the tip of a hunting knife. Immediately, the familiar smell reached his nose. He couldn’t help but to grimace.
He dug into the bag once more until he found the pot lid from their mess kit. He gave it a once over to make sure it was clean enough. He wiped it off with his sleeve for good measure. It would work as a plate for now. With the tip of the knife he used to open it, he scooped the limp, soggy noodles into the lid.
“Don’t be wasteful,” He heard her voice before he noticed her approaching. The room she and Millie were sleeping in no longer possessed a door and she had the silent footsteps of a cat.
He responded without stopping his task. “Who said I was wasting it?” He asked. With the next scoop of noodles, he held the knife to his mouth and let them slide down his throat without so much as chewing them. He found them easier to stomach when he didn’t have to taste them long.
She immediately seemed to have understood. She looked at him sadly from behind the couch before deciding to invite herself to sit beside him. “I think I owe you an apology,” she moved her leg away from an exposed spring she hadn’t noticed before propping her head up on her hands. “If I had just continued on to May instead of stopping for the night, maybe he wouldn’t have-”
“You don’t owe anyone an apology.” He cut her off. “If the van didn’t have enough gas to start once we parked it here, I imagine it wouldn't have gotten too far before it gave up on us in the middle of the desert. You made the right choice in stopping. At least here, he has a bed and a roof.”
She didn’t seem to have much to say to that. They sat in thick, uncomfortable silence until Wolfwood finished his mindless task of relieving the soup of its noodles. The millions of things to say remained wordlessly between them. He sat the knife down on the arm of the couch and traded it for the plate. He held it out to Meryl. “Don’t push them off on me! You’re the one who opened the can!”
He figured it was worth a shot.
He chuckled a little under his breath. “Alright, alright,” he resigned. “I suppose it's only fair.” The floor, the couch, and his joints complained as he stood once again. He carried the can in one hand and the plate of noodles in the other. The fresh pack of cigarettes laid undisturbed.
The room remained just as he left it: a mess. He closed the door behind him with his foot to keep the heat out and sat the food down on the table. He picked up the empty bottles and sat them under the table and out of the way. He would have been willing to drink himself to unconsciousness the night before if he wasn’t scared Vash would slip away in his absence.
He found the cigarette on the floor. He didn’t remember finishing it, but it was burned down to the filter. He reached for it just as he heard Vash start to move. He abandoned it again without a second thought.
He stood to his full height in just enough time to see Vash’s eyes begin to open. The harshness of the light caused him to close them again quickly, only to flutter back open slowly to meet him.
He could have cried. He could have laughed. He could have collapsed beside the bedside and did what he wanted to do for months: pull him into his arms and kiss him until he could no more. Instead, he just gazed on in disbelief as bright blue eyes squinted his direction.
“Wolfw-” was all he could get out before his voice record scratched to silence.
Hearing his voice was finally enough to convince his body to move.
A slow gait suppressed the sprint he wanted to give in to. A pained smile spread across Vash’s features as he approached, but the unbridled joy of Wolfwood being there when he awakened was evident in his eyes. He raised his hand out of the thin sheets to the man standing before him.
Wolfwood didn’t hesitate to take it. His hand was cold, yet damp with sweat the way only a fever can. He didn’t mind it. He placed his other hand on top to prove it.
“About time you opened your eyes, Needle Noggin.” He immediately set to teasing him. He feared if he sounded too serious, it might worry him. “You gave us all the fright of a lifetime, you know.”
“I’ll try not-” he began to answer before gritting his teeth in pain. He squeezed Wolfwood’s hand as tightly as he could - which was not very tight at all anymore.
“Don’t try to speak.” Wolfwood ran his palm from the back of his hand, up his arm, and back again. He tried everything he could to comfort him. “Save your strength for more important things.”
When the pain passed, Vash didn’t open his eyes again. He pressed his head back against the pillow with all the muscles in his face slack once again. Wolfwood looked on helplessly, knowing he had already done all he could with meager supplies, no money, and no medicine to speak of. What he could do was hold his hand and rub his arm.
He didn’t know if Vash had fallen back to a restless sleep or if he was still conscious. It was hard to tell the difference when they were nearly indistinguishable. He figured he should speak, just in case. “I brought you something to eat.” He moved the metal can to the bedside table beside the cup of water he had hardly touched. Vash opened his eyes. They were the only things he moved to look. “You should take it slow, but try to hold some down if you can. Same with the water. You’ll feel better.”
