Archive of Our Own ^beta

Nicholas steps out of the inn, dragging the Punisher behind him, the noonday sun too bright even with his sunglasses. As he approaches his motorcycle, he hears a tinny, staticky voice coming from the radio that occupies most of the sidecar. Meryl had bought it for him with the hefty paycheck she’d earned from the JuLai article, and he grumbled the entire time she was installing it and its huge satellite dish into his beautiful new (to him) motorcycle. She had fixed him with a stern glare and told him it was so that they could each keep each other updated on their search for Vash.

Except he never really looked in the first place. Meryl still looks, and still goes back to JuLai, but he didn’t see the point. Vash is dead, and if he wasn’t, he would have done something to make headlines by now. 

He rests the Punisher against his bike and bends to tune the radio. He twists the knob back and forth, but Meryl’s voice doesn’t get any clearer. So he just puts his ear right next to it, and he makes out, “Undertaker? You there?” And then, quieter, “Why did I even get you the damn radio if you never answer.”

He lifts the mouthpiece. “I’m here.”

“ Finally. Wolfwood, I found Vash.”

He frowns, wondering if he heard her right. “What?”

“I found Vash.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wouldn’t joke about this. I found him. In a tiny shithole just a few miles northwest of JuLai.”

Nicholas hesitates. He’s busy. He has…things to do. Places to be. Places that have more to offer than a tiny shithole a few miles outside of JuLai.

“Let me translate this into simpler terms for you,” Meryl says. “I can’t stay here with Vash, and I also can’t take him with me. So if you want even a chance at making up for everything you did, you’ll get your ass here as fast as you can.”

Nicholas scowls, and he opens his mouth to make a biting retort, but she cuts him off with, “Don’t you dare get cold feet,” and the line goes dead.

“Shortie? Hey, Stryfe!” He lets out a frustrated huff and slams the mouthpiece down, then slings the Punisher into its position in front of the radio. He straddles the motorcycle and starts it up, the engine roaring to life loudly enough to drown his thoughts out. He squints in the direction he’d been headed—north, away from JuLai, away from Hopeland, away from every reminder of Vash the Stampede and the Eye of Michael and the sins of his past.

Then he twists the throttle and turns the bike around in a wide circle to head back southeast. 

The sun is setting on the next day when he trundles up to the isolated saloon Meryl had given him the location for. He steps off of the motorcycle and hefts the Punisher out of the sidecar. He shoves the doors open and swaggers inside. As his eyes adjust to the dimmer light, a voice calls from the other end of the room. “Are you Wolfwood?” He looks over to see a teenager waving at him from the bar, drawing the attention of every single person in the room. He scowls, grip tightening on the Punisher, but nods once.

“Meryl and Eriks are upstairs, let me take you.” They step out from behind the bar and hurry over, grabbing Nicholas’ hand to tug him along. “Meryl’s done nothing but complain about how long you were taking since she called you yesterday, so I’ve gotta say, I’m glad you’re here.”

Nicholas is more out of breath than he’d like to admit by the time they reach the ladder that leads up into the attic, and the Punisher feels heavier on his back than it has in a long time. “They’re just up there,” the teenager says, gesturing up the ladder. “Good luck!” And then they’re off with a wave, jogging back down the stairs.

Nicholas sneers at their retreating figure. Kids. He shifts his grip on the Punisher again and looks up the ladder. He can hear voices up there. Well, a voice. Meryl’s. He takes a cigarette out of his pocket with trembling fingers (trembling because he hasn’t had a cigarette in a few hours) and sticks it between his teeth, then lights it. He stares down at his lighter for a moment as he takes the first drag. Fuck everything on this godforsaken planet for reminding him of Vash. He shoves it in his breast pocket and turns to leave, blowing smoke out past the cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

“I thought I told you not to get cold feet,” a flat voice says from above.

He turns and cranes his neck to see Meryl looking down at him from the top of the ladder. “Wasn’t getting cold feet. Just needed a smoke.”

“Right.”

A frown tugs at his lips. 

“Come on,” she says, head disappearing from the opening.

Nicholas grinds his teeth and takes another drag from his cigarette. His fingers are still trembling. But he grips a ladder rung with one hand and hauls himself up, Punisher and all. Once he’s all the way up with both feet planted on the creaking wood floor, he surveys the room, avoiding the people across the room from him.

“Nice place you got,” he says stiffly.

“Vash, this is Wolfwood that I told you about,” Meryl says, and Wolfood narrows his eyes at her.

From there, his gaze is drawn like a magnet towards Vash, who sits just behind her. His frame is too small and too vulnerable without a prosthetic to fill the space below his left shoulder or a bright red jacket to bulk him up. Vash is looking at him, too, brow furrowed over his (very) blue eyes, but there’s no animosity, no bitterness, no grief, not even Vash’s overused, pathetic smile. There’s no recognition at all.

“Shortie…” Nicholas says, low and dangerous. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“He lost his memories in JuLai,” she replies bluntly. “I knew if I told you you wouldn’t have come.”

He scoffs, but he has nothing to say to that. So instead, he busies himself with leaning the Punisher up against the nearest wall and fidgeting with all of its straps even though they’re all perfectly fine.

“You see why I said he’s a piece of work?” Meryl says, and Nicholas scowls as he gives one strap a particularly hard yank.

Then he gathers himself and turns back to face Vash and Meryl. He steps up to Vash and holds out his hand. “Nicholas D. Wolfwood.”

Vash’s eyes flicker to Meryl before he cautiously accepts the handshake. Nicholas curses to himself when he realizes that his fingers are still trembling, and he gives Vash’s hand a single jerk before letting go. His palm tingles with the inhuman heat of Vash’s hand.

“All right, well I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted,” Meryl says, hopping off of the barstool. “HQ’s got a newbie waiting for me. If she’s all right, I’ll bring her with me when I come back. If not, I’m sure we can find a way to keep her quiet.” She throws a wink at Nicholas and pulls her sunglasses off of her head as she disappears down the ladder.

Nicholas clenches his jaw, then takes his cigarette out to spit out the bits he’d chewed off of the end. He goes to the window and leans up against it, arms folded. Vash’s quiet gaze follows him. He takes a drag. Vash says nothing. He blows out the smoke. Vash tries to suppress a cough. He drops the cigarette on the floor and grinds it out with his toe.

“So what did Stryfe tell you about me?” Nicholas asks when the silence becomes too suffocating. He’s looking at the wall across from him instead of at Vash, but when Vash doesn’t answer, he forces his gaze back over to him. Vash is still just staring at him steadily, and the weight of his gaze feels like standing under the noonday sun.

“Not much of a talker these days, are you?” Nicholas scuffs the toe of his loafer against the floorboards. “The old Vash couldn’t shut up.”

Something flicker’s across Vash’s expression, but it’s gone before Nicholas can identify it.

“Or did you just get used to Stryfe doing all the talking for you?”

The corner of Vash’s mouth twitches into what might be a smile, and god, Nicholas hates it. He doesn’t know the Vash who’s sitting in front of him. Meryl dragged him here for nothing.

