eventheodds

[eventheodds]

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#ooc. #tbd. #tumblr says i made this blog one year ago…didn’t realize it’s already been a year #owen wilson vc: wow #i can’t keep track of time so there’s also that

[eventheodds]

we stand with vash the stampede

[eventheodds]

The moment breathes between them like they needed this pause, time to reflect, before continuing on towards wherever this will lead them.

“One of the things he said to me, back when we were newly paired up for field work, was how this world would eat me alive because I kept putting my heart on my sleeve.” It hurts, and sometimes it does not, to say his name, and she is opting to not say it but figures Vash knows who she is talking about.

“Whatever it was, it was because I was too curious or too stubborn for my own good—which are excellent traits to have as an investigative journalist, but I think at that point he thought he was simply going to pass down knowledge from his experience and hope to call it a day.”

There is also a part of her that does not want to dwell on the past because, while it is still very painful, Meryl thinks she has gleaned all the lessons to be learned from it for now. At least enough to think she has without wanting to dig any deeper. 

“I’m not going to pretend what life on Earth was like because I know what I’ve read in books or seen in videos can’t do it justice, but I’d like to think that, if we all worked together as opposed to being afraid and suspicious, we could find a way.”

She looks at him from the corner of her eye before shifting a little more to face him.

“Maybe it is asking too much because we’re all dealing with so many odds stacked against us, but I’d like to think that if we tried we could all accomplish great things. Maybe the important thing about all this is that we tried—and we keep trying because that’s just how we are.”

She reaches out to take his hand, only able to wrap her fingers around three of his.

“To believe in something when everything seems so grim…it’s not easy, but I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure we try. Even if it means sitting behind a desk while plotting my own agenda.”

Meryl only winces slightly at how that sounds out loud, thinking it sounded way better in her head, but she thinks Vash understands her meaning.

“I’m glad we stopped to untie you from that post and preventing you from becoming worm food.”

She is serious but she is also seriously trying her best not to burst out laughing. Having already been inside a giant worm before, she knows well enough to not wish that fate upon anyone.

@eventheodds

He wisely doesn't answer her question immediately, because-- No. Of course he knows now that they wouldn't have left him, but back then when everything was uncertainty, particularly hanging upside down and not wanting to see how long he was likely expected to hang there from examples to either side of him...

And he recognizes it, the moment she needs to gather herself. Everything's still fresh. For as long as he's lived, the tragedies cling. Remain at the surface. He understands that, of course, and it's important to remember them. As it's important to remember that for all Roberto's seeming harshness, for all that seemed like world-weary cynicism, he had a good heart. One in the right place, and that's why--

Vash breathes slowly. Yeah, he understands Meryl's reaction. Still. Still.

"I wouldn't have blamed you." He admits quietly, smile soft. "If you hadn't wanted to deal with... all that. I'd have understood." And he would have, is the thing. Of course he'd hoped, let that hope get the better of him maybe, but there was always the distinct little possibility that he'd have simply been handed over to the police. Given the slip somewhere, because it was all just too much. Even Jeneora Rock--

He understood. He understands. He always hopes it won't happen, but the things humans do to survive both harsh landscapes and their own primal fears... Vash became familiar, long ago. It still aches. But he doesn't blame them.

"Ah, but I'm glad you found me, too!" Both his smile and voice brighten considerably even as he fakes minor injury from the elbow to his side. "Of all the people and all the places, huh?" Luck, fate; whatever it was, whatever it is, whatever it's becoming.

Then the smile ever so slightly sobers. Vash looks appropriately warned, because he most certainly feels that way. "Ha ha, right, I-- I got it! I got it, really." Meryl's serious about it, he does know that much. But so is he.

#goldendivinewrath #verse: where the streets have no name. #meryl: i'm very glad we didn't turn into worm food...

[eventheodds]

WEIRDLY SPECIFIC BUT HELPFUL CHARACTER BUILDING QUESTIONS

What’s the lie your character says most often?

How loosely or strictly do they use the word ‘friend’?

How often do they show their genuine emotions to others versus just the audience knowing?

What’s a hobby they used to have that they miss?

Can they cry on command? If so, what do they think about to make it happen?

What’s their favorite [insert anything] that they’ve never recommended to anyone before?

What would you (mun) yell in the middle of a crowd to find them? What would their best friend and/or romantic partner yell?

How loose is their use of the phrase ‘I love you’?

Do they give tough love or gentle love most often? Which do they prefer to receive?

What fact do they excitedly tell everyone about at every opportunity?

If someone was impersonating them, what would friends / family ask or do to tell the difference?

What’s something that makes them laugh every single time? Be specific!

When do they fake a smile? How often?

How do they put out a candle?

What’s the most obvious difference between their behavior at home, at work, at school, with friends, and when they’re alone?

What kinds of people do they have arguments with in their head?

What do they notice first in the mirror versus what most people first notice looking at them?

Who do they love truly, 100% unconditionally (if anyone)?

What would they do if stuck in a room with the person they’ve been avoiding?

Who do they like as a person but hate their work? Vice versa, whose work do they like but don’t like the person?

What common etiquette do they disagree with? Do they still follow it?

What simple activity that most people do / can do scares your character?

What do they feel guilty for that the other person(s) doesn’t / don’t even remember?

Did they take a cookie from the cookie jar? What kind of cookie was it?

What subject / topic do they know a lot about that’s completely useless to the direct plot?

How would they respond to being fired by a good boss?

What’s the worst gift they ever received? How did they respond?

What do they tell people they want? What do they actually want?

How do they respond when someone doesn’t believe them?

When they make a mistake and feel bad, does the guilt differ when it’s personal versus when it’s professional?

When do they feel the most guilt? How do they respond to it?

If they committed one petty crime / misdemeanor, what would it be? Why?

How do they greet someone they dislike / hate?

How do they greet someone they like / love?

What is the smallest, morally questionable choice they’ve made?

