Chapter Text
There’s a small moment — just before Meryl remembers where she is — that she feels rested. And then everything comes crashing down.
She forces herself out of bed. She’s got to finish that article.
Wolfwood is gone, so she dresses quickly and then heads out to the top deck to write.
She runs into him in the hallway.
“Hey! Good timing, I was about to pour this over your head if you weren’t awake yet,” he passes her a cup of coffee.
“Gee, thanks,” she says sarcastically, even though she knows he’s just being obnoxious to cover up the act of kindness. She takes a sip. It’s super bitter.
“That bad?”
She didn’t mean to make a face. “No— I just — they any have cream or sugar over there?”
“Ohooo, excuse me, fancy little lady!”
Meryl rolls her eyes. “It’s not that fancy. Most people don’t drink their coffee black.”
“You did the other day.”
“That motel in a town full of refugees did not have cream and sugar. And black coffee is better than no coffee.”
“Okay. Yeah, they have cream and sugar on board.”
“Next time,” Meryl says. “I’m heading up to write. What are you up to?”
“Nothing,” he responds. “Is it okay if I come with you?”
She shrugs. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
She thinks she catches a flicker of hurt cross over his face, but he recovers quickly.
“Nah, I’m just getting claustrophobic in here.”
“Okay, fair enough,” she overcorrects a little with the enthusiasm and he gives her a weird look before following her up.
They stick to their same spots as yesterday: Wolfwood smoking at the railing as he stares at the sand, Meryl getting lost in her work in one of the deck chairs. She’s decided the best approach is to write a back up article that’s a little more tame but still reports the facts. That way, if her first article is deemed a little too subversive, then the truth won’t be completely scrapped.
Also, the sad, scared part of herself she’s keeping buried doesn’t want to be alone with her thoughts just yet. Work is much easier.
She’s not sure what time it is, but she’s almost done when Wolfwood says something.
“Huh?” she looks up.
He smirks, shaking his head.
“What?” she frowns.
“You just get so…focused. I said it looks like there’s a storm coming. You wanna stay up here?”
Meryl looks up, looks for the storm and doesn’t see anything. The sky is still blue.
“What do you mean there’s a storm coming?” she closes her notebook and goes over to where he’s standing, squinting at the horizon. There might be a cloud of dust in the distance.
She makes a face. “I think that’s just a worm.”
“We’ll see,” he says, then licks a finger and holds it up. “Yeah. Wind’s wrong. And my bones hurt. It’s a storm.”
She snorts. “What are you, an old man? I’ll have to take your word for it.” Meryl sighs, looking at the cloud on the horizon. “I hope we don’t have to divert course too much.”
“You in a hurry to get away from me?”
He’s teasing, and there’s absolutely nothing serious behind the comment, but she still feels a twinge of sadness.
“No, not at all,” she says, and means it.
She’d almost forgotten this was just temporary. That they won’t get back to November and see Roberto and Vash waiting for them there. That she belongs in her studio apartment as a rookie reporter, and Undertaker belongs…
Where will he go?
“Woah, don’t get sentimental on me now, Shortie.”
She shakes her head, shoves that train of thought down with the rest of the things she’s tucking away, begging for them to stay put, to not make an embarrassing appearance again.
“What can I say?” she bumps him with her elbow. “You’re growing on me.”
The wind kicks up around them.
“Ha!” he smiles. “Well, that’s a first.”
She rolls her eyes, heading for the stairs that lead inside. “Liar — Vash and Roberto liked you plenty.”
“I don’t—“ he pauses in the middle of the stairs, frowning.
“Wha—“
“Hold on,” he whispers, moving in front of her.
And then she hears it, the soft sniffles of a kid crying. Wolfwood approaches carefully, and Meryl leaves them some extra space. The poor kid has squeezed himself in the small gap under the stairs.
“Hey, what’s going on over here?” Wolfwood asks.
The kid wipes at his eyes, looking embarrassed but also genuinely scared. He can’t be older than five years old.
