My first Trigun fanfic. Hopefully not too horrible. Very much a VashxMeryl fic, told in Meryl's P.O.V. Enjoy, if you can.
He's not asleep. He's lying there, beside me, with the white sheets draped loosely over his form. His eyes are closed and his breathing has become slow and methodical. If anyone else were to look at him, they'd swear that he were asleep. But I know different. Having been married to the man for three years, I know many things about him. I know that he never falls asleep at night, at least until I'm asleep myself. He's always awake when I open my eyes, and I used to wonder why that was. Now I think he does it to watch me, as if to make sure that I won't get up and walk away, never to return.
Of course, I can't blame him for having such insecurities. The first woman he loved left him very suddenly, although it was no fault of her own. I feel pain in my heart whenever I think of her, because I know how much Vash cared for her, and how much it still hurts him when I remind him of her in some small way.
The two of us are reasonably happy. After wandering around the world, along with my partner Millie, for nearly a year following the defeat of his brother Knives, I finally confessed my love for him. I'm not really sure what I expected. I guess I sort of imagined that he'd turn a bit red and laugh nervously, or maybe tell me that wasn't interested in a relationship like that. Instead, he smiled warmly and thanked me for my feelings. I didn't quite understand him then.
Over the months that followed, he became increasingly nice to me, and seemed to give me extra attention. I knew he was doing it to be kind, but I couldn't help but feel as if he were forcing himself. Then, after we finally settled down in a small town that we all liked, he suggested that we get married. I was shocked at first, and terribly flattered. Now I'm starting to think that he did it only for my sake, since it was becoming painfully obvious to him that I wasn't going to stop following him around and marry someone else. I suppose he just didn't want to see me shrivel up and die without ever having a family. Afterall, I'd die in a number of years and he'd still be here to live out the rest of his life, however long that may turn out to be.
Our marriage was quite awkward at first. We shared the household duties, paid the bills together, discussed traveling options, and even had sex. Of course, he was a very generous lover, and more than satisfactory, but I knew he was holding himself back. He seemed to enjoy himself, but not near as much as I. I felt badly about it, and tried to stop it from happening, but in the end I caved under his touches and became putty in his hands.
He played along with the whole thing as the loving husband. He made sexy comments about me, playfully grabbed at me in obscene places, kissed me on the cheek when he came in from doing one of his odd jobs, and went grocery shopping with me. But I knew he was only humoring me. It was all an act. It was just like the way he would blatantly flirt with all those girls he ran into before we married. He didn't really want them as lovers. It was just one of his many masks.
But there were good things. Things that assured me that I wasn't just another girl that he felt sorry for. I noticed the way he reached for the sheets and wrapped them around himself whenever another person unexpected came into the room, ashamed of his scars, and I couldn't help but smile when he would drop them carelessly when they left, and it was only he and I. He allowed me to examine every inch of him, every cut, bruise, and scratch. He took off his fake arm and discarded his guns in my presence, letting me know that he trusted me. He didn't care to be completely vulnerable before me, and that touched my heart.
He took the time to find out things about me. He asked me about my past, listened to all the stories I told, and worked to find out what sexually pleased me the most. He seemed sincerely interested in me. But he avoided all the questions I had for him.
He told me the basic version of his past, from what he knew. He wasn't specifically hiding anything, but he never went into great detail. When I asked him to tell me stories about his wandering, he'd tell about some funny incident at a bar or some girl with a very strange fetish. It was always something silly. He never told stories about the dark moments, about the fights or the blood. When I tried to make him tell me what turned him on, he'd just smile and say it was me. I tried many different things, but none of them got a better reaction than the others.
Once I came right out and asked him "Do you love me?"
His expression was sort of funny. "Of course I do. You shouldn't even have to ask." He had said in return.
"No. Do you LOVE me? Do you love me in a way that you don't love anyone else? Do you love me romantically?"
