Reflections

A/N: Ok, here’s 8. Nothing really to say about it. I’ve been hit with the writing spirit again, after my short break. I read a couple of truly awful fics (in other fandoms) and remembered the reason I started writing in the first place. To get something out there that I could control. A story done my way, with my words, my plot, my resolution. I also read a few truly great fics, and was again reminded why I am doing this (the flip side of the coin, you might say.) To try and contribute he she stories that are thought out and filled with time and some resemblance ofort.ort. I do not claim to be a great writer (Lord knows I’m not stupid enough to do that!) I only claim to be one who is writing. I think it’s this damn plot scratching its way out of my head. Who knows. Anyway, Enjoy. Read, review, the usual.

**Do not own Trigun. Do not own Vash. Do not own Wolfwood. Do not own a white box. If I did, I’d put them both inside and open it occasionally for yaoi inspiration. Wait, is that a little scary to anyone else?


Previously:

Wolfwood stared at the box, his heart pounding.

**Fuck. I do NOT want to open this thing.**

Reflections, Chapter 8: Consequences

Nicholas Wolfwood stood in the dusty alley behind the saloon. The was was peeking pathetically through the clouds, which had been looming heavily in the sky all day. He knew they would never break and pour down the rain that Gunsmoke needed so desperately. After all, he had never once, in his entire life seen it rain. He had, howevhearheard the occasional story from time to time. But just as in every other instance, he was sure they would pass and do whatever clouds did (he had always had a sneaking suspicion that they evaporated, but since evaporation was what created them in the first place, he knew that probably was not the case.)

Under the dark afternoon sky, the white box sat frozen in his hands, which were gripping it so tightly, his knuckles showed almost as pale as the box under his tan skin.

**open. it. open. it. open.**

His heart was racing and he could feel every pulse of it throughout his entire body, throbbing in time with his thoughts. **open. it.**

He moved his right hand and caressed the lid. His punishment. What would it be? The box itself gave nothing away. It fit nicely between his two large hands, and weighed nearly nothing. It was so light that he could almost happily envision that there was nothing at all inside it.

It gave nothing away. Weighed nothing. Nothing inside.

He could only dream.

**Just grow a pair already, Nicholas! Do it! It can’t be that bad.**

He pushed the lid of the box up, the hinge holding the lid in place squeaking quietly. A piece of blue tissue paper covered the contents of the box, and Nick, having gathered all his courage finally, pulled it out and tossed it to the side, to settle in the dust. There were two things lying at the bottom. A small folded note, written on yellow lined p, an, and a lock of hair, tied at the end with a blue ribbon. Nicholas had an uneasy feeling in his stomach as he pulled out the lock of hair and considered it. Whose it was, he wasn’t sure. It was a sandy, nondescript brown and about four inches long. The ribbon at the end cinched it tight so the individual hairs would not scatter to the wind. He set the hair back into the box, frowning hard and narrowing his eyes in distaste. He pulled out the note, which seemed to som something in it as well. He set the box gently on the ground and unfolded the yellow paper. A photograph slipped inis his hands, a small girl, probably five or six, asleep happily in her bed. He couldn’t tell from the photo, as it was black and white, but he knew the hair to be a pleasant, if not unique, sandy brown.

**December. What was her name? Annie? Jenny?** He couldn’t remember. One of the kids at his orphanage, one of the small lives he was trying to save, and he couldn’t remember her name. She had been relatively new. In fact, he had only met her once, so it was no surprise that her name wasn’t coming to him. He remembered from the brief encounter with her that despite the fact that her parents had been shot (is that what had happened? He thought he remembered that to be the case, as so often was) she had been bright and kind and excited about almost everything. He tucked thoto oto into his jacket pocket with his cigarettes and his money. What more motivation for staying away from Vash would he need than a picture of one of the orphans he had gotten himself into this whole mess for?