Who do they keep in their life for professional gain? Is it for malicious intent?

What’s a secret they haven’t told serious romantic partners and don’t plan to tell?

What hobby are they good at in private, but bad at in front of others? Why?

Would they rather be invited to an event to feel included or be excluded from an event if they were not genuinely wanted there?

How do they respond to a loose handshake? What goes through their head?

What phrases, pronunciations, or mannerisms did they pick up from someone / somewhere else?

If invited to a TED Talk, what topic would they present on? What would the title of their presentation be?

What do they commonly misinterpret because of their own upbringing / environment / biases? How do they respond when realizing the misunderstanding?

What language would be easiest for them to learn? Why?

What’s something unimportant / frivolous that they hate passionately?

Are they a listener or a talker? If they’re a listener, what makes them talk? If they’re a talker, what makes them listen?

Who have they forgotten about that remembers them very well?

Who would they say ‘yes’ to if invited to do something they abhorred / strongly didn’t want to do?

Would they eat something they find gross to be polite?

What belief / moral / personality trait do they stand by that you (mun) personally don’t agree with?

What’s a phrase they say a lot?

Do they act on their immediate emotions, or do they wait for the facts before acting?

Who would / do they believe without question?

What’s their instinct in a fight / flight / freeze / fawn situation?

What’s something they’re expected to enjoy based on their hobbies / profession that they actually dislike / hate?

If they’re scared, who do they want comfort from? Does this answer change depending on the type of fear?

What’s a simple daily activity / motion that they mess up often?

How many hobbies have they attempted to have over their lifetime? Is there a common theme?

#memes.

[eventheodds]

@thathollowsound [x]

Her eyes narrow briefly at the use of the nickname—something she’ll never get used to and it seems like a novelty that her actual name be used when it’s not from her colleagues or from Milly. Perhaps the only one outside of that group is Vash, but she rarely sees him given his penchant for always being on the run.

She ignores it and moves in to sit beside him at the bar. Eyeing his drink, Meryl almost asks for the same when she reconsiders her choice and opts for a rum and coke. Milly had said it tasted good, though she’s never known Milly to turn down trying anything new if it came to food and drinks.

“No, I can pay for my own drinks, thank you,” she says with that same curt tone. There is tension being held in her shoulders, making her sit stiffly in the stool, and even when her drink is served, Meryl does not feel an ounce better.

Perhaps a sip or two might change that.

“Those were some nice pieces you performed up there,” she says, easing herself down bit by bit. She does not mention, at least not right this moment, that seeing him in a crisp white suit with a rose dress shirt made him stand out like a sore thumb, but he probably already knows that.

“And perhaps you would owe me a drink from that stunt you pulled. Didn’t work, by the way, but you knew that.”

She takes a sip while giving him a side glance, not feeling any safer despite the full house tonight, but maybe it’s the placebo effect of being surrounded that eases that tension up a little more.

#thathollowsound #verse: ???

[eventheodds]

If there is one thing Gunsmoke has in abundance, besides stifling heat and sunlight, it’s wind.

She remembers seeing a town without its plant and a giant windmill, but it had stood still like some silent sentinel. It was only after the devastation of a broken promise and realization that, while driving away, she saw the lights illuminate in the dark. The windmill had begun turning again, but it was at the cost of something great.

“A windmill, huh? T-that’s good though, right?”

Meryl does not want to draw attention to the way her voice slightly wavers after remembering a memory that solved some of the suspicions she’d been harbouring about Vash at the time, but remembering seeing him in such a state after Wolfwood had made a call that saved all their lives despite Vash hesitating…

Rollo had become that way because of Conrad. She feels a deep-seated hatred towards the man and clenches her jaw, taking in a sharp inhale before collecting herself. 

A pseudo-farmer’s market, though Knives seems to be either disinterested in the idea or just doesn’t care altogether. Perhaps a combination of the two.

“It’s not about out drinking anyone, but if you really wanted to do that—be my guest. You might build up some street cred if you do,” she says half jokingly. “And I’m pretty sure the general store might have some things laying around.”

The crates behind the store are noted.

“You know, it can be something small. Just having people stop by, maybe set up a trade system where you can trade food for services or tools you might need? Maybe some folks in town might know how to repair things. Maybe, one day, this farm of yours can expand and become bigger, with more help and more food to go around? Like setting up a small network.”

He pauses at the question for a moment, staring at the plants again. The silence feels brittle, for a moment, fragile. "There's a grocery in town," Knives answers finally, still staring determinedly at the tomatoes. "There's no farms in town and they don't have a plant. They import their food and their produce from other towns and make do with windmill power."

There's no threat here. They see him, and they look away. They pretend he doesn't exist, the way he wants them to. They pretend they don't know who leaves the crates of fresh tomatoes, fresh anything behind the dilapidated building of a grocer.

He hasn't killed anyone.

(One of the children had given him a half melted candy bar the other day. Knives is pretty sure it's congealed in the pocket of his other pair of jeans now.)

"There's space behind the grocer for some crates if you stack them properly." It's the only answer Meryl's getting. He turns away to start putting the supplies away. "What sort of gathering? I'll out drink you, you know. I don't think I even have anything to drink."

#millionsnife #verse: where the streets have no name.

[eventheodds]

He gives her the space and time she needs to find the words she wants to say, and she is so thankful for that. Right now, with everything as it is, time either feels like it can be on their side, if just for a moment, or merciful enough to have stopped to let them catch their breaths.

Inhale. Exhale.

Rinse and repeat until she feels she can continue.

“...back where I’m from, I thought about storming in there, at the Eye’s headquarters. I lost both of them and convinced myself there was nothing more I could lose, so…”

It had crossed her mind many times to go there, even after she had been captured and thrown into that jail cell. Locked away as she had been, Meryl had nothing but time and a ticking clock until judgment day and for her to come up with scenarios more crazy than the last.