“I’m lost,” he says.
“How’d that happen?” Wolfwood smiles.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I tried to go back, but I don’t know where to go.” Tears start welling up in his eyes again.
“Well, it’s a big sand steamer, but we can probably figure it out together. How do you feel about coming out of there?”
“It hurts.”
Wolfwood frowns. “What hurts?”
The kid uncurls his limbs, revealing a skinned knee.
“Oh I see, what happened there?”
“I was trying to go up those stairs and fell—“
“Ouch. I’m sorry about that. Did you hurt anything else? Hit your head?”
“I don’t think so but it’s hard to walk.”
Meryl starts digging in her pockets. She had shoved some of the bandages from the medical kit they picked up in East Idaho in there out of her new paranoia that one of them would need it when they didn’t have access to the full kit. Turns out, she was right.
She pulls out a few bandages and some of the packaged antiseptic wipes and hands them over.
“Here, I can put a bandage on it. That okay?”
The kid nods.
“All right, there’s gonna be a little bit of a sting so that we can clean it up, but you seem pretty brave.”
The kid nods again, a little more doubtful.
“Would this help?” he pulls a lollipop out of his pocket — where does he even get this stuff? Meryl wonders — and hands it over.
The kid looks thrilled.
Wolfwood opens his own lollipop.
“Okay, now we’re ready. One more thing, you gotta tell me the highest number you can count to.”
He thinks for a second then says “Fifty-nine.”
“Nuh uh,” Wolfwood says. “I don’t believe you.”
Meryl smiles, seeing what he’s doing. She sits down on the last step.
“Yeah huh!”
“Prove it. Go ahead and count while I’m fixing this up.”
“One two three four five six seven eight nine t-ten—“ he winces a little as the cut is cleaned. “Um—eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty—“
He keeps counting as Wolfwood tries to pick the right size bandage and starts putting it on. He gets bored after he hits about thirty-five.
“Hey, what’s your name?”
“Wolfwood. What’s yours?”
“Charlie. That’s a weird name.”
“What, Charlie?”
“No, Wolfff—w— whatever your name is.”
Wolfwood laughs. “My little brother used to call me Nico, if that’s easier. And that’s my friend, Meryl.”
Charlie nods. “Thanks for helping, Mr. Nico. And thanks for the bandages, Ms. Meryl.”
“No problem,” she smiles.
“Oh! I have a little brother too!” Charlie exclaims.
“Oh yeah?” Wolfwood gets an odd expression Meryl can’t quite read as he finishes bandaging Charlie’s knee. “Tell me about him.”
“Okay. Um— he’s little.”
“You did mention that.”
“No!” Charlie giggles. “Like, really little. He was just born. Sort of. He’s kinda ugly but also kinda cute? His face is really scrunchy.”
“Babies are sort of scrunchy, aren’t they?”
“Yep. He’s so loud too. He cries and it hurts my ears.”
“I get that.”
“That’s — that’s how I got lost. He was so loud and Mom couldn’t make him be quiet and she was sad and he was sad and I just wanted to go outside so I—“ Charlie trails off, looking at his lollipop for a second before putting it back in his mouth.
“Well, why don’t we try to find your mom, then? I’m sure she misses you.”
Charlie nods, grabbing his hand and standing up.
“Still hard to walk?”
“I’m okay,” he says.
“Let me know if you’re not.”
They all make their way down the hall.
“I can go grab one of the stewards,” Meryl says. “Charlie’s mom may already have them looking.”
“Good plan.”
She takes off at a little bit of a jog, and the first one she finds knows exactly who she’s describing. His mom has been looking for him.
Charlie and Wolfwood lag behind, and Charlie must have gotten tired of walking because he’s up on Wolfwood’s shoulders now, pretending to steer him around the hallway, running him into the walls on purpose and laughing every time.
The little party is led to one of the offices where a woman with Charlie’s same dark hair is waiting, a small baby in her arms.