His eyes scanned over both of them before he closed them once again. He didn't speak again or move to reach for either. Wolfwood felt his lips starting to turn downwards, even though he was the one who told him to stay silent. He was hoping to see at least a little effort to make things easier on himself. He didn’t want to be the one to force him to eat. He tried something else.
“Before you doze back off, why don’t we check on your wound and get you some medicine, huh?” He brought Vash’s hand up to his lips for a gentle kiss before laying it down on the mattress. While he knew he didn’t have any real medicine, he hoped Vash didn’t. He walked around the bed to the side of his wound and began to move the covers to reveal his body underneath.
Much of his muscle mass had disappeared. Wolfwood had never seen him so scrawny before. What was once a body of hardened muscle was reduced to skin and bone, his strength stolen away by the bullet that pierced his side and overstayed its welcome. The blood soaked bandages spilled over into the mattress below. He wondered how long he had been bleeding this badly. For the days prior, they mostly held it under control, but bleeding was an insignificant afterthought during the incident. Wolfwood kicked himself for not thinking before now to check. He swore that if it caused any worse problems - if he were the reason for a second incident - he would never be able to forgive himself.
Vash opened his eyes once more to glance at Wolfwood. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. He could see it in his eyes the agony he was experiencing.
Wolfwood tried to be quick about unwrapping his bandages to change them. The sound of them peeling away from his skin would have sent someone more inexperienced out of the room, but he was used to seeing the horrors of mankind. The smell might have bothered him if it were anybody else, but for Vash? Oh, for Vash, he would have shouldered all these burdens and more. He would have taken away everything that ailed him and took it upon himself, if only God would have pitied him enough to let him.
Wolfwood didn’t know what was worse: the state of the wound or the sound that escaped Vash when he peeled off the last layer. He hadn’t even begun to change the packing in the bullet hole, but he didn’t need to pull it out to see the infection growing within. His skin was red and angry with irritation.
It was then that his heart stopped in his throat. If he had anything on his stomach to lose, he might have ejected it on the spot. He breathed in a deep gasp, stopping it from turning into a deep, harrowing scream.
Nicholas D. Wolfwood had seen many, many horrifying things in his years. None of them could have prepared him for seeing what would be Vash’s cause of death.
Small, black dots had formed all along his side and the redness had spread. Crimson streaks licked harsh lines up his side and disappeared down into his pants. His blood was poisoned. Even if the van had been operational, there was no guarantee they could make it to May City in time or that they would be equipped to fix him. On Thomas, there was almost no chance in Hell of making it, let alone a round trip to bring a doctor back to him.
He repressed it as soon as it erupted. He reminded himself that there was no time to think like that. He had work to do, and he needed to see it through. “I’m going to change the packing. This is going to hurt a bit.”
Vash nodded weakly. Wolfwood gathered up the gauze from the bedside table before realizing the alcohol he was using had been exhausted the night before. It now resided empty, underneath his table.
He let out a soft sigh before covering him back up with the sheets. “Hang in there for me, Needle Noggin. Let me get that medicine real quick, then we can get back to business.”
Vash’s slight smile was his only response.
Wolfwood felt the smile mirror on his face, then the tears in his eyes he didn't dare let spill into his voice. “I’d tell you not to wait up if I didn’t think you’d want to be awake for this.” He rubbed his arm one more time before he finally tore himself away.
He opened the bedroom door and closed it gently behind him. His hands shook. Whatever sense he had left, it would be gone by this time tomorrow. So would Vash.
He didn’t let the realization hit him. He was too busy. He had to clean Vash’s wounds. He didn’t have time to mourn a death that hadn’t happened yet.
He made his way back to the front door. He grabbed his last bottle of whiskey in their stash. On the way back, he noticed the cigarettes on the table. He snatched them up too.
Just as he had cracked open the door to the room once more, Meryl’s voice startled him again. “Wolfwood?”
He closed the door quickly. He didn’t know if it was to spare her or himself. He didn’t want to talk about the state Vash was in. If he could avoid discussing it into existence, then it wasn’t true.
She glanced at the bottle and the cigarettes in his hand. She had complained to him the day before about how he was being irresponsible by using substances at a time like that. After the incident, she didn’t have the heart to keep him from it anymore.
