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It starts with a single sound.
Wolfwood always crams himself into the passenger seat of the truck at night. Even laying back, his legs need to rearrange themselves into various pretzel-like shapes to fit. All because he insists the little lady take the backseat to stretch out from driving all day.
A small kindness in a world not made for them.
Sleep eludes him. He shifts, tosses, and turns long after Meryl’s breathing evens out. (Not that he intentionally listens to her breathing. Definitely not.) He waits a bit. Waits to hear if tonight will be like so many others on this trip where sleep is hard fought and harder won.
When a hiccup turns to a choking sob and Wolfwood’s heart can only take so much as he whispers gently into her ear as he pulls Meryl in close. Those nights they remain wrapped up in one another, wide awake under unforgiving moons and stars as they count each other’s heartbeats. Each thump a reminder that they are gloriously, horrifyingly alive at the end of the world.
And when they wake in the morning, they never talk about it.
Mostly because they are terrible at it.
Meryl and Wolfwood rarely, if ever, talk.
Bickering, oh yes they can bicker like the best. But when the words turn soft, Wolfwood’s tongue finds its courage only under a full keg of whiskey that could burn eyebrows off. Meryl tried a few times to draw out words but slowly found a compromise in sated silence. In soft touches and always knowing that he’ll be there to wipe her tears away.
Tonight appears to be a quiet night as the little lady goes down without a sound. Only soft snores and quiet breaths as she clutches his blazer tight to her chest like a pillow.
Wolfwood’s not certain how long he lays still between his motions staring at the back of his eyelids. But it’s long enough for his mind to wander the dunes once more.
He thinks of Hopeland and whether Mistress Melanie and the kids are well. He hopes they stopped waiting for him to return years ago. He can’t go back, not without putting them at risk. Not while the Eye of Michael is still out there. But they color his thoughts in every way as he presses on day after day.
He runs through everything they need to pick up in the next town. The Punisher needs ammunition. While he’s currently good on smokes, he should stock up because their current final destination lies across a small sand sea. The little lady hasn’t been eating much so he should find some smaller rations to feed her more throughout the day.
With a shake of his head, he chases away the shadow already nibbling at his memories. A name appears and tries to draw him down down down below the surface. Like always, it starts ever so sweet as the memories play and his mind travels.
Back to a truck full of people arguing about everything and nothing simply for the company.
Back to places only called bars because the person behind the counter sells liquid stronger than rubbing alcohol. Where they took sips and teased each other for the faces they made until the old man got tired of the cheap shit and finally ponied up for something from a higher shelf or hidden under a floorboard.
Back to quiet nights under the stars - smoke wafting up to mix with the wyrms buzzing way overhead. When he could always tell when one of them was faking their snores to lull the other into a false sense of security.
Back to quiet jokes spoken directly into ears. Back to trust cunningly built and clumsily smashed against the rocks.
Back to a crater.
To erased smiles and unfinished cigarette cartons.
To a knowingly look and call of a name.
To a tower of vines and flowers that were as beautiful as they were deadly.
To unsaid words he never found the courage to say to either of them.
To aching feet and a thumping heart as he raced to catch Meryl from a fatal freefall. Fear lacing his veins, lungs tightening as he wondered if he would have to watch both of them die and be the cause.
Wolfwood’s body tightens in his seat, recoiling from memories he would never outrun. Never escape the taste of poison down his throat, nor the hot rush of steam at his back as he held Meryl tight underneath him as the world ended in a flash of light and a bang.
The smallest, sharpest intake of breath breaks past the barrier of chapped lips. Air sucking between gritted teeth.
“Undertaker?”
Meryl’s soft, sleep-laden voice cracks like thunder. He freezes, muscles tensing as if hearing gunshots. Body wound tight enough her fingertips tracing his shoulder temporarily separate his soul from his body.
Her hand doesn’t hesitate or jerk back. Unafraid as always and willing to be burned - that was his Meryl.
A reassuring weight clings to his shoulder. She doesn’t press or lean, simply lets herself exist next to him.
She knows better by now that he’s a monster. That her kindness is a waste on a wretch like the Punisher. A man so steeped in blood it would drown No Man’s Land. A man who willingly took the only good man on this forsaken world and lead him to his -
Another sound escapes traitorous lips.
He doesn’t want her to see. Can’t let her see. She needs someone strong to protect her now that Druncle isn’t around. Someone who knows the world and can shield her spark of passion a little longer before the dunes snuff it out forever.
He can’t break. Not now.
Not without -
“Wolfwood?”
He doesn't know how to be comforted. No one’s tried in years. Not since the orphanage, yet this gentle touch feels so wholly new. Meryl has no reason to care for him. To care about him. And yet here she sits, leaning uncomfortably over the center console to try.