“No matter the odds,” she says after a moment, leaning into his one-armed hug, letting herself be lulled by his soothing, “they—we—somehow managed to pull through.” Until we couldn’t.

The idea of going in, guns blazing, may not have worked if it had just been herself and Wolfwood before she was dragged away, before they had a chance to save Vash, but maybe it could work this time.

“Maybe we do go in, guns a-blazing, and they won’t know what hit them. Maybe we use that to our advantage.”

She does not pull away from his embrace as she leans forward to look up at him. Her eyes are dry but her mind is at work, the cogs and the gears moving, turning, formulating the beginnings of a plan that can give them a chance.

A chance is all she needs. A chance, that sliver of opportunity that can tip the scales in their favour; the slightest bit that can mean all the possibilities.

“Maybe crazy is what we need, and what we can bring to them.”

A familiarity washes over her, a feeling she’d not felt in what seems like a long while. Besides hope, which is what she’d held onto when she landed in with this group, travelling through space and time and everything in between. 

This is determination, and she is holding on like it is a life line.

Time passes no differently from one universe to the next. The suns rise and fall, the moons leer at the silvered sands, people go to sleep and wake up. Patterns become patterns through repetition and change intercedes when the rhythm falls out of sync.

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t excel at whatever you put your mind to.” Days go by, years march on without erstwhile friends and foes to tell him who he is. Vash hasn’t had the benefit of a mirror to know whether he would know the face gazing back at him through tarnished silver and cracked glass. 

After spotting him alone on the sandstone bluffs, they didn’t even hesitate. For all the ways their paths have diverged across different timelines and different worlds, they have not gone so far as to become unrecognizable to each other. 

Planting both palms at either side of himself, Vash pushes off the ground to adjust his position. One knee drawn up beneath his wrist, his left leg folded, foot hooked around the back of his right ankle. She has his full, undivided attention and a concerned furrow to his brow when Meryl stumbles over her words and loses her momentum.

“Take your time.” Grief becomes a poison when bottled up and corked. One way or another, it will find its way out into the world. Whether grief escapes on a bang or a whisper or a blinding fury at the universe at large all depends on the person.

Vash inches forward across the sand towards Meryl with a few well-intentioned scoots. Scoot, scoot. Until he’s close enough for their shoulders to bump together and for him to lean his weight against her and nearly set her off-balance– only to reel her back in against the curve of his arm into a one-armed hug. 

The hand gently holding her elbow sweeps back, rubbing soothing circles into Meryl’s back as they huddle together in the low light of the distant campfire. 

“I’ll have you know that guns-a-blazing has worked on occasion. It’s just not a foolproof method, is all.”

Meryl could assume him to be at least one of those fools, if not Wolfwood, if not both of them at the same damn time. When it works it works; that’s the justification. Naturally, Meryl is excluded from his calculations on account of being far too smart to be lumped in with their ilk.

“You were saying?”

#angelictyphoon #constellations falling from your heart. — angelictyphoon (grâce). #verse: will our story shine like a light‚ or end in the dark?

[eventheodds]

You know what AU this is

[eventheodds]

She almost laments at the loss of contact, almost, and finds herself laying there, eyes wide and peering up at the darkening ceiling as Wolfwood pulls himself away and even she has to wince at the thump against her coffee table.

”Your shins are getting a real beating,” she says with just a darker hint of pink to her cheeks at his suggestive tone about eating. She’s quick to get up herself and makes a bee-line for the kitchen that’s more like a kitchenette, rummages through one of the few drawers she has and pulls out a well-used folded menu.

Meryl’s ordered from this place numerous times and they have, on those numerous occasions, given her many other pamphlets—most of which had been used to hastily scrawl down notes now long lost or discarded despite her penchant for being fastidious in her work.

The one she’s pulled from the drawer looks like it’ll rip at the frayed edges any second with the way she unfolds it, but it keeps as she quickly looks over the choices she knows are there.

”I know what I’m getting. Is there anything you want or you want to be surprised?” She hands him the menu, walking over to him as she briefly watches him put on his shoes while she pulls a maneuver that has her toeing her shoes to slip them on without untying them. While serving their purpose, she’s since traded in her white joggers for brown boots with more traction—sometimes a bit of a hassle to tie them up, especially when she’s rushing, but they’re comfortable and are durable.

With the suns going down, the air will be cooler, so she slips on a jacket not unlike the one she’d worn before that had the Bernadelli News Agency insignia embroidered on it, but this one is without the emblem and a little thinner. 

Maybe one day she’ll cook for him—something she remembers having made back when there had been time for her to cook, back when she’d been so studious with her planning and scheduling, thinking that if she stuck to any plan she made everything would fall into place.

Patting down her pockets to feel for both her wallet and keys, she seems satisfied and nods at Wolfwood.

”Do you need to lean on me after banging yourself on my furniture or are you good?” She crosses her arms and leans against the closed door, lips pressed together to suppress a teasing grin.

That grin fades slightly as she considers the thought that this might the last time she'll be back here before heading out. The intel she'd been relying on has become sporadic and there's every bit of chance that it might just stop entirely.

If her routine is disrupted, it'll get noticed.

And she knows agents will be on her tail, one way or the other.

Unlocking the door, she holds it open with her foot and waits for him to step out before locking up. Meryl can only hope that this will be a peaceful night before heading back out into the desert with whatever leads they've amassed and enough hope to see this through.

"Mm. Mhm."

It is better now that the immediate sources of electrical interference are off. Lights, auxiliary plugs, things that draw energy even when in an idle state. It isn't even close to the overwhelming buzz of the Eye's hallowed halls. JuLai was the nexus of so many Plants—energy and water and food production—that Conrad saw fit to engineer the citizenry in a variety of ways.

That doesn't bear thinking about.

Better things to think of right now, like the warmth at his side. The growing warmth, that is. There is sufficient light for him to see by. Scattered starlight might even be enough. City life provides a glut of sensory information that it can be a challenge to constantly filter it out. Not so much here and now that he can't tell how pink her face is, tucked up as it is against the side of his pectoral with the way he's draped his arm over her shoulders and asserted himself into her space.