"I married you, didn't I?" was his answer. I decided then to drop the issue. I had Vash the Stampede in my bed every night. He came home to me at night, broken and worn but still ultimately my own, for as long as I was alive to claim him. I should've been satisfied, and outwardly, I acted like I was.
But a deep sense of discomfort was growing in me. I knew that I would never have his heart. I knew that there was a part of him that would forever be alone. A big, sad, portion of his being was, for me, ever untouchable.
So here I lay, inches away from the man I gave my heart to; the man who accepted that heart with a warm smile and held it protectively, yet never allowed it to blend with his own. "I know you're awake." I say to him.
He stirs and rolls over to face me. "And why are you awake?" he asks with a smile. That smile falters a bit when he sees my grim expression. "What's wrong?"
"We need to talk." I say seriously.
"At four in the morning?" he says lazily, glancing at the clock.
"I want a divorce." The words leave my mouth before I even think, and I realize that I can never go back and unsay them. So I keep my face stern. The look in his eyes is the strangest one I've ever seen. Shocked. Hurt. Scared?
"Why?" he chokes out, his voice a bit high-pitched. Why is he acting like this? He should be relieved. I'm setting him free.
"This isn't working out."
"Not working out? We've been together for three years, and not one serious fight!"
"That's just it. We're pretending. We're playing house. I can't do it anymore. I love you so much that it hurts me to be around you, knowing that you don't love me the same way."
His eyes are big and very, very green. Why does he look like that now? Please don't let him reach out to me. Please don't let him touch me. I'll cave in. I'll back down. I want to close my eyes and hide under the covers. I want to get up and pack a bag, then run out of the house and never return to that town again. I want to stand up and tell Vash to just leave. I want to do any of those things, but I can't. All I can do is just stare at him, and wait for his response.
He sits up in bed, the sheets falling down around his waist. He looks down at his lap for a few moments before returning his gaze to me. "That's how you've felt this whole time?"
I nod. It's the only thing I can do now.
"I didn't know that." He says simply, looking back at his lap. "I didn't know you were in that much pain." I see his eyes watering up, and I half expect him to start bawling and hugging me idiotically, spewing a thousand apologies in typical Vash fashion.
Then he does something surprising. He lays his face in his hands and just looks so defeated. I haven't seem him like that since the time he woke up after killing Legato. I suddenly feel very bad, and I don't know what to make of it. "Vash?" I say weakly, putting a hesitant hand on his shoulder.
He looks up at me. "You should have told me. You should have let me know that you were suffering! I could've done something!"
"Like what? Force yourself to be a better actor?" I felt really bad after I said that, because I knew it was way too harsh. I immediately wished I could take it back.
"No! I would have showed you that I love you too! It's not an act!"
"How can I believe that?! You never open up to me! We're married. We're husband and wife, yet I still don't know anything about you!"
"I told you about my past, more than I've told anyone else!" he yells, though not angry but desperate.
"You only told me the storybook version! Tell me the real version! I want to know the details, I want to know everything about you! I want to know how you got each of those scars, the names of all your past lovers, the stories of all the loved ones you lost, all the bad things! Stop telling me fairy tales! I'm not a child!"
He looks at me with surprise and pain in his eyes. "That's what you want? You want to hear about all my bad memories?"
"I want to know the whole you, not just some edited version." I say gently, relaxing the first time since he'd sat up.
"If I tell you everything about me, will that prove to you that I love you?" he asks, his voice hopeful.
I nod quietly and he begins talking. He tells me everything. Every detail. Some stories make me cry, some make me laugh. Some make me almost wish I hadn't demanded such a thing. But I listen intently, taking every word in. I learn so much in such a short time. By daybreak, he's still talking, and only halfway through his stories. A few hours after, he finally stops, and looks at me with a curious face. "There. That's everything."
I smile, tears rolling down my face. I know everything about him now. Everything. Nothing was left out. I know about all his pain, all his sorrow, and all his kindness. I know now that he is capable of loving someone romantically, of loving someone completely. And that's all the assurance I need.
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