A hand curls through his hair, ruffling it gently. Fingernails scrape his scalp, sending a thrill down his spine. A shock to his system. A bucket of water dousing out an inferno. Comfort radiates from those fingers and Wolfwood’s body betrays him once more as he leans into the touch. Chases it until Meryl’s hand returns for another pass.
Wolfwood may not know the steps to the dance from this side, but his body knows what he wants.
He’s beyond words as he puts his weight into her hands. He knows he’s defiling those unblemished palms with his filth but he can’t stop himself.
He needs in a way he hasn’t let himself feel since -
“Shhh,” she whispers. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
The truck jostles. Meryl curses quietly and he whines when her hands temporarily leave him. But then he feels warm as she presses against him.
He unfurls. Not by much - he isn’t ready to bare himself to the world again just yet - but enough for her to slide into the seat properly.
She whispers something into his chest but the exact sounds out of her mouth mean nothing compared to how her breath rattles against him. They reach an understanding once more. Two hearts breaking in time as the night creeps on and another moon joins its sisters high above.
His arms snake around her and draw her closer. Try to consume her completely. This motion he knows. Big Brother Nico remembers how to provide comfort in turn. How to hold the little ones tight enough for their tears to run dry.
Long before he knew how to handle a gun, his fingers wiped away tears. Trading comfort plushies for cartridges thanks to a wicked angel’s entourage. One he still has to find and make sure they can’t hurt anyone else. They trained him and it will be their own undoing when he hunts down the stragglers.
He is not a safe man to hide within for someone as soft as Meryl. But he might be willing to try.
Meryl draws her legs up, where they press a bit into his stomach. He doesn’t mind. Each point of contact shocks him back into his body. Anchors him a little more.
This feels more familiar. Some semblance of normalcy settles into his withering bones and scraped open skin as Meryl settles in his arms. A relaxed sigh and one more shift and motion ceases once more.
“You’re okay,” Meryl whispers again. “You’re okay, Wolfwood.”
He almost believes it. Yet his heartbeat slows finally as his mind’s focus narrows to the woman in his arms. This impossible woman who did what he couldn’t.
His hand trails down her back and she clings to him tighter.
He hopes it says everything he wants to. He hopes it counts as ‘message received’ when she arcs into his touch with a gentle hum.
Wolfwood buries his face in her hair as he slowly returns the favor. His lips can’t find words to express the cavalcade of feeling that haunts him. Appreciation that he isn’t alone, even though most of him still thinks it would be safer for her that way. Remorse, for all the innocents he sent six feet under. Unending guilt for the best man he let walk into the lion’s den.
Buried underneath his sins, another four-letter word begins to surface. It teases his tongue, begs him to speak it into the world and make it true.
He bites his cheek.
Not here. Not tonight.
Hopefully never, if Wolfwood had his way. He’s been flayed alive too many times against his will to willingly do it to himself with a word.
Meryl shuffles again once more. Her hand digs through the center console of the truck for a moment before she lets out a pleased ‘aha!’.
Before he can ask her what the hell she is doing, something is stuffed in his mouth. Even unlit, the taste of nicotine hits him hard as he instinctively chews on the filter.
“No biting yourself,” she says. “If you really need to chew on something, don’t chew on yourself.”
He can’t help it. Wolfwood laughs.
It’s a wet laugh, as the last of his own tears begin to dry. But Meryl soon giggles as well. He buries his face into her hair once more, breathing in the smell of cheap hotel shampoo. He tries not to think about the last time they had the luxury of a shower.
He carefully extracts the cigarette from between his lips and sets it on the dash. For the first time that evening, he opens his eyes and looks at her.
Meryl’s hair fades into the shadows yet reflects the moonlight when he brushes his fingers through it. Her eyes look into his soul in a way that carves him from the inside out. As if she sees past all the walls and defenses of the Punisher and truly sees Nicholas.
It reminds him of -
No, he still can’t bear to think the name. Not yet. Maybe never. He doesn’t deserve it.
But Meryl? She deserves it. Deserves the peace and love its memory brings. For him, it only brings gunshot wounds and a forgiveness already given he’ll never earn.
She smiles at him. Cradles his jaw with a hand as she whispers “go back to sleep.”
Even more foolish men than him would listen. So Wolfwood pulls her back into his chest, where he ignores how her gentle nuzzle as she clutches his shirt makes his breath stutter. He lays his cheek on top of her head and closes his eyes once.
This close, he lets the rise and fall of her breathing guide him under.
When they wake in the morning, just like every time before, they don’t talk about it.
Wolfwood talks a big game about all the good times he’ll have once he’s ditched her back in December. Meryl chastises him for making the foulest coffee known to man. They argue about who drives first and when they reasonably will make it to the next charge station.
And if his hand lingers as it ruffles her hair playfully, she never once says a word.
He hopes she does. Or at least asks the question he’s been waiting for.
Because he can’t bring himself to be the one to ask to stay.