She could tell he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the glare he gave her without really meaning too, but Meryl Stryfe took the hint. “I’ll make this brief.” She tells him. “Millie and I are going to take the Thomases and try for May City.”
He knew it wouldn’t work. It was too late for that. But part of him wanted to believe it would. He felt a spark of hope rekindled within him, as against the odds as he knew it was. It died the moment it reignited.
“Stay safe,” he told her.
“Now, I know what you’re going to say, but Millie and I can take care of ourse- wait, what?” She stopped to study him. Confusion danced across her features. “No protests? No suggestions? Nothing?”
“You two can take care of yourselves and each other. I’ve seen it myself,” he assured her. “If there is any hope for Vash, it's in May City, not here.” He neglected to tell her about what he saw. Her eyes were still bright. He didn’t want to snuff out any hope she had left of saving him.
A hint of a smile grew on Meryl’s face. The spark in her grew into a flame. She was always like this: determined to her last breath to see her job through. Wolfwood wasn’t worried about whether or not she could, the good Lord above knew she could, it was whether she could do it in time. “Millie and I will take only what we need and leave the rest here for the both of you. We’ll do what we can to get more supplies, if we can.”
Wolfwood didn’t care to hear what she was saying. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about Millie or Meryl, that couldn’t be further from the truth, but he cared about Vash more. It wouldn’t matter how much food they left for them. Vash wouldn’t need it by the end of the night and the thought of eating anything made his stomach churn in knots. He meant to listen, he truly did, but he agreed to anything she said without really knowing what he was agreeing to. Until she asked to see him before they left.
“C’mon,” Wolfwood finally protested. “You know it’ll upset him.” He held out his arm to keep her from reaching for the handle, as hard as she tried.
“But he’s my friend!” She fought. “If I’m about to risk my life for him, I feel I deserve the right to see him first.”
“If he knew you were going to risk your life for him, he’d try to stop you. He’d try to get up and make things worse for himself. You know it as well as I do that his stubbornness would kill him.”
She went silent. Wolfwood immediately felt guilty. It was a low blow and he knew it, but he had to do whatever it took to protect what little happiness Vash had left.
Meryl wasn’t sure what to say. Neither did Wolfwood. The silence between them grew louder until Meryl finally found the words to break it.
“What if I didn’t tell him we were leaving?” She asked. “I just want to see him.”
How could he deny her that? How could he deny either of them that much? It wasn’t that he didn’t want him to see their friends, the ones Vash maybe even considered his family. He was just tired of the heart break. He didn't want any of them to hurt worse than they already were.
Slowly, he took his hand off the knob. As soon as Meryl reached for it, another thought crossed his mind. He quickly blocked it again.
“Hey!” She shouted, fuming.
“What about Millie?” He didn’t have to explain what he meant by that. The poor girl didn’t mean any harm by it, but she was the world’s worst about keeping secrets. She would blurt out ‘good bye’ to him or off handedly mention that they were going away without even realizing she had said a peep about it.
Meryl lowered her hand. “I haven’t told her my plan yet.”
That was just like her. She knew Millie would follow her anywhere without a second thought. Sometimes he wondered if she took advantage of that loyalty, but who was he to judge when he had willingly followed Vash places any logical person would have refused?
Love was a bitch. Who was he to judge a fellow victim?
That was convincing enough of an argument. He dropped his hand away from the doorknob again and let her open it. He moved just enough to let her go inside. He let them have their moment.
His body auto piloted him to the kitchen. Two of the four walls had crumbled, letting the desert sand and sun flood in. He picked up a stool that had fallen over years prior and set it back on its feet again. He took a seat at the bar.
He sat the whiskey on the counter. With shaking hands, he peeled the plastic off the new carton of cigarettes. One smoke turned to two, which turned to three and four. By the time he was on his fifth, Millie had emerged from her room and noticed him. “Why are you sitting here all alone, Mr. Wolfwood?” She asked him. Her eyes make their way to the counter and the four freshly burned cigarettes. “Oh, dear. . .” Her voice dropped with her face.
It was almost enough to make him break. Almost. He didn’t say a word. He took another long drag, held it in his chest, and slowly released it into the wind. He flicked away the ashes directly onto the counter. It’s not like it would have made a difference to use an ashtray. As soon as the next breeze blew, it would be gone anyways. Just like. . .
He took another long draw.
“Is Mr. Vash not getting any better?”
