Man oh man, it confuses me, very genuinely that ppl dont think that Beau and Yasha were a good end pairing. That they don’t see it. Idk. I catches me off guard every time I read it because, to me I suppose, they go together like... Chocolate ganache. You heat the milk, pour in the chocolate and stir and stir.... and you’re staring at it and there’s awkward chocolate chunks and it’s just milk with chocolate, oh my god I’ve messed it up, it’s sticking to the bottom omfg ive wasted ALL this milk holy shit I’m an idiot and - Bam. Suddenly. One last little stir and it magically transforms before your eyes into smooth rich brown chocolate ganache.
Idk. For me. They are this fascinating twirling of strong forces that at some point just meld together to make this beautiful thing neither of them could have ever even visualized. The dichotomy of two violent women who have been battered by the world. Told over and over how Destructive they are. Who have destroyed each other in all these crazy situations? Who have been lauded as machines of war and bastions of retribution or cast out as “too much to deal with”..... These two women who have been taught over and over again that EVERY single fucking hand that touches.... strikes.... So strike back and first before they get the fucking chance....
Gods be damned do they deserve gentleness.
And not to say there’s not many places you can find that. But the idea of standing there, holding your broken parts and looking around to find someone to help you... Not fix you, just help you hold them all... And the peace someone might feel handing them to someone whose hands have known pain. Someone whose hands are scarred and battered and tough. Someone who won’t be shocked to see so many broken parts. Someone who is carrying their own armful and a few more of yours won’t be a huge burden. Someone who fucking gets it. You know? I just think of Beau sliding into that hot bath and thinking of the kind words. Not even just kind words, but the acknowledgment and the sincerity.
The... “I see you. I see you. And I’m not looking away. I will carry these pieces with you, if you might also carry some of mine”.
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As the soft, dim lighting of an overly fancy floor lamp illuminated the man standing in the living room, Nicholas D. Wolfwood felt the overwhelming urge to cry.
Not from sadness or a feeling of grief, not from a memory of a life long left, no, but from something wholly, entirely different. Something he truly never believed himself capable of feeling after everything he'd been through.
It was late, far passed midnight, when Wolfwood had descended the stairs to poke his head out the front door for a cigarette, but the glow of light in the living room had given him pause at the bottom of the stairs.
The quiet movement in the lighting of their shared home enraptured him, made his entire body stall in the entryway like he'd turned to stone in a split second.
The year since the horrors ceased had been kind to Vash. Nicholas noticed the differences in him every day, of course, but right then, those things struck him all at once like a barrage of bullets.
As Vash stood in the middle of their living room, swaying back and forth, holding a small, orange kitten in the crook of his arm, every minute detail unfolded before him in blinding beauty, like the first time he'd ever seen them.
His hair had grown shaggy since the end, nearly to his shoulders, but tonight, he had it piled into a messy ponytail. The underneath of his hair lay pitch black, while the rest of his golden hair shined bright in the lamplight. Long, slightly unruly pieces of silken bangs fell into his impossibly blue gaze, which looked soft and free of worry, easy and gentle.
His crimson coat and impossibly tight leather outfit had been replaced by fuzzy, pink slippers, soft, cotton sleep pants that clung to every piece of his thighs and bottom and drew Nicholas's gaze, and a beige, oversized cardigan, unbuttoned and revealing his upper body. The scars still lay along his skin, but they looked... lighter, less sharp, less dire, on his new body.
A body that had grown a little softer in places. His arms still remained muscled and strong from work around the house and yard and his daily workout regime, but the abs of his stomach had grown a little less defined, a small pouch in his stomach now visible above the waistband of his pajamas. He'd been eating since they moved into their home together, smiling bright and happy each time Wolfwood lay a plate of food down in front of him. He never denied himself, not anymore. He let himself live, and it showed in every piece of his body now.
The second sleeve of his cardigan had been folded upward, showing the empty forearm no longer wearing his prosthetic. He took it off often now, and let himself be comfortable in his own skin, especially at night.
Gun replaced by a kitten. Bloodied coat replaced by pajamas. Battle hardened, terrified eyes replaced by a gaze that peered across the room at Nicholas, and softened to the point of near blinding affection.
They'd found peace.
They'd survived.
"Nick," he whispered, and his voice - even his voice - sounded happy. "Why are you awake?"
Overwhelmed, Nicholas approached him, on padding bare feet across the shining, wooden floor. Vash had but a moment of surprise on his face, before Wolfwood's hand caught his chin between his strong fingers, and he placed a warm, soft, chaste kiss onto the soft lips that parted for him.
The hands that ached to hurt and bloody and kill Vash, clawed at his skin, had been replaced, too.
By hands that curled around his lower back and pulled him flush against Wolfwood's body, cradled him and caressed him, and loved him.
And if Vash noticed the soft tears that fell down Wolfwood's cheeks as they kissed, he didn't say a word, and simply kissed him back with a smile on his lips.
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