16-May-2003

Title: Resurrection
Author: bonnejeanne (a.k.a datenchiblue) bonnejeanne@yahoo.com
Fandom: Trigun
Rating: PG-13?
Warnings: Yaoi. Lifefic (whatever is the opposite of "deathfic")
SPOILERS: End of series - DON'T READ IF YOU DON'T WANT TO BE SPOILED
Pairings: Wolfwood/Vash
Disclaimer: Trigun, Vash and Wolfwood belong to some nice Japanese people.
Feedback: yes, please, and thank you. :)
Song Credit: Where To Now St. Peter? by Elton John/Bernie Taupin
(c) 1970 Dick James Music Limited

Notes: The end of Trigun wasn't quite what friends' reviews had led me to believe, but of course, some things need to be rectified. ^_^

Resurrection

I took myself a blue canoe
And I floated like a leaf
Dazzling, dancing
Half enchanted
In my Merlin sleep

So where to now St. Peter
If it's true I'm in your hands
I may not be a Christian
But I've done all one man can
I understand I'm on the road
Where all that was is gone
So where to now St. Peter
Show me which road I'm on
Which road I'm on...

Being dead didn't turn out like I expected. I thought there would be nothing at all. Or maybe hellfire. The truth is, I didn't really believe in hellfire, any more than I believed in heaven. Purgatory was obviously that hot, dry as a bone place where I'd lived my entire, short and probably meaningless life. But the last thing I could have imagined or expected was this...

This floating... floating in a strange kind of blue twilight. It was dark... but it wasn't black. It wasn't entirely darkness. It was more a comforting, barely illuminated kind of deep midnight colored fog.

It was cool.... but not cold. And there was a sensation of something all around me, something I don't think I'd really ever experienced much of. It was damp. That was it, a sensation of dampness... more humidity than actual moisture, but it surrounded me.

Floating there, I had time to puzzle over it, but no answers. After a while, I began pondering other things. Why not? I had eternity.

'Well, God,' I said, but I didn't hear any sound, my voice, even in this weird dreamlike nothing was silent. Silent as the dead.

'Well, Lord,' I repeated. 'Is this it? I suppose I don't really deserve any more than this. I might have thought less, actually. For all the people I killed, isn't there supposed to be hell? This isn't very interesting, but it doesn't seem much like hell. For example, I'm finding it kind of pleasant. No bright, burning sun, no heat, no pain... no sounds, of voices or softly muffled weeping...'

I didn't think there would be weeping, of course. Not for the likes of me. But then, she had a big heart. Too big, of course. It might just be that there would be some weeping. Just a little, I hoped, not much. I didn't want her to feel sad.

He wouldn't weep. At least I was spared that. Not that he couldn't have, as soft hearted as he was soft-headed. But not over me, I was pretty sure about that. He wouldn't ever look at me the same way again, not since I shot the boy. He couldn't. Even he couldn't have a heart that big.

'So this is it, then,' I said, for something to do.

~*~

After a while, I thought that this is what it would be like if I were sitting in a blue canoe, on a still blue lake, in a thick blue fog. The fog would muffle the sound - I don't know how I decided that but there wasn't anyone to contradict me.

This is what it would be like if I were laying in a blue canoe, on a still blue lake, in a blue fog, with my arms too weak to pick up the paddles.

~*~

After a bit longer, I could see the paddles. They were... blue, of course. Smooth... wider at the bottom, that was to push the water...

~*~

I wondered what the water would sound like, if there were any sound. What it would sound like sliding along the sides of the canoe... around the blades of the paddles. It would be soft, smooth, it would be a restful sound.

~*~

After a while, my arms began to ache. It took a while before I began to wonder how my arms could ache. They ache because you're tired of rowing, stupid, I thought. But I'm not rowing... my arms are paralyzed. But they sure did ache. I should stop. But I hadn't gotten anywhere...

'There's no where to go, is there, God?' I said, and laughed. My laugh was as silent as my voice.