Leaning. Further. Closer, firmer. He has control of his balance for the moment, feet planted on the floor and other hand down against the couch cushion, but she probably can't see that and he is nothing if not amused by the way she grouses.

Maybe she can tell he's grinning as they sprawl out nearly horizontal.

She can certainly hear it as he chuckles to her poking, tickling fingers, not at all deterred, because he's a dick like that. Not insensate, not in the slightest. He does not squirm or retreat from prodding or from petting, but he does show gooseflesh, risen hairs along the backs of his arms.

"Hey now," he scolds without bite, wriggling as if to get more comfortable on his impromptu Meryl-shaped body pillow, still conscious of exactly how much weight he's putting on her.

And then she says the magic words as he lets his hand alight on her knee, fingertips twitching with the urge to reciprocate. Tipping his chin he eyes her with an arched brow, tongue curled against the backs of his teeth.

"Could eat," comes the thrum, soft and suggestive at first. And then with a sharp inhale he rolls himself off of the couch all at once, popping up to his feet in a single motion that clips the front of his shin against the rounded corner of the coffee table with a solid thock.

He stops wholesale", shuddering like a gong under a mallet, biting a shout back into a hissed blue streak of curses. Somewhere in there he remarks on even her damn furniture having pointy goddamned toes. It's a wake-up call for sure, because pain experienced is oftentimes a lesson learned.

"...Food. Yeah," Wolfwood grunts, actually watching where he's going and winding his way around to collect his shoes (albeit with a stilted stride determined not to limp, dammit). Step-hiss-fuck. Breathe. Boots and jacket. He can manage that.

#full-of-mercy #it's the cracks that let the light shine through. — full-of-mercy. #verse: where the streets have no name.

[eventheodds]

sorry, i got blood on him

#friend art. #oh no (oh yes)

[eventheodds]

He is not wrong in that regards about their timeline and how every second will matter when it comes down to the wire. However, being a Bernadelli Agent means she has mapped out regions all throughout No Man’s Land multiple times and has studied routes and paths that would guarantee the most safety, given life’s circumstances, and where to avoid at all costs. 

“Someone owes me a favour and he’s on our way, actually.” 

Of course, Meryl can’t guarantee that her contact would have remained in the same place or if he moved on—or worse. She considers all the possibilities silently as she watches Wolfwood clean up after their meal before bunking down for the night. The fire either helps or hinders her thought process as she keeps circling back to the worst case scenarios, but the sound of the flames and crackling wood pull her out just in time before she loses herself in that downward spiral.

“What I need from him will help with our distraction, I think. And, if he’s not there, I can find a way in, get what I need. Should be easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

The saying comes with a grin she can’t suppress as she thinks of Milly, having heard her say it numerous times to bring levity to dire and heavy situations. Her and Wolfwood are going to need a whole lot of levity and a whole lot of luck, but there is determination and a willingness to do whatever it takes to see this through.

She scoots with as much finesse as she can muster whilst being wrapped up in a blanket onto her bedroll and is tempted to plop face down and just remain like so until morning. The exhaustion catches up with her the moment it is time for them to get as much sleep as they can, but her brain is too worked up with ‘what-if’s’ to even consider rest. At most, she’ll hope for a restless slumber that might result in nightmares dotted here and there, at worst she’ll not sleep a wink. 

Meryl does, however, get as comfortable as she can, with the blanket cocconed around her, laying on her side facing Wolfwood.

“It’ll work. Our plan will work.” It has to, she keeps to herself, afraid that if she voices her doubts they’ll get in the way and nothing of this plan of theirs will work.

“Vash believes in you,” she says after a while, doing her best to not let her words come out muffled despite the comfort and warmth that’s encasing her, “and despite the truth I learned from Zazie…I am choosing to believe in you, too.”

She thinks of all those she encountered throughout her travels with Milly, crossing through No Man’s Land, chasing down claims and following leads wherever they go, and while the majority seemed to consider Vash a danger, there were those who had been helped by him and those who remembered what he’d done to get them out of tough situations. 

Meryl can only hope that they will be rallied quickly enough together to help her and Wolfwood out, and that has to mean something.

As day becomes night, the desert goes from one extreme to another. Exposure to the elements is as sure a killer as any knife twisted in your gut. He has seen firsthand the desert’s victims, withered into leathery husks that peer the blue sky with their lifeless, empty sockets and sun-bleached grins until the sands rob them of their final vista.

Blankets are a matter of practicality, even if Meryl has plenty reason to exercise her guardedness, he’s glad to see her warm and comfortable on a cold night. The nights have already been bleak enough as of late and all things considered, that little blow-up had been fairly tame. Completely deserved and underserved. 

He’s smart enough not to stoke her ire a second time by pressing for more punishment..

“You’re small,” Wolfwood agrees, squatting back down beside the fire. He feels bereft without the weight of a cigarette hanging from his lips. Running his tongue along his teeth provides a distraction while he mulls over their ‘plan.’ “And damn hard to catch.” 

Sneaking in, finding a way on board– that part of the plan doesn’t bother him at all. He didn’t expect Meryl to have any prior knowledge of how to pilot lost tech. 

How hard could it be? If it’s anything like driving Angelina, maybe with a few extra knobs and buttons here and there and an entire additional dimension to consider, he’s sure they can figure out a workable solution between the two of them. He doesn’t have that much idiot juice to spread around.

“We’ll worry about the flying part together.” They don’t know what they don’t know, but what they do know is that they need to get Vash the hell off that flying death trap. If he (or Meryl, for that matter) could have materialized a saner plan by now, they would have. 

No, throwing fire onto already hellish prospects is the best they’re going to get. Insanity to match insanity.

“Pit stop?” he repeats, puzzled. With Knives charting a course for humanity’s utter extinction, derailing Vash’s brother may very well come down to a matter of seconds. Without Vash, utterly impossible. 

