When Night Falls

Wolfwood

He's gone again. I never know where he goes, or why- maybe I do know
why and just don't want to admit it. I mean, realistically, would I want
to hang around me if I didn't have to either? I know I'm not much. Not
a whole hell of a lot of anything, actually. Of course he seeks company
elsewhere. Someone friendly, someone not bound and determined not to let
any dirty little secrets slip. There's not a word that comes out of my
mouth that isn't guarded and filtered to make sure I don't say anything
of value. Or truth.

Like 'I love you.'

A romantic, murdering priest. And everyone thinks I'm a contradiction
now...
If only they knew. No, to hell with them. If only he knew. If only
I could tell him. I would. I almost did. But he left again, leaving me
alone in this dirty, unfamiliar hotel room, just like he always does. I
don't blame him, but I do miss him.

Just when I get the nerve, he smiles at me in that empty way that makes
my stomach hurt. He says he needs some air, and he goes. I offered to go
with him once, and he was very fast to refuse. It hurt, but I hid it. I
hide everything.

He always leaves, and I'm alone with my traitorous thoughts. I think
about his green eyes. I've seen very few trees in my lifetime- could count
them on one hand- and his eyes... they're more beautiful than trees. Trees...
are life-giving, immortal yet vulnerable. Wise and loving and innocent.
They're the only things really green I've ever seen on this miserable planet,
and the most beautiful. Except for him, and those eyes. They remind me
of trees, only softer, warmer, and a little sadder. Then I think of his
lips, because they're so full and so soft looking, and being poetic makes
me angry at myself, and thinking on a more base level always makes me feel
better- makes me feel like I wouldn't really proclaim my pathetic love
to another, given the chance. I think of those hands, so strong and sure.
I think of what's under that red coat. No, not the jumpsuit, under that
too. I'm not stupid- I know his looks are startling. But that's part of
why he's beautiful. It would be so much easier for me to deny everything
I think and feel if only he were all flash and no substance. But his scars
are proof that there's more to him than his sweet looks, or his big mouth,
or even his fast gun.

I imagine that he'd lie with me- hell, let's go all out and say he'd
returned the sentiment. He'd undress me, I him, and we'd just lay there,
looking at each other and touching, exploring. Then he'd kiss me with those
lips, look at me with those eyes and take me into his hands. He'd cover
me and spread me and fill me, and I'd feel complete. This ache I feel every
time I look at him would leave me.

But it won't. Because I can't tell him. Because he doesn't want to hear
it.

I've pissed him off somewhere down the road, and now I'm paying for
it. I don't know what it was, only that it has to have been from my big,
fat mouth or my refusal to believe the way he does. I like to think he
wouldn't hate me because of the way I think, but that leaves only some
character flaw to blame. My nose is too big, or my eyes are too shifty.
Or my skin is too dirty, or maybe I smirk like a pervert or laugh like
grinding gears.

In any case, all I can hope for now is for him to forgive me so we can
be friends again. As close friends as a romantic, murdering, lying priest
and he can be. But he'll never care more for me than that.

Because he's everything I want to be. He's everything I'm not, and I'm
everything he hates. And when he comes in at unholy hours of the morning
and looks at me... I can feel his stare, I can feel his eyes as the rove
my still, lying form trying to come to some conclusion. I'm not afraid
of whether or not he's deciding to shoot me or not. I know he's not that
kind of person, but I think it'd be more merciful.

Because it's not my life that he's wondering about- it's me.

And one night, he's going to walk in and look at me... and realize what
I am. Then he'll leave again- just like everybody else- and I'll never
see him again. I'll die alone and no one will care. And Vash won't care,
because I'm not perfect like him- I kill, I hate- I'm just like everybody
else.

But at least when he's gone, I can dream. And when he finally closes
that door and I know it'll never open again, I'll still have my dreams.

I can still imagine I'd said those three words.