Vash gestures at him, brows raised. 

“You want me to talk?” Nicholas asks in spite of himself, then scoffs. “About what?”

Vash gestures between the two of them.

Nicholas swallows thickly, dread gripping his gut, and he shakes his head. “I don’t think you want to hear about that, needle-noggin.” The name slips out without his permission, and its aftertaste is bitter.

Vash’s expression flickers again, though, a crease appearing between his brows. “Needle-noggin?” he repeats slowly, and his voice is rough and worn thin in the wrong places but fuck, it’s Vash’s voice all right.

“It’s, uh, what I called you. Him.”

Vash tilts his head, still not understanding, and Nicholas wants so badly to shake him until everything falls back into place in his brain, but that would be stupid , that would be the stupidest thing he could possibly do because then Vash will never forgive him.

“Your hair used to be spiky.”

Vash nods thoughtfully, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair. It’s stick-straight, hanging to his chin, and it certainly isn’t doing him any favors, but he doesn’t need any favors. He’s still devastatingly, breathtakingly pretty. God, Nicholas is so fucked.

“You don’t have a barber anywhere nearby?” Nicholas asks after a few too many seconds of staring at Vash in silence.

Vash shrugs like he doesn’t really care.

Nicholas looks out the window for lack of anything better to do. There’s nothing but desert as far as the eye can see, washed red with the setting sun, broken up here and there by sand dunes and rickety buildings. Vash says nothing. Nicholas reaches into his pocket for a cigarette, pulls one out, then shoves it back in. He pushes himself off of the window. “I better find somewhere to sleep tonight,” he says, striding back to where he left the Punisher in the corner of the room. He hears the bed creak as Vash stands up, but he refuses to look back at him as he comes across the room towards him. He grabs the Punisher and slings it over his shoulder before turning to go back down the ladder.

Vash stops him with a firm hand on the Punisher’s crossbeam. Nicholas looks back at him to see his brow furrowed again as he runs his fingers over the surface, and then his face clears and he nods once before letting it go.

“Do you…know what this is?” Nicholas asks.

Vash nods and mimes shooting a gun with his hand, making a quiet pew pew with his mouth.

The gesture is so Vash that Nicholas has to look away. His palm is sweaty against the Punisher’s strap, and his fingers are still trembling and god he needs a smoke. 

Vash squeezes past him to go to the ladder, and he gestures for Nicholas to follow him as he walks down it. Nicholas waits until he’s reached the bottom so he won’t take out this new, fragile-looking Vash with the Punisher and then follows. Vash takes him down the hallway and opens the first door on the left, then stands back.

Nicholas pokes his head into the room. Judging by the scent of stale coffee and the unmade bed sheets, he’s guessing this was Meryl’s room last night. He steps over the threshold and leans the Punisher up against the wall next to the door. Then he goes to the window and looks outside to see the same exact view that he’d seen out Vash’s window and he takes a cigarette out of his pocket. Settling it between his teeth, he flips his lighter before igniting it, and he hears a sharp inhale from Vash.

He looks over at him, brows raised, to find Vash staring fixedly at the lighter like it’s about to answer all of his questions. Vash holds his hand out, and Nicholas tosses the lighter over while he takes a drag. Vash catches the lighter easily, and, frowning, pops it open and tosses it like Nicholas had. It over rotates and he misses it on the way down, the lighter clattering to the floor. He bends to pick it up and tries again, but he catches it upside down.

Nicholas walks over to him, blowing smoke out and belatedly turning his head to blow it away from Vash. He holds his hand out for the lighter, and Vash hands it back, looking disappointed. He flips the lighter again and then gives it back to Vash. Vash brightens and tries it again, and he gets it this time. A smile spreads across his face, a real one, and then he does it again and the smile broadens. 

Nicholas stares at him, his entire chest aching (he’s been holding the smoke inside his lungs for too long), and he finds he can’t look away. Even on the old Vash, smiles like that were rare. Vash hands the lighter back to Nicholas , and their gazes lock for a split second. Vash’s expression is warm, open, his blue eyes crinkled with his smile. Nicholas is suddenly glad he’s wearing his sunglasses, because his eyes are stinging (he shouldn’t be smoking with the window shut). He chokes on the smoke in his lungs and coughs it out, the smoke billowing directly into Vash’s face.

Vash wrinkles his nose and waves a hand in front of his face, and then he frowns again, reaching into Nicholas’ pocket and pulling out his pack of cigarettes. His eyes flick over the label, and then he looks back up at Nicholas, a question in his eyes.

“What?” Nicholas asks hoarsely, still catching his breath (he swears his lungs get smaller and shittier every year).

Vash turns the package around so the label faces Nicholas, and he points at the brand name.

“I, uh, used to smoke different ones, is that what you’re asking about?” 

Vash nods, face clearing again.

“These ones are cheaper,” Nicholas says as Vash hands the package back. “I’m not on—anyone’s payroll anymore. Can’t afford to be picky.” 

If Vash notices his hesitation, he doesn’t mention it. He just nods like Nicholas has explained everything and steps back over the threshold. 

“You sure you don’t remember anything?” Nicholas asks before he can decide not to.

Vash’s gaze flicks up to Nicholas’, his expression unreadable. Then he smiles sadly and starts to swing the door shut, giving Nicholas a wave.

“G’night,” Nicholas says, and then the door clicks shut. “Needle-noggin.”

Vash is up with the sunrise the next morning, shuffling around on the uneven floor above Nicholas’ head. He goes down the ladder, and Nicholas can hear the creaking of the building his whole way down. He’d meant to leave before Vash got up, but, well. It’s too late now. So instead, he gets up, lights himself a cigarette, and follows Vash downstairs.

He finds Vash diligently cleaning up after last night’s patrons, a frayed rag tossed over his left shoulder and a crate of used mugs and glasses resting on a table in the center. He watches him from the stairwell for a few moments, taking a deep drag. He blows the smoke out, and halfway through his next drag, Vash turns to look at him. He smiles, and it isn’t the uncomplicated joy of yesterday’s smile, but it also isn’t the painfully-sad-around-the-edges-I-might-cry-at-any-second-except-I-don’t-deserve-to smile from the old Vash.

Nicholas avoids responding by blowing out another cloud of smoke and tapping the ash off with a flick of his thumb. Vash’s gaze tracks the motion and flicks down to where the ash has settled on the floor, his lips pressing together almost imperceptibly.

Then he goes back to collecting used mugs, the crate clinking with each new addition, and Nicholas watches him. Vash hefts the crate, balancing it on his hip, and carries it to the hallway behind the bar, and Nicholas watches him. He finishes his cigarette, is halfway towards dropping it on the floor, and then exits the saloon instead to grind it out in the sand. He walks over to his bike and leans up against the seat, then pulls out another cigarette. He’ll need a new pack soon.

