Chapter Text
Wolfwood didn't wake up, not exactly. He just slowly realized he was thinking, like he hadn't been before.
He was floating, sort of, suspended in the—air? It didn't feel like air, but he could breathe, right? Did he need to?
It was so bright. Soft and cool, but so bright.
He lifted his hand to shield his eyes— 'oh, so I do have a hand, ' he thought mildly, seeing it in front of him. The thought should have been more alarming than it was—why was he surprised at his own existence?
He's awake , a voice said, high and gentle.
Suddenly, he could hear a thousand voices echoing after— awakeawakehe'shereawakeherelistenlistenawakeawakehere
"I'm dead," he realized matter-of-factly. He registered the sound as odd, and it took him a second to understand—it was his own voice. It sounded wrong in this place, and it was only then he realized that the angels weren't talking aloud. He tried to figure out what he was hearing, but it felt like pulling imaginary teeth, so he relaxed, letting his brain simply pretend he was hearing whispers.
The whisperroar returned, silent and deafening at once, and it was so much that he had to force his eyes to focus on the angel closest to him. She floated in front of him, a beautiful, terrifying mass of arms and wings and piercing eyes.
Almost , she said, in answer to what he'd said. What had he said? Right—he was dead. Or, if she was right— The others around echoed after her. Notquitenearlythere.
"Is this He—" he didn't know how to finish the sentence. It didn't feel like Hell here, it felt safe, but something in his gut twisted guiltily at the thought of Heaven. Did he deserve it?
Not about deserving, the angel said. It's not time for that yet. This isn't any place.
(Aninbetweenacrossroadsachoicetomake)
"So, Limbo?"
If you like. But it's time for you to go back .
"Why—"
He misses you , she told him simply, and the roar became overwhelming, a wave crashing over and past and through him—
Missesyoumissesyougrievesyoumissesyoulovesyoumissesyouneedsyouneedsyouneedsneedsmissesyou
He shook his head, hard, trying to keep his thoughts straight. It was hard to do that here, where his thoughts seemed to leak out into the air like their voices did, without their mouths ever moving.
"So you're going to resurrect me? But—"
She sensed the question before he could say it aloud.
Why? He saved us.
(Savedtheworldsavedussavedhumanitysavedeveryone)
He knew who they meant. Wolfwood would always know who he was. "Saved everyone but me," he tried to joke. The angel just leveled him with her gaze, firm and holy and blinding and kind.
He tried, he tried, couldn't do it alone, always does everything alone. We helped. He could only plant the seed, we grew it.
He saved us, we save you, you will save him.
"I—I don't know how," Wolfwood said desperately. He couldn't reject a holy mission, but what if he failed?
He misses you, she said again, like that was the only answer he should need. And now it's time to go back.
Wolfwood looked around. All the angels were looking at him expectantly. "H—How do I go back?"
You had a lot of our energy when you died. Too much for you , she said. Images of broken vials swam into Wolfwood's mind. His own thoughts, or theirs? It made you enough like us to find you when our brother called. But you're not enough like us to make it easy. She looked almost sheepish. You won't be fully there at first. It will hurt.
She raised a hand gently, arms unfolding from the wings surrounding her. Her fingers touched the middle of his brow lightly, smoothing out the furrow he hadn't realized had appeared. But he will be there, she said gently. We called him here. We told him we had something to show him.
And then she pushed his head back with the hand still resting on his face, and he fell.
***
He was still suspended, when he came to awareness again, still unable to move. Something surrounded him—firm and almost warm. He could see through it, but it was like a dream—foggy and dark.
But he looked anyway—and there he was.
The red coat was the same, and the sad, sad eyes, but the spikey hair was now pitch black. He looked thin and tired, and he was staring forward. Not at Wolfwood—almost through him.
Wolfwood's thoughts felt very slow, but he still felt a pang of something sharp in his chest seeing him. He could hear the angel again, further away, like her voice was echoing from a great distance. She wasn't talking to Wolfwood anymore.
For you, she said. She sounded pleased.
Vash, conversely, looked stricken. Thank you, sister, it's a lovely tribute, he replied, lips unmoving.
Out loud, he whispered, "I don't understand." His eyes were so, so sad. Wolfwood wanted to tell him to knock it off, but couldn't manage to move.