But God didn't bother to answer me, of course. He didn't have to. I could see for myself... the fog... or the sky... or the nothing... was getting light ahead of me.

~*~

The ache was more than an ache, now. It ran up my arms like little flames. It wrapped around my chest like a coil of wire. It squeezed slowly like a snake that had all the time in the world to crush its dinner.

The girl... the boy... the man...

I didn't see their faces in the fog. But I did see them. Them and so many more. Every face. It took a long time to see every face, every single face of every man I had ever killed. Every face of every child... I tried to...

Save. I tried to save. It was so hard to think about that. I wanted to argue. Yes, I killed a lot of men. I also tried to...

But I couldn't say it, even in my head. I couldn't use those poor faces to justify or even try to balance the others. The one had nothing to do with the other. It wasn't okay to kill the men because of saving the... the children...

It wasn't okay to do what He said, just to save the... just to tell myself I was saving the...

Children.

Because He never had any intention of letting them, or any of us, live anyway.

~*~

'What was he, God? What were They?'

~*~

The same, yet utterly different, I answered myself.

~*~

I was wrong. There was weeping. I couldn't feel water sliding across my cheeks, but yes, Lord, there was weeping. Enough weeping to float this damn canoe.

~*~

And then there was Light.

If there was Light, why didn't this pain disappear? Why did it only seem to get worse? Maybe this was hellfire after all, my just deserts. Payment for my sins. Blue and Light, instead of red hellfire.

But it wasn't all blue any more. Where the Light was brightest, there were hints of other color. The palest yellow at first. Then a straw yellow, like his damn needle head. Then a darker rose. Was the Light dying, leaving me in red, like hell was supposed to be?

The pain was still there. I didn't want to bear it but I had no choice. But the weeping... I don't know why but the weeping was over.

Or maybe I do know why. It was over because it had an end. Because everything has an end. Like me. Like... hope.

Like sin. Yeah. Even sin has an end.

The sound was like a soft distant roaring. There was pressure on my arms and I finally let go of the damn paddles, let them drop. But they didn't fall into the water.

The water was not under me, but over me. It touched my lips but I wasn't afraid of drowning. A little of it passed between my lips and trickled into my throat and I choked and coughed.

And suddenly there were arms holding me and my eyes opened, closing again, wincing at the light. The light that hurt my eyes. My eyes that opened again, crusty and clouded. Looking down, I focused enough to see spots of red on the dusty floor.

"Easy, there, fella," God said. But it wasn't God, at least I'm pretty sure it wasn't. It was an old woman.

The pain in my chest eased and resolved into aches and finite streaks of fire. There... and there... and there... all the places I'd been shot.

The old woman wiped the blood and spit from my lips and held the tin cup to them again, letting a little more water trickle into my mouth.

This time I swallowed. I was so damn thirsty I could have drunk that blue lake.

I coughed again, and the old woman wiped my face with a damp rag.

'I'm alive?' I asked God.

I'm alive.

~*~

"You sure looked like you were dead, when that big girl brought you here for burying," the old woman rattled, talking more at me than to me. "Sure did. Lost too much blood. Bullets in a lot of important places." For some reason, this seemed to amuse the old bat.

"Good thing for you, I used to be a surgeon," she rattled on. "Before my hospital got blown up. I may be old but I still have my hands. Good thing for you."

Good thing for me.

~*~

It took him two years to find me.

In the end, I told myself I wasn't really surprised. You couldn't really be surprised by anything that happened around him, because whatever was the least likely, usually did.

But I think I was, a bit.

The door of the chapel opened like it opened a dozen times a day. I was sweeping the damn floor again, since every damn time someone opened the door, some of the sand from outside came in with the wind.

I turned and looked to see if it was one of the kids, looking for me to fix something.

I looked at him and he looked at me. I think that lasted about half an eternity.

Then he smiled.

One of the most annoying things about him is the way he smiles. It's pure and guileless, just like a child. He doesn't have any right to smile like that, not after all the things he's seen. Done. Been done to him.

"Wolf..." he began, but I put my finger to my lips.