He catches sight of Vash through a narrow, dusty window, bent over a basin with soap suds on his forearm. It looks awkward, scrubbing mugs out with one hand, but Vash seems to have gotten the hang of it. Nicholas hears footsteps from behind him, and he turns his head to see a grubby man in jeans and a plaid flannel that might have been blue at one point making a beeline for the saloon door. Vash glances up from behind the window, and the man gives him a wave. Vash waves back, sloshing sudsy water out of the mug in his hand. The man disappears beyond the saloon doors and reappears a moment later behind Vash.

Vash listens to him, head cocked, for a few moments while he dries his hand. Then he nods, sets the rag down on the edge of the basin, and follows the man back outside. He smiles again when he sees Nicholas, and Nicholas dips his head in response. It’s then that he realizes he never lit the cigarette in his mouth.

The two of them head past Nicholas, and Nicholas doesn’t turn to watch them go. Instead, he sticks his cigarette back into the pack and heads back inside.

Vash spends the whole day in and out of the saloon. Every time he starts up a new cleaning task, someone else shows up needing his help, and Vash always goes with them. It’s a far cry from the times when everyone who talked to Vash was after the bounty. Finally, Nicholas gets fed up with the three tables Vash still hasn’t wiped down and does it himself. Then he stands there next to them until Vash comes back so that Vash knows he did it.

Nicholas turns in early that night, promising himself that he’ll be up before Vash so he can leave.

He wakes up while it’s still dark—which is good—but it’s a fucking piano that does the waking. A single note, followed quickly by another one, and then silence. Then the first note again, followed by the second one, and then silence. He listens to those two notes ping around in the dead silence of the night until they stop sounding like piano at all. Then he gets up with a huff, yanking the door open and making his way down the stairs.

He’s not surprised when it’s Vash standing at the piano, his hair hiding his face and his hand hovering above the keys. He plays the two notes again, and then his fingers twitch like he’s about to play more, but then he just plays them again.

Nicholas goes over to him and shuts the cover, forcing Vash to yank his hand back. “Now I know where your talkativeness went,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

“Sorry,” Vash replies, ducking his head.

Nicholas clenches his hand at his side. He’s too close to Vash, now, so close he can feel the heat from his body—always too much, always more than a human. He doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t have a cigarette as his excuse this time, so he leans against the piano instead with his arms folded. Vash runs his fingers over the splintered wood.

“What did I do to you?” Vash asks, the words clear but quiet.

Nicholas gives Vash a sidelong glance. “Huh?”

“What did I do to you?”

A frown pulls at the corner of Nicholas’ mouth. “What makes you think you did anything?”

Vash shrugs, and then turns his gaze on Nicholas. Moonlight slants across his features, and Nicholas’ breath catches in his throat (he needs a glass of water). Vash’s eyes flick between Nicholas’, and Nicholas wishes he’d put his sunglasses on.

“What did Stryfe say?” Nicholas asks.

“Nothing.”

“Okay?”

“And you’ve said nothing, too. What did I do?”

Nicholas blinks at Vash, taken aback by the magnitude of his jump in logic. “Huh?”

Vash just keeps looking at him, blue eyes steady in a way they aren’t when he looks at anyone else. Nicholas breaks eye contact first, his gaze dropping past Vash’s lips on its way over to the nearest window. The underside of his skin is itching (he needs a cigarette and a shower), and he doesn’t want to be having this conversation, not now, not ever.

“I said nothing because you did nothing,” he says finally, folding his arms tighter across his chest.

He can still feel Vash’s gaze on him, intense and hungry, and fuck he should have left instead of checking out the damn piano playing.

“You don’t want to know what happened.” He swallows the needle-noggin that almost pops out at the end of his statement. Too affectionate, too close by half. Especially after what he’s done.

Vash still doesn’t say anything, his fingers going still on the piano, but Nicholas can feel his frown boring into the side of his head.

“I’m serious,” he insists, but he doesn’t know if he is. Vash might be happier not knowing, sure, but at least if he knows, Nicholas will have an excuse to leave. His eyes dart back to Vash’s, and the expression he finds is somehow not angry. Vash’s brows are furrowed with concern, his head tilted slightly to the side as he regards Nicholas.

Nicholas grinds his teeth and looks away again. “You asked for it,” he says. He pats his chest for a cigarette, but they’re all in his blazer upstairs. He takes a shaky breath (it wouldn’t be shaky if he had a cigarette to smoke). “Did Stryfe tell you about Knives?”

Vash nods.

“How much?”

“He wanted to wipe out humans to protect the plants.”

“Right, yeah.” Nicholas feels for a cigarette again. “Real trigger-happy nutjob. Nothing like you.” He hates the words as soon as they’ve come out of his mouth, hates the way he can feel Vash’s bewildered sadness well up between them. “He needed you to do what he wanted to do, did Stryfe tell you that?”

Vash nods.

“She really covered all her bases didn’t she?”

“Except for you.”

“Right. Except for me.” Nicholas grits his teeth, wishing she had covered his base and saved him the trouble of coming all this way while she was at it. He could have been halfway to Varmint Hill by now. He sighs through his nose. “He hired me to make sure you got to him in one piece.”

Vash waits expectantly for him to continue, his fingers back to rubbing the wood absently.

“You were already on your way to him, so all I really did was make sure you didn’t get yourself killed. Which was harder than it sounds.”

Vash nods, once, accepting that. Some of the tension seeps out of his shoulders, and he settles back against the piano. Nicholas eyes him, brows pulling together. “Did you hear me?”

Vash nods again, and offers Nicholas a half-smile.

“I got paid to hand you over to your brother who wanted to use you for his own ends.”

Vash nods, firmer.

“If you hadn't come willingly, I would have tied you up and dragged you there.”

Vash nods.

“I bought that bike out there with the money I made off of you,” Nicholas says, pointing out the saloon doors.

Vash’s lips twitch towards a genuine smile, and he nods.

“You’re fucking crazy.”

A soft chuckle escapes Vash, and the sound makes Nicholas’ heart clench painfully (maybe the cigarettes are finally doing their job of shortening his miserable life).

Then Vash pushes off of the piano and offers Nicholas a wave as he heads up the stairs. Nicholas waves back.

“Night, needle-noggin.”

Well, there goes his iron-clad excuse to leave, because Vash is apparently still just as stupid as he was before.

Nicholas wakes up the next morning to sunlight streaming in through his window. He blinks his eyes open, then squeezes them shut again, starting to shift so he can turn his back to the window. He stops short, a hiss of pain escaping him. His whole body aches, from the lingering growing pains in his joints to the ghosts of a lifetime of bullet holes riddling his torso. He rolls onto his back with a wince.

He’ll stay until this runs its course, and then he’ll leave.

There’s a knock on the door, and his eyes pop open. “Who’s it?” he mumbles.

There’s no reply, just another knock.

Nicholas lets out a sigh. “C’m in.”

He turns his head to the side as the door opens to admit Vash. Vash’s eyes flick down the length of his body before returning to Nicholas’ face, his brows furrowed.

“Like what you see?” Nicholas asks, his voice too sluggish to come off as remotely suave.

