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fan_flashworks2022-07-20 06:51 pm
judiejudie) wrote in fan_flashworks2022-07-20 06:51 pm
Entry tags:
Trigun: Fanfic: put your empty hands in mine
Title: put your empty hands in mine
Fandom: Trigun
Rating: G/Gen
Length: 400 words
Content notes: angst
Author notes: "character goes on valiantly pretending they're fine until someone asks if they're okay and they immediately break down" is a cliché because it's good.
Summary: “Are you okay, Spikey?” Wolfwood asks. “Never seen you go down like that before.”
Vash trips over his own feet.
It’s unlike him—so unlike him that it puts Wolfwood on guard immediately, hand rising to the clasps of the Punisher. Vash doesn’t trip. He might act like he has, to catch someone he’s fighting off guard. He gets thrown around plenty. But he doesn’t just stumble over himself out of nowhere, much less so violently that he drops face-first into the sand.
They’re in the desert between towns—low, sloping dunes, flat ground. The attack—it must have been an attack—could have come from anywhere. Wolfwood whirls around, searching for any sign of movement or color against the dunes.
“Nothing happened,” Vash says, his voice so low and weary that it yanks Wolfwood’s ambush-preparations to a halt. “I tripped, Wolfwood, it’s fine.”
Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong, wrong, wrong.
Wolfwood takes his hand off the Punisher’s wrapping and tips it down onto its side in the sand, and crouches next to where Vash is still lying, propped up on his elbows. He stares down at the ground like he’s trying to count grains of sand, his eyes terribly hollow.
“Are you okay, Spikey?” Wolfwood asks. “Never seen you go down like that before.”
Vash’s eyes go bright and glossy, and he drops his forehead against the sand, shoulders heaving in a silent sob.
Wolfwood’s heart rate jumps back up. “Shit, hey, what’s wrong?”
Vash shakes his head, scattering tears and little grains of sand. “I’m, nothing, it’s—” he takes a short, ragged breath. “I’m not. I’m not okay, I’m sorry, I’m not, I need a minute. I just, I just need a minute.”
Sorrow cramps Wolfwood’s stomach. Helpless to do anything else, he settles a hand on Vash’s shoulder, brushing his thumb gently back and forth over the stiff fabric.
Vash lays prostrate in the sand, trembling violently, crying almost silently, and Wolfwood can’t convince his racing heart that there isn’t some injury he’s hiding, some damage from their last fight that’s finally broken Vash’s composure.
But Wolfwood’s seen Vash cry from pain before. This isn’t that. Whatever hurt this is, whatever injury, it goes deeper than his body—some wound in his soul.
Wolfwood doesn’t even know if he believes in souls. But Vash’s must be a tattered thing, regardless.
And there’s nothing Wolfwood can do—nothing he can do to soothe the hurt that’s broken out of Vash, aside from staying there by his side, crouched in the sand, until he finds himself again.
He’ll wait as long as it takes.
Fandom: Trigun
Rating: G/Gen
Length: 400 words
Content notes: angst
Author notes: "character goes on valiantly pretending they're fine until someone asks if they're okay and they immediately break down" is a cliché because it's good.
Summary: “Are you okay, Spikey?” Wolfwood asks. “Never seen you go down like that before.”
Vash trips over his own feet.
It’s unlike him—so unlike him that it puts Wolfwood on guard immediately, hand rising to the clasps of the Punisher. Vash doesn’t trip. He might act like he has, to catch someone he’s fighting off guard. He gets thrown around plenty. But he doesn’t just stumble over himself out of nowhere, much less so violently that he drops face-first into the sand.
They’re in the desert between towns—low, sloping dunes, flat ground. The attack—it must have been an attack—could have come from anywhere. Wolfwood whirls around, searching for any sign of movement or color against the dunes.
“Nothing happened,” Vash says, his voice so low and weary that it yanks Wolfwood’s ambush-preparations to a halt. “I tripped, Wolfwood, it’s fine.”
Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong, wrong, wrong.
Wolfwood takes his hand off the Punisher’s wrapping and tips it down onto its side in the sand, and crouches next to where Vash is still lying, propped up on his elbows. He stares down at the ground like he’s trying to count grains of sand, his eyes terribly hollow.
“Are you okay, Spikey?” Wolfwood asks. “Never seen you go down like that before.”
Vash’s eyes go bright and glossy, and he drops his forehead against the sand, shoulders heaving in a silent sob.
Wolfwood’s heart rate jumps back up. “Shit, hey, what’s wrong?”
Vash shakes his head, scattering tears and little grains of sand. “I’m, nothing, it’s—” he takes a short, ragged breath. “I’m not. I’m not okay, I’m sorry, I’m not, I need a minute. I just, I just need a minute.”
Sorrow cramps Wolfwood’s stomach. Helpless to do anything else, he settles a hand on Vash’s shoulder, brushing his thumb gently back and forth over the stiff fabric.
Vash lays prostrate in the sand, trembling violently, crying almost silently, and Wolfwood can’t convince his racing heart that there isn’t some injury he’s hiding, some damage from their last fight that’s finally broken Vash’s composure.
But Wolfwood’s seen Vash cry from pain before. This isn’t that. Whatever hurt this is, whatever injury, it goes deeper than his body—some wound in his soul.
Wolfwood doesn’t even know if he believes in souls. But Vash’s must be a tattered thing, regardless.
And there’s nothing Wolfwood can do—nothing he can do to soothe the hurt that’s broken out of Vash, aside from staying there by his side, crouched in the sand, until he finds himself again.
He’ll wait as long as it takes.
no subject
*throws confetti*
I've gone back and tagged your previous entries, as well.
no subject
This is great! Loved the switch from worrying about an attack to worrying about Vash, and reaching out to offer whatever comfort Wolfwood can. Their companionship is so well-painted. Especially enjoyed the Wolfwood doesn’t even know if he believes in souls. But Vash’s must be a tattered thing, regardless. line.
Thank you for sharing!