“Momma!” Charlie cries, and Wolfwood puts him down so he can run to her. Charlie’s mother bursts into tears, hugging her child tightly.
“I thought I lost you—“
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“
“It’s okay, it’s okay—“
The person waiting with Charlie’s mother in the office looks at Meryl and Wolfwood and does a double take.
“Oh hey, the reporter and the priest, right?”
Meryl frowns, then realizes it’s the ticket taker.
Great. What are the chances.
“Yep…that’s us,” she gives an awkward little wave.
“Thank you so much—“ Charlie’s mom turns to them. “I— we just barely made it out of July and I thought—“ she tears up.
“It’s no problem,” Wolfwood says. “He was trying to make his way back. Took a little bit of a spill though, so you might want to get that knee checked out.”
“Of course,” she says. “Can I— can I do anything for you?”
“No, please, just— travel safe, okay?” he says.
She nods.
After a final farewell to Charlie, they head back out to the hall.
Meryl wants to say something, to continue earlier conversation, but Wolfwood turns to her first.
“That article done?”
“Almost.”
“You want a drink?”
She smiles. “Yeah, actually.”
The bar on board has got a comfortable crowd with the storm coming in, but they find themselves a nice table by the windows and Meryl opens up a tab since she’s the one currently getting paid.
“Here, this is an official business meeting now,” she passes him her notebook with both articles to read. “So get whatever you want.”
“Deal.”
Meryl finishes her first drink and grabs another one by the time he finishes reading.
“It’s good,” he announces, passing the notebook back. “Both are good. You should turn it in before it drives you crazy.”
“I’m just trying to be thorough.”
“Yeah, I’d call writing two articles instead of one thorough.”
She rolls her eyes at his sarcasm. “I’m gonna give them one more pass tomorrow morning and then submit them.”
“Whatever you want,” he responds, getting up to get a refill. “You need anything?”
She raises her fresh drink. “I’ve got what I need for now…wait — go ahead and bring back the bottle.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“You got it.”
He returns with the bottle of whiskey they’ve been drinking and a deck of cards. They start playing an easy game based on bluffing that only seems to get funnier the more they realize the bar’s deck of cards is really a deck and a half that’s been put back incorrectly and is still somehow missing a quarter of each suit while having far too many extras of other cards.
“Nine aces,” Meryl slaps down the cards in the middle.
“That one has to be a lie.”
“No!” she giggles, showing him the cards. He grumpily takes the pile from the middle, rearranging his new, ridiculously large hand of cards.
“What does the winner get?” she asks, just to rub it in. She’s feeling delightfully buzzed.
“Bragging rights.”
“Bo—riiiing.”
“I don’t have anything! You’re the one paying for this operation — two twos.”
“Loser has to tell a secret.”
He snorts. “What are you, twelve?”
“One three,” she sets down the card. It’s a lie. This messed up deck doesn’t have any threes in it. “Are you in?”
“Sure,” he rolls his eyes. “Loser tells a secret — four fours.” He has over half the deck in his hand, so that one’s probably true.
“Here, I’ll give you one for free,” she says. “I’m deathly afraid of bugs — two fives.”
“That’s not a secret in the slightest, Shortie. You look like you’re trying to crawl out your own skin every time you see one - five sixes.”
She studies him for a second to see if he’s lying. He stares back, not even a flinch. Hmm.
She has only five cards left, and none of them are sixes, so she’s not going to risk it. She hasn’t been counting cards very well.
“One seven.”
“Three eights.”
“Three nines.”
“Two tens.”
“One Jack.”
Wolfwood squints at her. “That’s a lie.”
“Nope!” she waves it in his face. “I win. What’s your secret?”
He collects the cards and reshuffles, thinking for a moment.
“My secret is…” he thinks for a second, then smiles, leans in closer. “I can’t drink for shit.”