Wolfwood starts gathering loose items left out from dinner. Cleaning utensils and other cookware with water is a luxury they no longer have. Rough scrub with a square of chainmail, an old, stained rag is the best he can manage. Nuking it over their campfire on the next cook should better their odds of digestive disagreements. Hopefully.

Loosening the drawstring of one of their camp packs, he rolls out their bedrolls on his hands and knees, then smooths them down with flattened palms. Wolfwood pauses. 

“Not that I’m arguin’ with you, Princess, but what’re we missin’, exactly? Zipping around in a tin can ain’t exactly low profile.” 

#wolfwoocl #verse: love is a miracle. #feel the ache in my hands to hold onto you. — wolfwoocl.

[eventheodds]

“I trust you.”

It’s said in the moments between the beginning of heavier breaths, in between the silence that feels full and heavy and close, interwoven between carnal thoughts and the realization that there are so few people that she can place her trust in and one of them is in this tiny space with her.

She’s pulled back enough for him to see her face. There is a rosy hue to her cheeks, eyes are heavy lidded, and her lips are slightly red and swollen from occasionally licking and biting them, but all of her focus is centred on him.

“I trust you,” she says again, the words whispered as she is close enough that her breath can tickle his lips. Her cheek tingles from when it had rubbed against the stubble along his jaw. Not the first time her skin has had some marks from those—both against her face and elsewhere.

She moves to lift her leg to place it on the other side of one of his so that she can sit on his thigh, taking some pressure off her feet. The pressure she’d begun to feel in her lower back eases up and Meryl can’t help but sigh, head tipped back, as this forces her to rub against him when she scoots up.

It’s all intentionally deliberate and there is a part of her that wants to hear him either call her out on it or encourage her, even with his hands around her middle, fingers toying with her piercing and feeling him trail along the hem of her underclothes. 

There is an unbidden thought that makes her want to take his hand and direct him where she wants him to go, but she holds back. 

She wants to, very much—and it is especially hard when she feels his teeth scrape against her shoulder and when she hears that groan, but she pulls herself together to wet the cloth under warm water and applies it again to his chest, repeating a few more times until the glob is, more or less, fully removed. She tosses the cloth into the sink to be dealt with later.

“Not like you were complaining when I did that one time.” She might not fully let herself tell him what she wants, but she is being forward and deliberate with her words. There’s no huffing and puffing or stammering to be found here. Maybe this is herself showing she can give as much as she gets, not letting him catch her off guard that would have her bumbling her way or firing back retorts. 

For good measure, she grinds against his thigh once, twice, before coming to a stop. It’s affected her more than she would like to admit, but it feels like they are way past that point by now.

She considers pinching him again but rather takes a different route as her hand smoothes down the expanse of his chest, feeling the sticky bits of wax that cling to his hair that could not be removed, and down, down she goes as fingers and palm trace over the delineation of his muscles and rests at the hem of his pants.

She looks up at him, silently asking for his permission to undo the button and pull down the zipper, and she won’t do either until she has it.

"Ha—hmm." Soft, soft, the beginnings of a chuckle ground down to a rumbling hum. There is no need for bombast at the moment. No need for volume so close, so breathtakingly intimate. "Ain't the type to go bald, there, little lady. Meant for you, if you're really worried about hair."

He isn't worried about it. Not hers at least. The notion of having the luxury of time to groom like that is utterly alien to him, but what she does with her skin is her choice, and she allows him to explore it at the moment, so he has absolutely no right or reason to complain. It's etched there in his face, in the lackadaisical show of teeth, in hooded eyes blown dark in the restroom light.

"If you trust me with it, hm?"

It's a tall ask, he surmises, circling fingertips clockwise around her navel with a tap of her dangling adornment, timed as he digs himself deeper. Probably. He has no way of knowing, but he is keen to find out, adjusting the curve of his wrist as she leans in.

This is still new, even months on, this whatever-this-is they have. Friendship. Partnership. More. He feels out of place in it just as much as he feels out of place in a city abode, but he's here and there's no need to retreat. She certainly doesn't seem inclined to retreat, but then she never is, even when he aims to push her away, even when moments of doubt demand distance. There isn't space to wonder at what it feels like to be treated like a human being rather than a walking weapon.

There is only this, the hair-raising thrill of breath and words near his ear. It is almost enough to make him forget about the wax blob hardening just below his clavicles.

So is the exquisitely slow course of fingers sliding steel through tender flesh.

Inhale.

Muscle flexes and stacks, cording taut under tawny skin tinged russet with growing warmth. Wolfwood swallows, tipping his chin to touch his incisors to the top of Meryl's shoulder, and in this he does not quite censor his groan, crushed velvet over gravel.

"…you sure about that?" he rasps, asserting his other hand on her hip, assiduously encircling her waist with the span of palms and outstretched fingers. Dexterous and exacting, he still strokes around her belly, grazing the hem of her clothing without intruding underneath. Not yet at least.

Nevermind his own awakening interest, electricity coruscating from nape to coccyx.

"Usually keen to shut me up."

#full-of-mercy #it's the cracks that let the light shine through. — full-of-mercy. #verse: where the streets have no name. #suggestive.

[eventheodds]

Is it selfish of her to want to stay out here, regardless of how late it is and how cold it will become? Milly would be none the wiser until she sensed that Meryl had not entered their shared room and would no doubt come looking for her, probably waking up the entire town to do so if need be.

There is enough tension riding along this place, and everywhere else where others have settled after what felt like what was the end, and to add to it—especially to wake people up from their sleep, won’t do them any favours.

She’s done enough and heard enough crying or words spoken right on the brink of tears to hear it in voice and Meryl doubles down on her embrace, holding onto him all the more tighter—despite the futile attempt at wrapping her arms around him—but she keeps holding on because he is not a ghost despite the admission that he had died and now came back, and that is something she will want to know more of.