Vash steps up to the bed and grabs the blanket, tugging it off of Nicholas. Nicholas tries to sit up and only makes it onto one elbow, his other hand reaching for the blanket. Vash drops the blanket to push him back down onto the bed as he surveys his body again, the crease between his brows deepening. Embarrassingly, Nicholas feels a spark of heat at the base of his spine in response to the focused attention (it’s been a long time since he’s gotten laid). Vash’s gaze returns to Nicholas’, and he waves a hand over his body.

“Just decided to sleep in today, that’s all,” Nicholas replies. “Beauty sleep and all.”

Vash’s expression turns decidedly unimpressed.

“Nothing to worry about, needle-noggin,” Nicholas says, turning his face back to the ceiling and letting his eyes fall shut. “Just some regular old aches and pains.”

He feels the blanket tossed over him again, and then his eyes snap open when the door shuts. So that’s what it takes to get Vash fed up enough to walk away. He smirks to himself and settles back down into the mattress, then winces as his neck twinges.

Vash returns a few minutes later, a small jar in his hand. He shuts the door behind him and sits on the side of the bed, pulling the blanket off of Nicholas’ torso. 

Nicholas scowls at him. “The hell do you want now?”

Vash tugs at the top button on Nicholas’ shirt, and Nicholas watches dumbly as he deftly undoes the rest of his buttons, blinking slowly as heat curls in his stomach. (He really should have gotten laid before coming here.)

Vash tugs his shirt open, and all of a sudden, it’s too much like spread-eagled on a table, limbs shackled down, blinding lights overhead, poison coursing through his veins. Nicholas grabs Vash’s hand and sits up, heart hammering against his ribcage and his breaths shallow. Vash recoils like he’s been shocked. “Sorry.”

Nicholas shakes his head, his muscles yanked tight and trembling with the effort of holding himself up. He forces his breathing to slow down (he hasn’t had a cigarette and he desperately needs one), and he releases his grip on Vash’s hand. Without looking at Vash, he shifts his weight onto his left arm, holding his right up so that Vash can pull the sleeve off. 

Vash reaches out carefully and tugs the sleeve off of Nicholas’ arm. Nicholas puts his weight on his right arm and holds up his left. Vash pulls that sleeve off, too, and then drapes the shirt over the back of his chair like it matters whether or not it gets more wrinkled. Nicholas eases his head back onto the pillow, and his heart rate picks up again with the motion, defenseless written all over his body.

Vash gestures for him to turn over, and he does so gladly, his vital organs better protected against the mattress than in the open air. He settles in with his arms folded under his head, and he turns his face towards Vash. Vash, brows furrowed with concentration, uncorks the jar with his teeth and then leans forward with it in his hand. His eyes flick to Nicholas’, uncertain, and Nicholas rolls his eyes and says, “Just get it over with, needle-noggin.”

What might be a smile flickers across Vash’s face, and then he tips the jar over Nicholas’ shoulders. Cool liquid spills down his back, pooling in the indent of his spine, and he suppresses a shiver. Vash corks the jar again and then gathers some of the oil onto his fingers, smearing it around on his hand. The feather-light brush of his fingertips sends another shiver down Nicholas’ spine. Vash settles his hand on top of Nicholas’ shoulder blade, thumb tracing gentle circles between it and his spine before digging in. Hard.

Nicholas grits his teeth as his muscle spasms under the pressure, but he says nothing, forcing slow, even breaths in and out through his nose. Vash circles that spot a few times, shifts his thumb up incrementally, then digs in just as hard. Nicholas blows out an extra long breath. Vash works over his entire back like that, the oil warming under his touch and Nicholas’ muscles feeling bruised in the wake of his fingers.

The moment Vash’s hand pulls away, Nicholas pushes himself up onto his elbows and holds his hand out for his shirt, more than ready to be done with the whole thing. Vash obediently hands it over, holding it gingerly between his thumb and index finger to avoid getting oil on it. Then Nicholas sits up and puts it on, the fabric settling against the skin on his back and soaking up the oil there.

“Didn’t know you were a masseuse,” Nicholas says to fill the silence.

Vash shrugs, a small, contented smile appearing on his lips. Then he gets to his feet, holding up his oil-covered hand and nudging the door open with his foot. He disappears down the stairs, leaving Nicholas to settle himself against the headboard. Belatedly, he realizes that his muscles kind of actually feel better now. (Although he’d feel even better if he had more cigarettes.)

Vash returns a while later with a tray of food that he sets on the bed. There’s a pack of cigarettes next to the slice of bread, and Nicholas reaches for it, but Vash snatches it away before he can grab it.

Nicholas scowls at him. “Hand ‘em over.”

Vash shakes his head adamantly and points to the tray.

Nicholas huffs out an exasperated sigh and lifts the bread to his lips, taking a big bite and chewing without breaking eye contact.

Vash smiles and nods, then tucks the cigarettes into the breast pocket on his shirt and sits back in his chair to watch him eat.

He spends the whole day taking care of Nicholas, ferrying food and water up and down the stairs, busying himself with patching holes in someone else’s skirt while Nicholas smokes and stares out the window to keep his eyes off of Vash and tries very hard not to think about anything. Vash doesn’t complain as the air thickens with smoke, just quietly goes over to the window and cracks it open. Nicholas makes an effort to blow his smoke in that direction.

Late in the evening, the sun disappears behind black, roiling clouds, and thunder rumbles overhead. Nicholas watches the sand turn grey-green in the shade of the thunderstorm, an unlit cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. “Shoulda known a storm was coming.”

Vash nods without looking up from the thread he’s knotting. Nicholas looks over at him, toying with the cigarette in his mouth, and he wonders idly how Vash would take it if he shoved his tongue down his throat. Vash finishes the knot and sits up, rolling his shoulders with an almost imperceptible wince. Nicholas narrows his eyes, remembering messy sutures and gnarled scar tissue, but he doesn’t comment as Vash gets to his feet and waves at him.

Nicholas dips his head. “Night, needle-noggin.”

Vash shuts the door behind him, and Nicholas listens to him go down the stairs as he finally lights the cigarette in his mouth. Vash comes back up the stairs slowly, each creak pronounced as the stairs take his weight. But he stops on the landing below his ladder. Nicholas waits for the sound of steps up the ladder or down the hall to his door, but there’s nothing.

“You good out there?” he yells, the words muffled by his cigarette.

Silence is his only answer.

He huffs and shifts to lie flat on his back, lacing his fingers behind his head. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, the embers bright in the darkening room, and scowls at the ceiling. Then he hears quiet footsteps move down the hallway and past his door.

“Needle-noggin?”

The footsteps stop, and then return to his door. The door creaks open, and Vash pops his head in, brows raised.

“I asked if you were good out there.”

Vash nods, too quickly, and smiles, too brightly. Nicholas raises a brow at him.

“Sounded to me like you were having some trouble getting around.”

Vash wilts a little, but he still meets Nicholas’ gaze defiantly.

“Couple a senior citizens we got here, don’t we? Both laid out by a damn thunderstorm.”

Vash chews on the inside of his cheek, then shrugs pensively. “It’s not that bad for me.”