"Don't speak ill of the dead," I said calmly. Just as if I'd rehearsed it. "Nicholas D. Wolfwood is dead and we don't like to hear strangers bad mouth him around here."

He blinked in surprise and then looked at me for a long, thoughtful moment. Then he nodded.

"Sorry," he said, and smiled again. "But I'd never speak ill of Nicholas D. Wolfwood. He was too good a friend."

I looked away and fumbled for a cigarette, even though I quit two years ago. Instead, I went back to sweeping a few strokes.

"He wasn't much good to anyone, but we don't bad mouth even sinners like him," I said.

"That's good to know," he said softly. "Because that means maybe you won't look down on me either."

Well, I had to look at him then. I'd seen that sadness in his eyes before, but it was deeper than ever. Older. Ageless.

"So what's your name, friend?" he asked, his face creasing into another cheerful smile.

"David," I answered, leaning the broom against a pew. Then I walked up to him, staring into his cool, blue-green eyes.

"Just David," I said, and held out my hand.

His hands were the same, callused in the gloves, yet gentle, with a firm grip.

"And you?" I said, as a little smile managed to turn the corners of my mouth up rebelliously.

"Oh, my name's not important," he answered, without letting go of my hand.

~*~

I didn't ask him what became of that red coat. And he didn't ask me why I no longer carried a gun.

He didn't have a place to stay, of course.

There really wasn't enough room in the little back part of the chapel where I have my cot and my chair and my books. Not enough.

"Take your damn clothes off, Vash," I said.

He really doesn't like to take his clothes off in front of anybody.

"It's not like I haven't see it all before," I said. "You need a bath if you're going to sleep here. I ain't going to be fumigated out of my own damn room."

The metal tub is barely big enough to sit in, and watching him try and fit his gangly arms and legs in there was worth the price of admission.

"Stand up, idiot, and I'll sponge you off," I said. And held my breath.

He stood up, but turned red as a beet and looked at the floor.

"Wolf... I mean, David?" His voice was very soft.

"What?" I said, taking the sponge and starting to wash him down like a horse.

"You really should let Millie know..."

I stuck the soapy sponge in his mouth to shut him up. Once he complied, I finished sponging his spiky head, watching the blond stalks of hair turn limp and soft with water.

"No."

"But..."

"No."

Maybe it was the peaceful look in my eyes that made him shut up. Or he just didn't want another mouthful of sponge.

~*~

There were more scars. Not that I ever counted.

~*~

He waited until I dropped the sponge into the tub before stepping out. Then his long legs folded neatly under him and he looked up at me like a child preparing to pray.

I opened my mouth to say no, you don't have to... but the hopeful look in his blue-green eyes stopped my words in my throat.

I don't deserve this, God, I thought, as he leaned forward and I felt his hands pull at my clothes. I really don't... but even my thoughts stopped when I felt his mouth close around me, taking me in.

~*~

"Stop squirming."

"What are you doing?" he asked me, squirming.

I turned him over on his side so I could reach the next one.

"Why... are you doing that?"

"Shut up, Vash."

"Why are you kissing my scars?"

"These are the new ones," I said, licking the last one, on his thigh.

"What?"

I sighed and kissed his mouth to shut him up.

It didn't work.

"Why?"

"Because I am a sick bastard," I said impatiently.

"Oh."

~*~

Scars or no, he looks beautiful on his hands and knees. From the back, especially.

He moans. Then he stutters. Finally he cries, but when he comes, there isn't a sound but air rushing in and out of his lungs and mine.

~*~

Dear God: I still don't believe in You.

But that was a hell of a ride. If I wasn't an atheist, I'd have to admit, I was impressed.

It took a sweet young foreign gun
This lazy life is short
Something for nothing always ending
With a bad report

I took myself a blue canoe

~*~*~*~

*Where To Now St. Peter?
(c) 1970 Dick James Music Limited
Music by Elton John
Lyrics by Bernie Taupin
Available on the album Tumbleweed Connection

5/14/2003

Love & Gundams