He let the smoke roll out from between his lips.
Millie didn’t take it to heart. She had chosen long ago to not let it be personal when others were hurting. Instead, she would help them however she knew how.
Wolfwood tensed up as Millie’s arms wrapped around him from behind. At first he stopped breathing at all. She squeezed him tighter. His lips began to shake as violently as his hands.
The next puff of his cigarette was the shortest yet. As soon as the smoke touched his lungs, he forced it out. He covered his face with his free hand. He didn’t want Millie to see him cry.
* * *
When the Insurance Girls left, Wolfwood hadn’t moved from his spot on the stool. He didn’t have the heart to wish them farewell, but they knew. Millie made sure Meryl knew.
He nursed his ninth cigarette of the hour. The thought of returning to Vash’s room was a double edged sword. He couldn’t bear to see him dying any longer, but the thought of missing his last few hours dug the blade deeper into his heart and twisted it. He asked himself how he could be so selfish. If their roles were reversed, he would want Vash to be there. He would want every last breath he took to be by his side. So why was it so hard to extend that grace to him?
He wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeves. He had ran out of tears long ago, but he didn’t want him to know they had been there at all. He held the cigarette in his teeth as he collected up the bottle of whiskey and placed the carton into his pocket. Damn it. He couldn’t hide from it any longer. If he did, he’d miss the last grace God would ever grant him : the chance to say goodbye.
Every step made his heart race faster. By the time he reached the door, he had to stop to catch his breath. Tears threatened him again. He blinked and tilted his head back to keep them where they belonged. His hand shook as he took his cigarette from his mouth, finished out the length of its life, and tossed it to the ground. He crushed it underneath his foot.
The soup had remained untouched. The noodles taunted him on the table beside it. Meryl's words repeated themselves in the back of his mind. “Don’t be wasteful.”
He popped the top back off the bottle as he walked to Vash’s bedside. The cork bounced on the floor before residing in its permanent residence by the corner of the room. One way or another, the bottle would be empty by the night’s end. It wouldn’t need to be sealed anymore.
The prettiest eyes he had ever seen slowly opened to meet him once more. “Mornin’, Twinkle Toes.” He teased him. “I brought your medicine.”
Wolfwood remembered all the times he told Vash that his smiles looked hollow. He remembered telling him how he never looked better than when his smiles were genuine. He could see it in his eyes. The smile that grew on his face now wasn’t meant to hide away the pain. It was there because Wolfwood came to take it away.
He couldn’t help but to smile about that. “There’s that smile!” He let out a soft chuckle. He held the bottle up so Vash could see. “My uncle used to give me a shot of whiskey when I would get sick. He said it would cure any ailments, physical or mental. Let's test that theory, shall we?”
He took a long swig of it himself before he slowly held it up to Vash’s lips. He took merely a sip. Wolfwood moved the bottle as he let out a few small coughs. “C’mon now,” Wolfwood teased him again, “you know my policy. You only get the name brand stuff if you can hold it down.”
Vash laid his head back down. He said nothing. Wolfwood felt his heart and his smile fall hand in hand.
He walked around the bed and moved the covers once more. Blood had run out of the wound and began to soak the mattress. He took another long drink of whiskey before grabbing the gauze and getting to work.
He didn’t know if Vash had fallen unconscious or had been hurting too badly to notice, but he didn’t budge as he pulled out the sickening ball of infection and blood that had been packing his wound. He tossed it aside to be a problem for later and poured whiskey into the wound. Vash jerked. “Easy, now.” He placed a comforting hand on his stomach. Vash started to shake underneath him. “It’s almost over.” He promised as he sat the bottle aside and began to pack the wound again with clean gauze. He used what was left to clean up what blood he could and wrap him tightly to keep it from moving.
Next time he picked up the bottle, he smeared Vash’s blood all over the label. He didn’t bother to clean it off.
Wolfwood sat the bottle beside the ashtray. He raised the once white sheets back over his dying lover. He lit up his tenth cigarette.
The temperature had started to drop. A golden haze casted out over the sands from the setting suns. Wolfwood took up his spot by the window, in the uncomfortable wooden chair his legs had remembered the pain of. He crossed his legs as he took another long drink of Maker’s Mark. He didn’t dare close his eyes any longer than to blink. He sat in waiting for the second incident, the one he would have to face alone this time.
He wasn’t expecting any more miracles.