“Not that bad, huh? Then go climb that ladder.”

Vash scowls and huffs, and god help Nicholas, it’s cute.

“That’s what I thought.” Nicholas scoots over on the bed and motions Vash over. “Come here.”

Vash’s eyes widen—finally, he’s managed to surprise the bastard—and he blinks at him for a few moments. Then he shakes his head and points down the hall towards the other rooms.

“And what if I said I want you to sleep in my bed?” Nicholas replies, arching a brow and grinning around his cigarette.

He can just barely see Vash’s cheeks turn pink in the half-light. Vash hesitates for another long moment, and then brings the rest of his body into the room and shuts the door behind him. Nicholas smirks at the victory and stubs his cigarette out on the bed frame before dropping it on the ground with all the others. Vash pauses next to the bed, his hand fidgeting at his side, and Nicholas lifts the blanket, raising his brows at him pointedly.

Vash bites the inside of his cheek again, then sits on the bed, bending to unlace his boots.

Nicholas lets out a quiet chuckle. “You forget, I know how bad ‘not too bad’ is for you.”

Vash stiffens, and, too late, Nicholas realizes his mistake.

“Think you’re going to sleep through the thunderstorm?” Vash asks as he toes off one boot and then the other, a false brightness to his tone.

Nicholas clenches his jaw. “Not a chance. You?”

“Me neither.” Vash eases his legs up onto the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. He lays back, and Nicholas tosses the blanket over him before rolling onto his side, his hips twinging sharply with the motion.

They lay like that as the sun goes down behind the clouds, plunging the desert into pitch-blackness. Their breaths fill the silence between the rolls of thunder, and Nicholas wishes he’d let Vash take the room next door. At least then he could be smoking right now instead of hyper-aware of the empty space between his body and Vash’s. He needs to leave. In the morning. Whether the pain is gone or not. 

He wakes up, chilled and disoriented, while it’s still dark outside. He rolls out of bed with a groan and goes to the window to pull it shut. The stars are visible outside now, and by the receding ache in his bones, the storm has run its course. He’s reaching for the pack of cigarettes he’d tucked under the pillow when he hears the piano again. He sighs roughly and lights a cigarette before he heads downstairs.

Vash is at the piano, hand poised over the same two keys. One, two. One, two. One, two. Nicholas watches him from the stairwell as he smokes, and Vash doesn’t look up, even when the smell must have reached him. One, two. One, two.

Vash’s hand clenches into a trembling fist as the second note fades into silence, and he shakes his head sharply. He leans forward and thuds his forehead against the piano. His lips are moving, and Nicholas can catch the sharp edges of the words, but not what he’s saying. Nicholas reaches the butt of the cigarette, and he grinds it out on the floor (he’ll clean it up later).

Vash’s fingers return to the keys. One two. One two. One two. He shakes his head again. One two, one two, one two. A cut-off exhale that almost sounds like a sob escapes him, except Vash doesn’t cry. One two one two one two. Vash brings his hand to his face. His shoulders are shaking.

Nicholas straightens from where he’s been leaning against the wall. Vash…doesn’t cry.

The wavering edges of Vash’s words reach Nicholas again, and this time he makes out, “I just want to remember…”

Nicholas goes absolutely still, gaze fixed on Vash. His chest fucking hurts again even though he just had a cigarette, and his eyes are stinging too even though the fresh air from the saloon door has cleared out the smoke by now. He wants his sunglasses. He glances up the stairs to consider an escape route, but if Vash catches him leaving, he’s fucked.

Jesus, he’s shit at this.

Vash tilts his head back, and the moonlight catches on tear tracks down his cheeks. Nicholas clenches his jaw.

“You good there, needle-noggin?”

Vash stiffens, the catch of his breath audible in the desert stillness, and then he ducks his head to scrub at his cheeks. “Sorry,” he says, muted enough that the waver is barely there. He reaches over to shut the piano cover. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.” 

He brushes past Nicholas with his head still bowed, and Nicholas releases a short breath through his nose. “D’you do this every night?”

Vash stops on the landing a few steps above Nicholas, and Nicholas turns to look up at him. “Have you tried playing all the other notes and seeing which one feels right?” he asks flippantly. He walks over to the piano and opens it up. “Let’s see…” He plays two notes at random. “Those’r the ones you’ve been playing, yeah? Why don’t we just start at the bottom, you can stop me when I hit the right one.” He plays the two notes again, then the lowest key. The two notes, then the next key up. The two notes, then the next key up. The two notes, then the next key up.

Vash strides over to him and slams the cover shut, forcing Nicholas to yank his hand back. “It’s not a joke,” he says quietly, an edge to the words.

“It’d be a fucking annoying one if it were. I bet you’ve been playing those same two notes nonstop since you woke up two years ago and it’s gotten you nowhere.”

Vash’s gaze flashes up to meet his, brows pulled together in a scowl.

“You’d be better off just moving on and forgetting you ever had a life before this. Be grateful you’re not spending every waking minute getting shot at.”

“I want to remember,” Vash says firmly.

“No, you don’t. You had a shitty life before.”

Vash’s eyes drop from his to search the floor. After a moment, he says, “Meryl said I helped people before.”

“Yeah, and you still do. So what?”

Vash lifts his eyes to Nicholas’ again. “I want to remember,” he repeats.

Nicholas’ eyes flick between Vash’s. God, he wishes he had his sunglasses. He scoffs and looks away. “Your funeral. I need a cigarette for this.” He stomps up the stairs, hands in his pockets, and shoves the door to their room open. He grabs a cigarette and lights it, then heads back down. His heart is pounding. (It’s just the stairs.)

Vash is sitting at one of the circular tables when Nicholas comes back downstairs, his fingers laced on the table in front of him. Nicholas pulls one of the chairs out and turns it around to straddle it backwards. He takes a drag on his cigarette and rubs the side of his forehead. “Whaddya want to know?”

Vash looks over at him, and every trace of anger from earlier has vanished from his expression, leaving his blue eyes soft and vulnerable. “Anything.”

“Tch.” Nicholas takes another drag, his heart twisting in his chest (it’s just the cigarettes). “Of course you’d say that.” He blows the smoke out through his nose and taps the ash off onto the table. (He’ll clean that up later, too.) “Guess I’ll start at the beginning. Stryfe explained the whole plant thing to you?”

Vash nods.

Nicholas blows out another lungful of smoke. “The two of you were raised by someone named Rem. You carried around a picture of her with you everywhere. This was back before—” He breaks off as Vash stands abruptly, almost knocking his chair over, and hurries over to the bar. He disappears behind the bar for a moment, then emerges. He sets a piece of paper and a stubby pencil down in front of Nicholas and gives him a hopeful look.

“You want me to—draw her?” Nicholas guesses, wrinkling his brow. At Vash’s nod, he says, “I’m a pretty shit artist.” Vash’s lips flicker with a smile, and he pushes the paper closer to him. Nicholas presses his lips together and picks up the pencil. He makes a half-assed attempt at a stick figure version of Rem, her long, dark hair really the only distinguishing feature he can remember from the photo. Vash follows his pencil strokes with eager eyes, and when Nicholas finishes, he reaches out a finger to brush Rem’s lopsided smile.