The angel's voice got firmer. Come look, she insisted. Vash hesitated. He clearly wanted to be anywhere but here.
Don't you see me? Wolfwood thought, confused. I'm right here.
Vash turned his head, eyes snapping to the side. He cocked his head, listening, then shook it hard in disbelief. "I'm losing my mind," he muttered, hopelessly, but he took a step forward and put his hand on the bark of the tree.
He was so close to Wolfwood. Like he could practically—
And his tree made an awful creaking sound as Wolfwood tried to reach forward. Vash took a horrified step back.
For you, the angel thought again, and Vash somehow took it as admonishment.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do anything, I didn't think I was doing anything—" he said, both in his mind and out loud.
Wolfwood reached forward again, to make Vash somehow stop apologizing for doing nothing wrong, and this time it worked.
The tree that was Wolfwood ripped open with an awful cracking noise, wetter and more visceral of a sound than anyone would expect from a thing made of wood. Vash's eyes were wide and panicked, and it kept splitting until there was finally enough space, and Wolfwood reached out for Vash's hand.
Vash grabbed it like it was a lifeline and pulled. Wolfwood could feel the tree's insides ripping —out of his skin, his throat, his eyes—unearthing roots. It was pure agony, like his veins and nerves had tangled up with the tree's, and now he was being ripped apart. Like he'd been the tree until moments before.
Vash pulled, hands clasped so tightly around Wolfwood's that he could feel the imprint of the leather gloves in his skin even as his body screamed and ripped apart.
"Vash—" he choked, roots tearing from his throat enough for him to force air through it.
He could barely see, but Vash looked like—he looked holy. There were feathers floating around him, wings ripping apart the tree around him to free him while Wolfwood held onto Vash's hands and—
The final roots snapped, and he went flying forward, collapsing onto the ground and wheezing. He could see blood around him, sinking into the dirt—or, no, sap? both? The tree was oozing something that didn't seem fully like either one.
His entire body felt flayed—every hacking breath he took (how long since he'd taken a breath?) sent shocks of pain across every inch of skin and muscle. Was birth this hard for babies? he thought deliriously. No, I had a whole root system. Lucky bastards only have umbilical cords. It probably hurts less to only be attached once. He took another shuddering breath, blinking blood-sap out of his eyes. He could see Vash's legs as he knelt in front of him, and looked up.
Vash was trembling, his eyes obscured behind the yellow lenses of his glasses, his hands outstretched like he wanted to touch Wolfwood but wasn't sure if he was allowed.
Wolfwood couldn't think straight. Out of the tree, his thoughts felt muddled, like half of them had ripped out of him with the tree branches. He shook his head, hard. "Do you have a belly button?" he slurred. His tongue didn't feel right.
"I— What ?" Vash said, and Wolfwood's arms gave out. He almost landed face down in the dirt, but Vash caught him. He grimaced a bit from the feeling of leather gloves on the raw skin of his shoulders, but it felt so nice to be a little boneless. He leaned forward more, slumping into Vash's arms.
"Wolfwood?" Vash asked—so softly, a broken thing. His voice was shaking.
"'M here, 'm alive," he mumbled urgently. That fact felt important, though he couldn't tell anyone why. His thoughts were floating away like sad, wispy clouds in the desert heat. "Hurts like a bitch, though. Also, I think I'm naked."
Vash made a strangled sound. Wolfwood wheezed out a laugh. His head was light and spinning and empty. "Think 'm gonna pass out now," he told Vash, politely trying to give him a warning.
"No, no no no," Vash said frantically. "You gotta stay up, don't do this to me again, I can't take it, I can't do this more than once—"
"Christ, Spikey, no one's dying," he said. Vash's mouth snapped shut like he'd been shot. Wolfwood felt a little bad, since he'd clearly said the wrong thing, but his head hurt, and Vash's jacket was warm, and his arms were holding Wolfwood, and Wolfwood was breathing, which felt odd, and it felt odd that it felt odd.
He turned his head a bit, trying to see Vash's face. Vash was looking up and behind him at the tree, and his lips were moving. Wolfwood closed his eyes, and very far away he could hear a gentle voice. It reminded him of an angel, he thought.
For you, brother.
And quiet, distantly echoing, Vash's voice— Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you—
Wolfwood closed his eyes and let sleep finally take him.