Meryl blinks. She’s not sure what she was expecting, but this is surprising to her. She tries to think back across their whole time traveling together, and although she can remember him drinking with her and Vash and Roberto, he would take frequent smoke breaks. Considering Vash and Roberto had tolerances for alcohol that were, frankly, disturbing (despite Vash using any amount of alcohol as an excuse to act ridiculous), Wolfwood never drank as much as even she did. And she considers herself a lightweight (although she has to say, she does pretty well for her size).
“Ohhh,” she smiles mischievously, eyeing the bottle of whiskey they’ve been sharing. “Undertaker, are you drunk right now?”
“Oh yeah,” he says, casually.
She laughs at his honesty.
“We’ve had the same amount, and I’m like…half your size…”
“Don’t brag, Shortstack.”
“Oh, excuse me,” she teases. “Granted, it is straight whiskey we’re drinking, but— how?”
“I’ve got theories,” he starts dealing the cards back out between them. “My best theory is that it’s a side effect of the serum. Maybe it resets my ability to handle liquor? But what do I know…maybe they did one too many experiments to my liver or something--“
Meryl winces. “That’s not funny.”
“Hey, you asked me for a secret.”
“Sorry.”
“Nah,” he gives her a small smile. “What you should really be sorry about is the fact you can’t share this knowledge with anyone who’d be able to make fun of me for it.”
“That’s also not funny!”
“But it is good for me,” he smiles and finishes dealing.
“Rematch, then,” she says, putting down the first card.
He may be drunk, but he beats her the next round.
“Pay up!”
“Uhh,” she really had been too confident about winning that she hadn’t come up with any secrets.
“Something fun,” he says, pouring himself another glass.
“You thought your secret was fun?”
“Not my fault you asked for context.”
“Okay,” she thinks for a minute. “Fine. I cheated on a test in college. Only once, but—“
He laughs.
“That’s all?”
“Hey! I never told anyone before! I still feel really badly about it.”
“What subject?”
“Math.”
“You studied, what? Journalism? So it doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does,” Meryl says. “The class was a graduation requirement, so if anyone found out, they might revoke my degree—“
“And you tell me this right before you break your first big story? Wow.”
She feels herself turning red, even though she knows he’s just teasing.
“No— I—I felt so guilty about it, I studied really hard after and passed the rest of the tests — so—“
“Of course you did,” he grins. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Well now we’re even. No more secrets.”
“Oh, suddenly you don’t like the game when you’re losing, huh?”
“I don’t have any good secrets.”
“I don’t believe you. I think you’re a coward.”
He’s riling her up on purpose, but that doesn’t make it any less fun to respond to. Maybe she really is overdoing it on the drinks.
“I’m not a coward; I’m just a nosy journalist, remember? It’s no fun talking about myself.”
“One more round then. Winner gets to ask a nosy reporter question.”
“Interesting,” Meryl smiles. “You have one in mind?”
He takes a sip from his glass.
“I think so. “
“Wait…hold on. You said they get to ask, but you didn’t specify if the other person has to answer.”
“They have to answer. Honestly. Come on, I’m not trying to trick you.”
“Shake on it,” she reaches out her hand to seal the agreement. This is so stupid, but she’s having fun, so she doesn’t care.
The next round she spends trying to think of a good question. She doesn’t want to make it too intense. Clearly, they’ve verged into some darker territory already, and they’re both having fun, so she can’t completely kill the mood.
‘What happens next?’ is really the question she wants to ask, but she’s afraid even he doesn’t know. ‘Will we see each other again?’ Is the one after, and she might be even more afraid of that answer. Because she didn’t realize how nice it is to have other people, to not feel so alone.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe she is a coward. But he’s the only person who understands what she just went through. So she’s stuck with this angry, chain-smoking killer who carries around lollipops for children and plays silly games with her that belong more at a childhood slumber party.
She smiles, an interesting question popping into her mind. One she thinks will be harmless, but then again he didn’t give her any limitations, so if it’s not, that’s on him.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Aces first.”
“Two aces,” she sets down the cards. “You’re so losing.”