Nicholas sighs through his nose and starts drawing again, adding Vash and Knives on either side of Rem with their lopsided bowl cuts. (He didn’t tease the old Vash nearly enough about that haircut.) “That’s what the picture looked like, more or less,” Nicholas says, setting the pencil down.

Vash picks it up and pulls the paper towards him, then labels the figures “Rem,” “Vash,” and “Knives” in clumsy handwriting.

“No, no, no,” Nicholas says. “The one smiling is you, and the other one is Knives. And you didn’t call him Knives, you called him Nai.”

Vash nods his understanding and corrects his name labels. His gaze lingers on the little stick figures, his expression bittersweet. Nicholas can’t look at him.

“Anyway, when the ships crashed, some people called Brad and Luida found you and took you in. It seemed like you spent a long time there.”

He hasn’t even finished his sentence before Vash is pushing the paper over to him. Nicholas picks up the pencil and adds a stick figure Brad and Luida next to Rem, Vash, and Knives. He labels them himself, then hands the paper back to Vash. Vash smiles at the drawings, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.

Nicholas makes himself look away. “They’re still around, you should go visit them sometime. They’d be able to fill in more gaps than me or Stryfe.”

Vash’s eyes widen, and he looks over at Nicholas. He hops out of his chair again and runs up the stairs. Nicholas hears his footsteps creaking overhead, and then he hears him running down the stairs again. He reappears holding a rolled-up piece of paper, and he spreads it flat on the table to reveal a map of Noman’s Land. He looks over at Nicholas, and Nicholas leans close to see in the moonlight. The tip of the pencil hovers over the map for a few moments, and then he circles the general area, much too close to Hopeland for comfort. “That’s about where they are.”

Vash rolls up the map and then beams at him.

“Maybe Meryl’ll give you a ride if you ask nicely,” Nicholas says, taking one last drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out on the table.

Vash stares at him, uncertainty written all over his face, blue eyes big with some unasked question.

“Spit it out, needle-noggin.”

Vash bites the inside of his cheek and taps the map on the table a few times. “Will you come?” he says at last, voice almost a whisper.

Nicholas’ brows shoot up, and he lets out a bark of laughter before he can stop himself. “Hell no.”

Vash’s face crumples, and he drops his gaze from Nicholas’. He picks up the paper from the table and rolls it around the map, holding both tightly in his hand. Then he looks back at Nicholas and puts a smile on. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You’re not going to like all the answers you find.”

Vash’s smile flattens, but he nods anyway.

“And be careful, you have a 60 billion double dollar bounty on your head.”

Vash nods again.

Nicholas gets to his feet, and as he straightens, he comes face to face with Vash, noses only inches apart, which is a dangerous fucking place to be. Vash’s eyes flick back and forth between Nicholas’, his expression unreadable. Then they dart downward for a split second, and Nicholas takes that as an invitation. He fists the front of Vash’s shirt and pulls him into a kiss, hard and bruising. Vash pulls back and stares at him, eyes wide, heart hammering against Nicholas knuckles.

Nicholas knows he should let him go, should just leave now before he does any more damage, should forget the feeling of Vash’s lips against his. Then he does the stupidest possible thing and pulls Vash in again, slower this time. He tilts his head to deepen the kiss, Vash’s lips soft and warm but barely moving. He lets go of Vash’s shirt and trails his hand up to the back of his neck, threading his fingers through Vash’s hair and gripping it tightly. With a breathless sound, Vash goes limp in Nicholas’ hold. Nicholas licks across the seam of Vash’s lips, and Vash opens up for him, a shaky moan escaping his throat that goes right to Nicholas’ groin. 

Nicholas pulls Vash’s head back, and their lips part, a string of saliva linking their mouths. Vash’s half-lidded gaze lingers on Nicholas’ mouth, and Nicholas grins. “Like that, needle-noggin?”

Vash’s eyes flick up to Nicholas’, and he already looks wrecked, the flush on his cheeks visible even in the moonlight. He nods, unable to maintain eye contact, and wets his lips. Nicholas follows the motion and releases the back of Vash’s head to grip his waist. He squeezes it, enjoying the hitched breath it earns him, and then tugs Vash toward him while he takes a step backward. “Bedroom?”

Vash nods, swallowing thickly, and Nicholas pecks him on the lips before turning to head up the stairs. He keeps his hand on Vash’s waist, thumb sneaking under the hem of Vash’s shirt to brush bare skin and scar tissue. He shoves the door shut behind them and backs Vash into it, trailing his nose up the side of his neck. Vash shivers, an unrestrained, full-body thing, and Nicholas gets his earring between his teeth, tugging at it gently. Vash’s hand, trembling, reaches between them and starts to undo the buttons on Nicholas’ shirt. 

Nicholas smiles against Vash’s skin and cups the back of his head again to pull him into another kiss. Vash’s mouth opens instantly for him, and he pushes his tongue inside, Vash’s hand going still on his chest as he groans softly. Nicholas’ other hand curves around Vash’s waist to his lower back, feeling his muscles twitch under the contact. Nicholas pulls their bodies flush, and Vash moans into his mouth. Nicholas licks up the sound, his cock painfully hard in his slacks. He pulls Vash’s head back to see half-closed blue eyes hazy with pleasure and wet lips parted slightly.

He grabs the front of Vash’s shirt again and pulls him over to the bed, then pushes him down onto it. Vash lands on his back, his knees already falling apart as Nicholas climbs on after him, undoing the last couple of buttons and shucking his shirt off. Vash’s eyes dart down to Nicholas’ chest, and Nicholas caresses the outside of his thigh. “Like what you see?”

Vash whimpers softly, his hand moving towards his groin. Nicholas grabs his wrist. “That’s for me to touch, princess.” Vash whines breathlessly, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, and Nicholas crawls up his body to kiss him. Vash grinds up against his hip, and Nicholas breaks the kiss to gasp at the contact. “So needy.” Nicholas reaches for the top button of Vash’s shirt, but Vash’s hand flies up to grip his wrist, a panicked noise in the back of his throat.

“Don’t worry, needle-noggin, I know what’s under there,” Nicholas says, leaning in to mouth at the front of Vash’s throat. Vash bares his throat for him, his hand releasing Nicholas’. Nicholas undoes the buttons one by one, following the path of skin they open up with his mouth. Vash arches into the contact, and Nicholas laves his tongue over every patch of scar tissue he comes across. When the last button is undone, Nicholas straightens and pushes the shirt off of Vash’s shoulders. He pulls Vash against him, their bare chests bumping against each other with every breath, and tugs the shirt off the rest of the way.