For now, she counts the seconds that may become minutes until he says what she’s been dreading to hear from him since this reunion.

“And where are you gonna go? We spent God knows how long trekking through that desert, following leads and clues that sometimes didn’t make any sense, and what? You’re just gonna vanish into the night and we won’t ever see you again? Not on my watch!”

She’s not pulled herself away from him or out of his embrace, but she has taken a step back to look up at him and to make him see that she means every word. 

“Whether I do have more important things, or not, you’re still important to me, so consider yourself on the top of my list.” 

Meryl does her best to subtly wipe at her eyes and nose, but they are so close that the shift in her movements would be spotted right away. 

“D-do you got a place to stay at least?” She manages to ask with only a bit of fumbling and mentally pats herself on the back for not letting the sobbing take full control despite how it is lodged there, ready to be let out.

“I can put you up for the night,” she says, her composure, while not back to normal, is at least on slightly more solid ground. “I’m sure there’s another room available. If you bunked with us and woke up Milly, she’ll end up waking up the entire town.”

Selfishness be damned. They had spent so long combing through the desert for whatever trails that would lead them here and she’s not about to let go just yet.

She knows he’s giving her an out and she’s made her choice not to take it.

She threatens him with death if he up and dies again, and that of all things sparks a snort and then a laugh. Funny how chuckling and sobbing can sound the same, how things like joy and sorrow (and hate and love) are just a knife's edge apart for all that they are worlds different.

He has had some time—and very little time at all—to ruminate on it.

"It was always a possibility," Wolfwood murmurs into the crown of Meryl's hair, letting the strands tickle his lips and the tip of his nose. It's worth it for the proximity, for the chance to breathe in. Scent and memory are profoundly linked. What a wonder it is to be able to experience it. "Ain't like I wanted to die."

God, even that feels like saying too much. How tight his voice is, how shaking. Some part of him quails at seeming so damned weak, but it is the truth. He was afraid. So, so afraid. So lost. So desperate. So utterly and unconscionably and willfully stupid, leaving on his own, and at the end he came to realize that if he weren't such an idiot, if he had said something, they could've succeeded together. They did succeed together, but… But.

Exhale. "It was somethin' I had to do. You all needed to look after the world. I needed to make sure mine would survive."

It almost sounds like an excuse for walking away from their little—what was it, family? It seemed the right thing to do after he damned Vash to seven months in Hell and had the audacity to survive crashing a shuttle into the Ark to break him out, as if he did anyone a favor.

As Meryl buries herself against his chest, Nicholas frowns at himself, still inclined at the waist. Bent, but not under the weight of the Punisher. That is a familiar thing, almost a comfort.

So why is he white-knuckling the straps?

Why isn't he letting go of her?

They did not have much time together overall, but what they had was decent. Good, even. If he could call it that. If he had a right to. On the one hand, he tried his hardest to deter them from traveling with (or trailing after) Vash, because they were foolish to, because the company they worked for seemed determined to fling them into the heart of danger without any regard for their lives. He commiserated with her unease, the aftershocks of psychic resonance, feeling small in light of the forces arrayed against them.

With what Vash did. What he became.

Of course, she too saw who Vash was, who he is. She had every reason to be terrified of Vash, just as she had every reason to be terrified of Wolfwood, and yet.

(And yet).

Here they are.

And here he is, rubbing at the small of Meryl's back with his fingertips in slow circles.

"Oughtta get inside, Little Lady. It's gonna get cold," he murmurs, straightening up just a hair, offering her an out away from this strange reunion. Some part of him hopes she'll take it. A greater part hopes that she won't. Selfishly, he wants to continue here in the sodium-yellow lights outside of a bar in a run-down little town iles between Terran and Federal-patrolled trading spots. Realistically, he knows it is a liminal place, a crossroads for most, just a point on the way to something else.

"Sure you've got more important things to look after. Big Girl's gonna worry."

#full-of-mercy #it's the cracks that let the light shine through. — full-of-mercy. #[ stardate: 0114+ ] #verse: love is a miracle.

[eventheodds]

She had her suspicions about the hole he dug himself was deep, but not this deep. Rather, there was a part of her that was anticipating this in some form—and while she can reflect on the timing being a little off, given their circumstances, Meryl remains absolute in her decision.

There are regrets she carries with her that she will continue to carry until either they find Vash or until this desert claims them—and even with the former, she knows she can’t absolve herself of that guilt just because she hopes to tell Vash what she’s been dying to say to him for so long.

Part of her wonders if this mission, travelling across the desert to find someone who may not even be alive—or may not even want to be found—has dug her into her own hole of denial and that searching is futile and will yield nothing.

At times, the hope she clings to feels like she’s grasping at straws and there will be nothing below her when she plunges into that pit of despair.

But, here and now, she knows she loves Wolfwood just as much as she loves Vash. She can tell him that much.

And she does.

“Yeah? Well, tough!” This might have turned into a blazing argument in any other situation if they weren’t in bed together, but Meryl knows she’d push and wedge her way through Wolfwood’s stubbornness because she’s equally as such. 

Perhaps a little more.

“The both of us, and I know he’s not here to speak on his behalf but I know he loves, and he’d tell you the exact same thing!”

She reaches out to cup his face, anchoring herself to him still as she can feel him inside her. With the slightest shift, she moves her hips to get a soft grinding going and it makes her hitch her breath, her eyes flutter for the briefest of moments, but she continues to cup his face, palms against either side of his jaw.

“You better not tell me I’m wrong for loving you and I don’t want to ever hear you say you’re not Vash—because I know you’re not—and I am never going to think that, because I want you and I love you, and you better accept that bucko because I am not going anywhere.”

To punctuate this, she smoothes her hands down until her palms are flat against his chest with the intention of him laying down while she rides him, her grinding becoming more and more frantic, more intense, until it gets to the point where she’s almost bouncing against him, resuming the creaks and groans of the bed beneath them.