He looked down at the note in his hand and took a deep breath to ready himself for its contents. Written in a familiar, painstakingly neat cursive scrawl:

“Nicholas D. Wolfwood,

I will skip the reminder of why this punishment has been given. I am sure you are QUITE aware of that. The girl in the photo is, as I’m sure you know, one of the dear children of December.

Standing above her while she slept, I was reminded of how easily the h bod body can be broken. Her small hands, her delicate skin, her soft hair. The brittle snap of a bone. The quiet tear of flesh. The possibilities. The pain.

I was reminded further of how much easier the human body is, for myself at least, to control. Newspaper headlines of the brutal orphanage slaughter, child against child until none were left alive, ced med my vision as I watched her, head lying upon her pillow, with no idea of how close to danger she was. Most children never realize how close to danger they are, secure in the thought that they are being protected, wouldn’t you agree?

But you see, when I took that photograph and cut her hair there was nobody there to protect her.

I thought briefly of waking her, just to see the terror in hers eyes so that I could accurately describe it to you in this letter. But I decided against it, reserving that terror, that special moment of her realization that this might be her last breath (and she has had so very few of them), for another time, another punishment, if you should step outside your bounds again.

Know this, Nicholas D. Wolfwood: Master Knives is not being kind or generous by allowing you to live. I trust completely that if you were not fulfilling an important duty for him by guiding his brother to Dhimitri, he would have let me eliminate you immediately. I’m sure one more infraction and he will fail to continue to see your usefulness to the mission.

And as for the girl, well, breaking her would just be the icing on the delicious cake.

-Legato Bluesummers.”

Nicholas clenched his fist and the note crumpled in his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut and his body shook from repressed sobs that were trying to force themselves out of his body.

**He was so close to her! He touched her! God? Where were you to protect her!? FUCK! I should have been there! (no wait, that’s impossible) I should have stopped him! (yeah right, stopped Legato?) This is all my fault. The kids were in danger because I’m too horny to keep my paws off Knives’ brother.**

But despite his thoughts, he knew deep down that his libido had very little to do with that night with Vash. It was so much more than basic passion. He knew that it was about getting close to him, to someone so special that it made him feel good about the horrible world they lived in, about the sins of the human race, about the sins he, himself, had committed. He suspected that even if Vash didn’t have the striking blue eyes and the delicate beauty mark, the strong shoulders and the soft lips, that he would be drawn to him anyway for being so good and honest and RIGHT. It was as if the God had put Vash on Gunsmoke to balance out all the evils and wrongdoings. One man to counteract all the lies and betrayals. And as frusing ing as Vash’s ideals of Love and Peace and never, not ever, killing were, they were the same ideals that allowed him to exist and continue as the pure soul that he was.

Nick shook his head to clear away the images circling his mind. The girl in the photograph. Legato, with his halfhearted smile standing over her. Vash. Yes, Vash, who was drinking alone in the saloon beside him. He put on a grim smile of determination, the one he put on when things were at their worst and he c bar barely restrain himself from baring his teeth in anger. He gave one last look at the white box at his feet before leaving it, abandoning the box and the lock of hair inside to whatever fate may come. As he turned on his heel to exit the same way he had come, he heard a soft beating of wings (one that was noticeably peculiar, even considering Nick had heard very few birds in flight during his lifetime.) He glanced upward, seeing a few wires running from the roof of the saloon to the roof of the accompanying building. Power lines of some sort. He also saw a glimpse of what was unmistakably a large bird flying away. An awkward shaped bird. A bird that creaked slightly as it departed. A puppet bird.

He walked determinedly out of the alley and up the street, looking for the nearest Inn. The Puppetmaster.

**Legato, you tricky bastard. I’m on to you.**

And with the grin that was nearly a grimace, and a lead weight in his heart, he stepped inside a shabby building to make reservations for the evening. Two beds. Nick in one, Vash in the other. Legato was watching, after all. And he would never give that man an excuse to come near December again.

---TBC—

A/N: Well, that whole scene took much longer than I expected. I was hoping to move the plot along a bit more, but I’d say it progressed a nice amount as it is. I really enjoyed writing that.