Vash curls into him, body trembling, his hand reaching to cover up his stump. Nicholas kisses down the exposed side of his throat and then bites into the junction between his neck and shoulder. Vash’s hips jerk forward, and a strangled gasp escapes him. “That’s right, needle-noggin, just let me make you feel good,” Nicholas murmurs against his skin, laying him back down on the bed. His hand that isn’t supporting his weight traces up Vash’s stomach, muscles jumping under his touch, to his nipple, pinching and rolling it between his fingers. He leans in to kiss Vash, and Vash grinds against his hip again, hand coming up to grip Nicholas’ bicep. Nicholas presses his thigh into Vash’s groin, and Vash throws back his head, moaning. 

Nicholas reaches between them and undoes the button on Vash’s pants. Vash’s hand twitches on his bicep like he wants to stop him, but he doesn’t protest as Nicholas pulls down the fly. His hips twitch as Nicholas yanks his pants and his boxers down to his knees, then the rest of the way off. Vash’s knees angle towards each other to hide himself, and he lets out a soft whine. Nicholas gently parts his legs, hands sliding up the outside of Vash’s thighs as he positions himself between them.

He ducks his head and blows lightly across Vash’s cunt, and Vash’s thighs press together on either side of his head as his cunt twitches. Nicholas licks at the wetness seeping out of Vash’s hole, and he inserts a finger slowly. Vash’s back arches as he grinds down onto his finger, shoving it further into his tight heat, a breathless gasp torn from his lips. Nicholas strokes at his clenching walls and ducks his head to press a kiss to Vash’s clit. Vash gasps again, his hand flying up to grip Nicholas’ hair. Nicholas hisses at the sting, but slides another finger in alongside the first, scissoring them to stretch Vash’s hole as he laves his tongue over his clit.

Every one of Vash’s panting breaths carries a groan on the exhale as his cunt pulses around Nicholas’ fingers. Nicholas crooks his fingers and strokes, and Vash’s hips jerk, a full-throated moan escaping him.

“Wolfwood—Wolf—ah—”

He sounds even better than Nicholas imagined he would. Desperate to hear more, Nicholas pets the same spot with his fingers and sucks Vash’s clit into his mouth, and Vash comes, back arching off the bed as he moans. Nicholas strokes him through it until Vash’s hand loosens in his hair, and then he pulls his fingers out of Vash’s sopping cunt. He wipes them carelessly on the blanket and crawls up Vash’s body, pressing gentle kisses to his damp skin. Vash’s eyes crack open, and Nicholas leans in to kiss him on the mouth, slow and soft. Vash’s fingers lazily trace over Nicholas’ collarbones and down the center of his chest, and Nicholas breaks the kiss to lay down next to Vash. Vash rolls onto his side to face him, blinking contentedly with a dopey smile on his face.

Nicholas reaches down and pulls the blanket over them both, then tugs Vash toward him. Vash curls into his hold, head resting against Nicholas’ chest, and Nicholas drapes his arm over Vash’s side, scratching slow circles onto his back. Vash sighs and burrows closer, slipping his own arm around Nicholas and squeezing him. Nicholas presses a kiss into his hair, and Vash hums contentedly.

He’d fucked up. He feels dirty holding Vash, like his fingers are going to leave behind streaks of cigarette ash on Vash’s skin. Innocent, bright, perfect Vash, who deserves this life where everyone likes him and treats him kindly, where he gets to help with mundane, everyday tasks instead of getting shot at for his trouble. He deserves this life where Nicholas isn’t there to keep twisting the knife in deeper instead of helping to heal his wounds like he should. Nicholas inhales Vash’s scent deeply, the taste of regret thick on his tongue.

Before long, Vash’s breaths even out, long and slow, and his face goes slack, cheek pressed up against the pillow. Nicholas lifts his hand from his back and brushes Vash’s cheek gently with his thumb. Then he picks Vash’s arm up from off of him and places it on the bed, rolling out from under the blanket and getting to his feet. He lights a cigarette and picks his shirt up off the floor, buttoning it while his gaze lingers on Vash. The hickey on his neck is already bruising, an undeserved injury alongside all the other ones that litter Vash’s skin.

He shrugs his suit coat on and crams his feet into his loafers, wincing at the feeling of sand that he can’t ever get rid of. He walks back over to the bed and takes the cigarette out of his mouth to kiss Vash on the forehead. Vash’s brows tug together, and he snorts a little, but he doesn’t wake up. Nicholas puts the cigarette back into his mouth and takes a long drag, tracing the side of Vash’s face lightly with his fingers. “See ya, needle noggin.” Then he steps back from the bed and collects the Punisher from where it’s resting against the wall, slinging it over his shoulder with a grunt. He shuts the door behind him and makes his way down the stairs. Outside, his bike is waiting for him, glinting in the early morning sun. He tosses the Punisher into the side car, straddles the seat, and starts the engine, turning the bike in a smooth circle to head back northwest.

As the sun rises above the sand dunes ahead of him, he pats his pocket for his sunglasses, then curses under his breath. He forgot them at the saloon. Too late to go back now. He buys lunch at a rundown canteen and eats it on the road. It’s early afternoon when his radio crackles to life—earlier than he’d expected. He can’t hear anything over the roar of the engine, so he pulls off near an outcropping of rock and takes a seat in the shade next to the radio, turning the volume knob up all the way.

“—there? Answer me, you dumbass. Wolfwood? Wolfwood! You are so dead when I catch up to you, witnesses notwithstanding.”

She pauses, and there are muffled voices that he can’t make out. Then she says, “Milly, keep Vash occupied. He doesn’t need to hear this.” There’s a loud thud as she pulls the jeep door shut, and then she hisses, “If I’d known you were going to pull this, I never would have told you where Vash was. You fucking dumbass, I can’t believe you just left. ”

Nicholas tilts his head back against the cool rock, taking a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it.

“Vash won’t tell me exactly what happened between you two, but I can take a good guess based on the hickey you left, and I am not impressed. Couldn’t you have just—I dunno— not fucked him and then left immediately after? Because that was the worst possible thing you could have done.” She lowers her voice. “Vash was clearly bawling his eyes out before we showed up, and we both know how he feels about crying.”

Nicholas blows out a smoke ring.

“After how badly you fucked everything up before, the least you could do was try to be better this time. And what the hell did you tell him about what happened between you two? He thinks you were together before JuLai, and if I had to guess, I’d say he thinks you left because you didn’t think the new Vash was as good as the old one. God, did you think at all before you did any of this?”

Nicholas takes a long drag and holds the smoke in his lungs as he stares up at the sky.

“You fucked up big time, and unless you’re coming to give Vash a formal apology with—flora and—a lot of really good alcohol—I don’t want to see your sorry face anywhere near him. And even then, you’ll be apologizing from a distance. He doesn’t need to get any more hurt by you.” 

With a click, she hangs up.

Nicholas releases the smoke and taps the ash off the end of the cigarette. His eyes are stinging, and he reaches up to rub them. He takes another drag, but it gets caught in his throat, and he coughs all the smoke back out. He lets out a long, shaky sigh, fingertips pressed into his eye sockets. He can still smell Vash on his skin, and he breathes the scent in deeply, dropping the butt of his cigarette onto the sand. He clenches his jaw and swallows hard at the lump in his throat.