“You and Vash are the best things that have happened to me and if I have to keep telling you this then I will,” she says, her voice breathless and punctuated by moans and soft groans as she gets another rhythm going and keeps at it until she can feel that familiar precipice drawing near.

Meryl grabs one of his hands and places it on her breast while she takes the other and brings it to where they are joined, mouth agape and nodding her head as she spreads her legs as far as they’ll go.

“I’m close…Nick, please…”

Wolfwood had entered a state of completely automatic and lustful fervor—his brain fully on mute as he obsessed over the angle that made Meryl lose her mind with a punishing pace. If anything, he's an expert at accuracy and repetition, even in a sexual situation, he can put this marksmanlike discipline to use for pleasure and love—

Love?

Her voice snaps him back; Meryl just repeats love and love and... does he deserve such a thing? Love is something best kept for Vash—the man is half and half love and peace, after all.

Love for... him? Love for Nicholas.

All he can do is pause and stare at her, astonished and maybe a little horrified—he feels so small, terrified of a force he can't see.

"...What? Mmh—!"

Before he can respond, she's kissing him and showering him with love that he doesn't deserve, but what is he supposed to say? No? Is he supposed to tell her she's wrong?

Even just the slight rocking of Meryl leaning forward to snatch his lips up sends a shudder through his body, and he moans into her mouth. She's saying it too much for it to be a mistake—just a heated moment of passion that got too out of hand... or something. She loves Vash.

But... Wolfwood does love Meryl. Loves Vash too. He's admitted this to himself long, long ago. It's agonizing torture, admitting that you love something—someone—that you can't have; to double that is practically mental self-harm. Every good thing is taken away from him though—every person he dares to love, every material good, anything he cherishes is only used as leverage against him.

Loving her is too... too risky.

"Stop—stop, Meryl—" the undertaker cups her cheek with a palm, "You... can't. It's not a good idea to... I'm too..." He winces, unable to even say the words. They're just words—he doesn't reject them, but she can't... she can't love him. There's so much she doesn't know.

"I..." he closes his eyes, as though he can hide behind his eyelids, "I love you too, but it's not a good idea to keep me around... I know you miss Blondie, and I do too, but I'm not him... so..."

#forgivenpunishment #rescue my heart‚ i'll drown without you. — forgivenpunishment. #verse: my cathedral is the badlands. #nsfw.

[eventheodds]

They have spent two years travelling throughout No Man’s Land, either together or apart—but never apart for longer than necessary—searching for Vash, looking for any sign or clues that would help them get to him, and Meryl would like to think that having spent that much time with Wolfwood, she learned a few of his tells by now.

That deep breath he takes is something she’s seen him do before and the reason he holds on to her like he is is because she’s certain Luida would give him an earful about ruining the grass with his pacing. Maybe lying down in the greenery isn’t helping much with that either, but the feel of those verdant blades gently tickling her, the smell of it, is too novel to give up just yet.

She goes with him when he hauls her to his side, no resistance and no questions or outbursts. She’s close enough now to drape her arm across his middle, though she can barely touch the ground on the other side of him, but when he closes in on her with the feel of his stubble against her neck and shoulder, she stops trying to get any sort of purchase and simply allows him to keep her there, tucked at his side. 

Meryl can picture Vash either in the middle of them or on Wolfwood’s other side, laying here for hours if need be if it meant that she knew they were safe.

Travelling through a hostile desert, getting mixed up in things where she felt, more than once, she’d been in way over her head, has done a number on her but she understands now the need to keep looking ahead, to know the next steps they will have to take, because it feels like something is coming and she doesn’t know what.

“Or, you’re stuck with us. We’re all in this together now, so…”

Her words taper off at the feel of his lips against her skin and she swears she’s lost her train of thought. He might sense the hiccup, might even make light of it, but it feels, for the most part, that they are content to remain like this.

Until that.

“...do you think, if we left him alone, he could have continued on living that life?”

She already knows the answer but needs to hear it for herself. He seemed happy, if different and maybe a part of her wonders if he truly wanted to remain as Eriks or if there was something inside wanting to push through and remember. She’s not asked because she’s been afraid of what Vash might say.

“I’ve been wondering if we took that from him, despite what happened with Grandma Sheryl and Lina, or if it was just a matter of time and we arrived at the right moment—or maybe the wrong moment.”

She ducks her head, pushing herself further into Wolfwood’s embrace, as she brings her arm that was draped around him to be folded against his chest as she crosses her hands and rests her head against the backs of them.

“Just feels like something is gonna happen and I think he knows it, and I’m scared…”

"Yeah, yeah, don't push your luck, little lady," Wolfwood grouses without any actual heat—at least not beyond the ruddy tinge of his cheeks and the edges of his ears, and it looks like he is in good company contending with that sort of fluster. Neither of them are mortified, and it is a strange thing to even think about in this particular moment, where they exist in a place of relative safety in an environment utterly alien to him.

Besides.

The way Meryl smiles right now makes his heart do funny things behind his ribcage. It almost seems unreal, genuine and wide and open and teary and so damned full of affection that he hardly believes he is worth that consideration. Not like he's done a damn bit of good most times.

Hard to argue how right it feels to be working together again. Her. Him. All three of them.

After almost two years of hunting separately and together, they found their missing third, and now it is a matter of… what?

Trepidation?

He'd like to think he has maybe started to earn a place beyond the reach of his bloodstained hands with Meryl, maybe, possibly, but they took Vash from what seemed to be a comfortable life, a simple and good life, at the fringes of NoMan's Land.

That leads to thoughts that will make him irrationally angry and at the moment he does not want to get up and pace. He'd wreck the carpet of grass underfoot and he'd displace Meryl. Good reasons to suck in a deep, deep breath, let it go all at once, and band his other arm around her waist. He doesn't have far to haul her—just up, further mashed against his side and chest, enough that he can dip his chin and tickle-scritch his jaw against the top of her shoulder and the side of her neck.