“Maybe not,” he says, right before completely fumbling a bluff on twos. She thinks she may have his tell figured out, but she’s not completely sure. Maybe he’s just easier to read without his sunglasses on and when drunk, but she swears he gets a mischievous glint in his eyes when he’s lying and she rides that instinct all the way to a win.
“Aha!” she throws down her last card.
“Nope.”
“Yes!” She waves it in his face.
“Fine,” he rolls his eyes. “Shoot.”
“How…old are you?”
He looks surprised. “Really? That’s your question?”
“Sure is,” she says. “Why, you have anything I should be asking instead?”
“No, that’s fine, hold on—“
He thinks for a moment, like he’s counting. For a second, she’s wondering if he’s somehow abnormally old, like Vash is, but for some reason, that doesn’t feel right to her.
“Twenty—three?” he says, then nods. “Twenty-three,” he repeats confidently.
Meryl blinks, then laughs. “You’re 23.”
“Yeah. Why are you laughing?” he seems legitimately confused.
“You look older.”
“Damn it, really?” he sits back. “Huh. How old do I look?”
She shrugs. “Maybe…closer to thirty? It’s hard to tell. That’s why I asked.”
“Are you trying to call me old?”
“I’m calling you…mysterious?” she smiles. “It’s a good thing. You were kind of an immature thirty-something.”
“You’re kind of a rude twenty-something.”
She laughs. “Aw…you know what this means?”
“What.”
“We’re the same age.”
“Huh,” he grins. “Now that is weird.”
“Who’s older?” she asks. “I was born in February.”
“April.”
It’s goofy, but she feels her grin growing even bigger.
“You’re the youngest!”
“Of what?” he scowls. “This table?”
“Yeah!”
That earns her a laugh.
There’s something that loosens in his posture, like there’s something that he’s let go of in this conversation. She’d make a mental note if she weren’t in such a good mood, pushes down the fact that someone who identifies as a seasoned killer is her age.
“What were you planning on asking me?”
“I’m not asking cause you’re not going to answer.”
“Okay fine,” she says. “Next time.”
“Next time.”
They clink glasses and finish their drinks together.
The storm is getting worse outside, so the bar is filling up and a small group is eyeing their table. They get up and wander back to their room, and for the first time in a week, Meryl feels like she can breathe normally. Granted, it is due to the alcohol, which will wear off eventually, but for now, the buzz helps.
She climbs up to her bunk, grabbing the tiny ladder that leads up to it. She must be more drunk than she thinks because she’s halfway up when she loses her balance and topples over.
“Woah! Easy—“ Wolfwood catches her, setting her back upright on the ladder. “You good?”
“I’m fine!” she says quickly, feeling a bit flustered. She really didn’t think she’d had that much.
“You sure?”
“Steamer must have hid a bump outside.”
“Sure,” he grins, patting her on the back. “But I’m gonna stand here just in case until you make it up there.”
“You’re drunk.”
“And? Did you want me to let you fall?”
She holds up a rude gesture, and he laughs.
“I can take care of myself!”
“I know,” he says, seriously. She feels the fragile, silly haze they’re in waver, but she ignores his sincerity for now. “To be fair, I’m not the one that has to climb up to the ceiling.”
She snorts, reaching the top of the ladder and rolls onto her bed. He backs off, sufficiently convinced she’s not going to crack her head open.
“You’re not gonna brush your teeth?” he asks from the bunk below.
“Huh?” she peeks over. Considering the people on the steamer, someone had left a bunch in the bathrooms for anyone to use.
“You seem like the type to not miss a night.”
“Are you saying I have good teeth?”
“I’m saying you seem like an insufferable rule follower.”
“Hey!” she protests. “Why are you so rude to me?”
“‘Cause it’s so fun.”
“What are you, a child?”
“I told you my age.”
She attempts to what him with a pillow over the edge of the bunk, but it’s too far, and she misses. She yanks it back up and puts it under her head.
“What can I say?” he says. “You’re growing on me.”