Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ Trigger ❯ Trigger ( Chapter 1 )

Title: Trigger

Series: Trigun

Category: A story about Wolfwood…

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Death, Guns, Language, Implied Sex, and Glossed-Over Shonen Ai

Spoilers: Rough series plotline spoilers, major spoilers for the episodes Alternative, and Paradise

Disclaimers: I don't own Trigun, nor it's snazzy cast. The refrain of this story comes from a parody comic called "Mine!" which is freaking hilarious.

Notes: The following work of fiction was made possible by a grant from the Best Friend Foundation… Arigatogozamusto, Jen-chan, for the comic that inspired this. And surprisingly enough, special thanks to my brother Sean, for making me watch Trigun in the first place…

Standing still, very still, and waiting…

Waiting to see if he'll move again.

He never moves again.

They never do.

And the smoke clears, and all eyes turn to him, and they see him, and they realize.

The smoke clears, and she sees him.

The smoke clears, and there's a killer there where once a priest had stood.

But he is not a man.

He never was…

There are masks we wear to avoid being who we are.

Titles, coats, and tissue paper, they cover it up, but can never quite disguise what truly lies behind them.

Lies behind.

Lies.

A child is what we call something that we don't want to find fault in.

A priest is one who is above blame, above sin, above evil. He is someone we can count on; someone we can use.

A killer is where we place the evils that we can't see within ourselves…

Maybe it was wrong.

Maybe there was another way.

But another way would not have ended this way.

Another way would not have ended with this man's hands fisted in the cloth of his jacket.

Another way would not have ended with this man's breath hot on his throat.

Another war would have erased that look from her eyes.

Another way would have left this man there… blood mingling with the bold scarlet of his own disguise.

And so, when he hits this man, it feels good; it feels right.

It feels necessary.

It feels good.

To show him…

That maybe people make their own choices.

Maybe people decide their own paths.

Not everyone can be saved.

Not everyone deserves to be saved.

Not everyone wants to.

// "Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound…

That saved a wretch…"//

Like him?

He does not want to be saved.

He does not need it.

People make their own choices.

He did not choose to kill him.

The kid simply chose to die.

That's life.

That's balance.

He can trade the look in her eyes for this man's breath on his face.

Her disillusionment for his life.

A fair exchange, he thinks.

Because this is Wolfwood.

We like Wolfwood.

And Wolfwood likes Vash.

~~~

He doesn't get over it.

He obsesses over it.

He fucking mourns over it.

Almost like he pulled the fucking trigger.

He refuses to get it,

That kid pulled that trigger the day he picked up that gun.

// "He who liveth by the sword…" //

Catch an apple, lose an apple, it makes no difference.

That kid died by his own hand.

Didn't he?

…She brings him sandwiches and a smile. Pours her fucking sympathy like she pours him coffee.

Does he like it black?

Of course he likes it black.

He likes it any way he can get it.

Of course he likes it black.

// "What happened to Thou Shalt Not Kill?! What the hell kind of churchman are you?!" //

What kind indeed.

// "I am he who liveth and was dead, and lo, I am alive, forever more…" //

He can see the children's faces in the steam of his mug.

Would they smile at him if they could see the things he did to save them?

She's still smiling at him now, as she pours him simpering sympathy, and serves her adoration with tunafish on rye.

The Adoration of the Virgin.

But that man was suffering on a cross…

Well, you carried it here, yourself, didn't you? … He carries his cross daily…

// "Give us this day our daily bread…" //

Abruptly, he spills the coffee.

He doesn't want her sympathy, he wants to know her choice. Would she have done it? Could she have done it?

…She doesn't know…

But she really wants him to eat the sandwiches.

Says it would "really make her very happy".

He lights a cigarette instead.

She isn't smiling as she leaves…

After a few minutes, he cleans up the spilled coffee.

He listens faintly, wondering if he made her cry.

// "There's no use crying over spilled…" //

Blood, he whispers aloud.

And he hears it.

He smiles wryly.

He has that effect on women.

Drawing his knees up, he sits in the floor, cigarette dangling from chapped lips.

Catch an apple, lose and apple…

It's all the same.

It's better if she cries now, because maybe it means she won't cry so much later…

Maybe…

…But she never did ask him about that coffee…

// "You drink your coffee black, right?" //

A statement, not a question.

Well, he'll be damned.

NO.

He pulled that trigger long ago.

He stands, reaching for his cross to bear…

…Of course he likes his coffee black.

Because this is Wolfwood.

And we like Wolfwood.

Because Wolfwood… likes Vash.