"Yeah, yeah, seems you're stuck with us," he gruffs, refusing to relent with his side-squish, even if he stops with the nuzzling, trading that for the opportunity to settle his nose and lips to the same patch of skin.

Maybe an apology, maybe some soothing, maybe just an indulgence in the small shelter of familiarity under the blue, blue sky and amid the sprawling geo-engineered green.

"Question is where we're gonna go next."

#full-of-mercy #it's the cracks that let the light shine through. — full-of-mercy. #verse: where the streets have no name.

[eventheodds]

It isn’t like Roberto to leave without her, especially since she is usually the one going on about sticking around and doing the right thing or helping out wherever and however they can. She can hear his gruff voice in her head tell her that they are journalists and not vigilantes or anyone equipped enough to get them out of sticky—and she wants to grimace at the use of that word right now—situations.

That grimace is quickly followed by another flush that she can pass off as a result from the heat and sunslight. 

Well, seems with everything decided, she gets them to the charging station, pays the fee, and glares daggers at Wolfwood, almost forgetting that Vash is still in the truck with her. She startles just a little when she feels that touch upon her shoulder and looks around at him, taken off guard by his expression and almost wants to groan in frustration if he decides to join in on Wolfwood’s teasing. 

It’s then and there that she begins to formulate her plan.

If there is a bar, then there is sure to be a diner of some sort. Maybe a few to give the option of choice. 

“I guess since Roberto took the other key with him. And I don’t mind bunking with you,” she says with what could almost be a shy smile before the moment is interrupted with Wolfwood calling Vash out. 

“You sure you weren’t woken up by your own snoring, Undertaker?”

Meryl sticks out her tongue at Wolfwood as the metre gauge becomes full and she parks the car. Pocketing the keys once the ignition has been turned off, she steps out and squints as tears smart her eyes from the suns. Perhaps purchasing a pair of sunglasses might be a good idea. She pats down her pocket to make sure her wallet is accounted for and heads towards Wolfwood.

“Not eating worm. You’re welcome to, though,” she says as she walks past him and considers giving him another kick for good measure but that thought comes and goes as her eyes widen in delight at the sight of a diner.

“We’re eating there!” She points ahead and starts walking, eagerly awaiting the blast of cool aircon and booths and a menu with choices that might include sundaes.

The moment she walks through the door, Meryl can almost weep with joy. The cool air blasts against her face and she just stands there, letting herself be cooled off and sheltered away from direct sunlight. It’s not particularly busy, so either a rush had finished or has yet to start, but one of the servers points towards a booth in a far corner and Meryl makes a bee-line towards it, sliding in and can’t help a little bounce as she picks up a menu tucked in front of a bottle of ketchup and a large glass shaker of sugar, held in front by two glass salt and pepper shakers.

Her annoyance with Wolfwood’s teasing is forgotten as she places the menus down and begins to peruse, immediately looking at the desserts.

They do, indeed, have sundaes.

Wolfwood meets Meryl's gaze in the rearview, arching his brow over the rim of his shades. She might not be able to see his eyes, but she can probably guess that the look in them matches the slant of his mouth. A little smug, sure. A lot challenging, daring her to continue the line of thought.

He surmises that she will, eventually, speak the rest of her mind.

Besides, there's something to be said about the way she turns so pink. It isn't just the heat, that's a different sort of flush, and Wolfwood is dangerously observant—enough to know the difference, enough to venture a guess why. Fortunately for everyone still in the cabin, he refrains.

Vash protests waking up.

Not that he has been asleep for the last several minutes, of course, but he is reluctant to leave the comfort of his leaning post. The blond grumble-whines, mashing his face against the undertaker's shoulder and burrowing even closer despite the swelter of the day. A sniffle-sniff-lipsmack seem to indicate his intent to continue napping…but then Wolfwood growls something about booger rags and dry cleaning, jerking upright and shoving Vash off—not hard, but rolling into a squabbling trade of swats and pokes. The menace snickers, wobbling over against the door, leaving Nicholas ruffled.

Not too ruffled to catch the key without even looking, though.

Off Roberto goes.

Wolfwood snorts, fruitlessly smoothing his lapels down and glancing aside at Vash.

The Humanoid Typhoon is busy looking at Meryl with a tilted head and rounded lips, his expression breaking into a tiny smile. Almost shy.

"I think we can make room. Right, Wolfwood?"

"Mm. He got a reason for leavin' you out in the cold, little lady?" The key and its red tag disappear into his interior breast pocket. Out comes his crumpled pack of cigarettes, tap-tapped to release one of the last volunteers. As Meryl limps them off to the charge station—and its inevitable hub of random eateries and shitty marketplaces—he lights up, inhales, and then (considerately) exhales a plume of smoke away from both of them and out the cracked window. "He worried about sticky fingers or somethin'?"

"Hey…"

Vash knows how to leverage the big, pleading eyes, damn him. He also knows that Wolfwood might just fold even if he were obstinate in protest, because they are frustratingly and alarmingly transparent to one another. He squints, clucks his tongue, and shrugs.

"Hey yourself. Ain't what you think it means, Needle-Noggin."

Nicholas sniffs, adjusts in his seat, and exits the van as soon as they come to a stop. He grunts, groans into his stretch, and scratches at the middle of his chest, attempting to disguise his own fluster. Yeah. Yep. Just from the sun through the window or something. The heat. Whatever.

Vash cranes into the front seat, reaching out to touch Meryl's shoulder with a look of concerned question coupled with mischief, invitation to humor.

"You're welcome to bunk with us. I don't snore."

"Oh, that's a load of shit—" ah, he's been baited. Nicholas huffs, juts his chin, and sighs. "—C'mon, let's find some real food, 'less you've got a cravin' for worm."

#full-of-mercy #it's the cracks that let the light shine through. — full-of-mercy. #verse: where the streets have no name.

[eventheodds]

stryfewood day 3: food