He gets to his feet, ineffectually brushing the sand off of his legs, and gets back on his bike. He starts the engine, squinting at the horizon, an unbroken line of red sand and blue sky. His vision blurs, and he blinks hard to clear it. He turns to his left, where the sand dunes grow more pronounced near the edge of the ocean. It’s probably just about a straight shot to Hopeland from where he is, with a short detour around Sage’s Vomit. His grip tightens on the handlebars, and then he twists the throttle and turns the bike to head southwest.

Epilogue

Nicholas dismounts his bike and walks up to the starship, his grip on the bottle of wine in his hand slick with sweat. He walks around the side until he finds the entrance they went in last time, raises his fist, hesitates, and then knocks. After a few moments, the door slides open, and a woman he doesn’t recognize steps out.

“Who are you?” she asks, hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun.

“Nicholas D. Wolfwood,” he replies, holding out his free hand.

She accepts it with an arched brow. “I see. You’ll forgive me if I ask you to wait out here.”

He nods, and she steps back inside, the door sliding shut. Nicholas wets his lips and shifts his grip on the bottle to rest it against his thigh. Then the door slides open again, and Meryl stands there, arms folded and scowling.

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

He lifts the bottle and shakes it. “This is the only place to get flora, so.”

She narrows her eyes, then jerks her head. “Come on in, and you can explain yourself while you pick the prettiest fucking flora we’ve got.”

He follows her in silence over to the elevator, and once they get on, she holds her hand out for the bottle. He hands it over, and she looks at the label. “That’ll do, I guess,” she says dismissively, handing it back.

Nicholas scowls.

They get off at the top floor and step into the greenhouse, and Meryl leads him over to the bushes of flora. “Get looking and get talking.”

Nicholas sets the bottle down on the grass and drops to one knee to examine the flora. “Whaddya want to know?”

“Where have you been?”

His fingers brush against the petals of one of the flowers, but no, it has some brown edges. “Hopeland.”

“Why there?”

“It’s where I grew up.” He moves to the next bush.

Meryl’s silent, and Nicholas starts to look up just in time to hear, “Wolfwood?”

Nicholas turns, and there he is: Vash the Stampede. He’s wearing all black, and there’s a prosthetic hanging from his shoulder again, exposed wires showing here and there. His hair’s been cut, too, and it’s a little shaggier than he used to wear it, but it suits him a lot better than the long hair had.

Meryl looks between them, and then she says, “I’ll leave you to it, then.” She walks off, leaving Nicholas alone under the weight of Vash’s direct gaze. His cheeks have filled out a little. Nicholas hadn’t even realized how much more prominent his cheekbones had looked back at the saloon.

“Brad’s been busy,” Nicholas says, gesturing at the prosthetic.

Vash looks down at it and clumsily jerks his fingers. “It’s coming along.” He looks back up at Nicholas, expression soft and a little sad around the edges. He looks more like the old Vash now, with some unknowable burden resting on his shoulders, and it hurts at the same time that it’s a relief.

“I brought this.” Nicholas holds the wine out to Vash, realizing belatedly that he hadn’t picked a flora out.

Vash reaches out to accept it, their fingers brushing as he does so. “Thanks,” he replies with a perfunctory smile.

Nicholas jerks his chin in a nod. 

“Do you want your sunglasses back?”

“Yeah,” Nicholas says, and his voice feels thick with something.

Vash turns to walk out of the green house, and Nicholas follows silently, wishing he could smoke on this godforsaken ship. At least then he could take the edge off.

Vash leads him to his bedroom, which looks exactly the same as it had after the sand steamer incident. He sets the bottle of wine down on the table and walks over to the nightstand, sliding open its drawer and producing Nicholas’ sunglasses.

“Thanks for holding onto them,” Nicholas says as he takes them and slides them onto his face. The bright white walls look much better dimmed down, and Vash’s gaze is a little easier to meet, too. 

He still doesn’t, letting his eyes travel around the room even though there’s really nothing to look at except for the smattering of photos above the bed, which he’s too far away from to see in any detail. His jaw clenches, and he taps his fingers against his thigh. He came here to say one thing, one thing, but the words keep sticking sideways in his throat, and he can’t swallow them down or spit them up.

It doesn’t help that Vash just keeps watching him steadily, his silence a condemnation in and of itself.

Nicholas tries to reach back to this morning, to the resolve he’d felt before leaving the orphanage, to the buoyancy of the kids yelling “you got this, Mr. Nico,” but it’s nowhere to be found. Just cold, sick dread at knowing that he fucked up. His throat feels tight.

He looks up, and fuck, that was a mistake, because Vash’s expression is gentle and open and understanding, and it carves Nicholas’ ribcage open to look at it.

“Vash—” His voice breaks off, and he clenches his jaw.

“It’s okay,” Vash says quietly after a moment.

Nicholas shakes his head sharply. “Don’t—take this from me.” He swallows thickly, his lungs aching for a cigarette, and then he manages, “Have you remembered anything else?”

“Some,” Vash replies. “From my childhood. Nothing leading up to JuLai, though. Sorry.”

Apologies come so easily to Vash, while Nicholas is left floundering, choking on his regrets until they kill him. “Then you don’t remember what I did.” 

Vash shakes his head.

“Then you can’t tell me it’s okay,” Nicholas says harshly, the sparks of his anger spitting out in the wrong direction. “You don’t know that it is.”

Vash’s brows pull together.

Nicholas swallows again. ”I’m sorry.” The words fall from his lips like lead weights, leaving the taste of blood behind on his tongue, and he wants to spit it out, but he won’t do that. Not to Vash.

“I forgive you.”

Nicholas viciously bites back the relief that bursts in his chest. “You’re an idiot.”

Vash chuckles. “Maybe.”

Nicholas’ eyes are stinging, and he blinks hard behind his sunglasses, ducking his head so Vash won’t see. “That’s what I came for, so. I’ll let you get on with your life,” he says hoarsely.

“Wolfwood.” Vash steps towards him, and Nicholas looks up, gaze drawn helplessly to Vash’s face. Vash’s stupid, sappy, beautiful face. Vash’s eyes drop to Nicholas’ mouth, the only warning Nicholas gets before he’s leaning in and pressing a warm, chaste kiss to his mouth. “Thank you,” Vash whispers into the space between them.

Nicholas lets out a breath, his eyes flicking between Vash’s, and Vash starts to pull away, a sad little smile on his face. Nicholas grits his teeth and prays to the universe that he’ll figure out how to not fuck up this time. Then he grabs the back of Vash’s neck and pulls him in for another kiss. Vash makes a surprised noise against his mouth, and then melts into it, his flesh hand travelling around Nicholas’ waist and up to his back.

Nicholas kisses him harder, deeper, his chest bursting with feelings he can’t name, and Vash’s lips part to let him. Vash pulls back from the kiss, cheeks flushed and a wide smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, and he tugs Nicholas backwards, towards the bed. He flops onto the mattress, and Nicholas follows, his eyes darting up to the photos.

There, in the center, where an empty space had been last time, is a faded, scratched up photo of Roberto, Meryl, Vash, and him.