~~~

He never moves as he lifts the cross.

The sound of the safety springing free is deafening.

Draw.

No.

DRAW!

…I'll do this for you, because you've asked me to. But in return, will you do something for me?

Anything, he thinks. Everything.

Nothing.

Yes.

No.

Why.

Why don't you even want to know why?

…A thousand responses and he can't manage a word.

And this man's hand rests on the gun at his hip.

The silver one.

The special one.

Those bullets never miss.

He needs that threat to see this through.

He can justify this if he's holding that gun.

He can do this if he's holding that gun.

He can… wait… for…

This has to be perfect.

This has to be right.

This can't just be like everyone else.

Because…

This isn't about the money.

This isn't about the cross.

This isn't about the apple.

This isn't about him.

This is about this man.

This man, who isn't a lie, merely a contradiction…

This man, who wears his heart on his sleeve, when all that he can manage to display there is a faded symbol of what he maybe used to fight for…

Because if he can force him to fire…

If he has convinced him that sometimes, it's justified…

If he can force this moment to it's fucking crisis…

Then maybe this man will live a little longer when he's gone…

Maybe this man will be able to put that silver gun, with its magic bullets, to his brother's head…

And then… In the sunset, when no one can see his eyes behind his tinted glasses, and his arm is whole and steady, he can look his brother in his fucking eyes and remember this moment…

And pull the fucking trigger.

But it's a stalemate, a standstill, because he hasn't convinced him yet, and his fingers haven't closed over the grip of that silver gun…

And he can't fucking move.

Every muscle in his body is screaming, screaming at him to move, to move, to shoot because at this range, there's no way he could miss, like he ever missed anyway…

Every muscle in his body is screaming at him to finish this, to finish him, to walk away from this illusion he's been indulging in, because what's real is in his hands, and not sitting in his room waiting for him to come back.

Every muscle but his heart, which is pounding for the first time in years, and pleading silently for this man to shoot to kill… Which is exactly why, when he finally lunges, it is merely to knock him out of a bullet's path…

Because he is Wolfwood.

And we like Wolfwood.

Because Wolfwood likes Vash.

~~~

And maybe there might have been a world where they could have all been okay…

He fumbles for his last cigarette, wishing it were a tunafish sandwich, but knowing the rye bread is stale now, and the Virgin deflowered…

There's no point in putting sugar in coffee, because if you're drinking coffee for the taste of coffee, you don't need it.

And he likes his coffee black.

But he drops the cigarette anyway.

His clothes smell like the liquor he slipped in, and there's glass sparkling in his hair, but the taste of apples is sweet in his mouth…

Ten years for one taste.

Irony is funny.

Poetic justice, even more so.

And he wonders which really means more to him, her taste, or that of the apple?

And he realized he already knows.

There are lots of apples.

I wasn't supposed to die this way.

But how was he supposed to, then?

In her arms?

In his?

How will he pull the trigger now?

…There will be no one to say Grace at dinner…

…There will be no one to put a hand on his shoulder if the other girl dies…

…There will be no one to punch him in the gut and call him derogatory terms…

…There will be no one to shoot Knives in the back when he loses his nerve…

I WASN'T SUPPOSED TO DIE THIS WAY!!!

HOW CAN HE PULL THE TRIGGER NOW?!

…This was supposed to be his big dance number… This was supposed to be his last chance at forgiveness…

// "Forgive us our trespasses…" //

// "For Thine Is The Kingdom…" //

// "This is the way the world ends…" //

And so, when his hand fell to the stone tiles of the altar, he died.

Unrepentant, but forgiven.

Because, though he pulled that trigger long ago,

Life Is About Choices.

Catch An Apple, Lose An Apple…

It Makes No Difference.

But Maybe Everybody Can Be Saved.

…

…

…

This is Wolfwood.

We like Wolfwood.

And Wolfwood…

Likes Vash.

OWARI… ^ ^

(@ @) ----"Nyawn?"

o