Chapter Text
“—What the hell was that about?”
Milly Thompson placed the stack of used dishes on the countertop next to the sink. There was a tension in how she held herself, an alien look on a loose and easy-going frame like hers; it was setting off all of Nicholas’ in-built alarm bells, the ones he kept buffed and shiny for his own peace of mind.
“Oh, Jessica said the dishwashing liquid was kept under the sink,” Milly said breezily, slipping off her gloves. Nicholas crossed his arms and put a mental emphasis on just “said.” Because it sure as hell wasn’t a reply. “Can you look for a sponge in the cabinets, Undertaker? Tomas egg can be a bit tricky to clean off of plastic if it sits there and dries for too long.”
Nicholas clicked his tongue. “You’re really bad at dodgin’ questions, you know,” he said. Complying with the request could easily be done while also digging a little more. He didn’t mean to needle her—she really was too sweet to deserve getting stabbed—but he wasn’t above cutting out a little dead skin if it meant the issue would heal cleaner. “Talk about sloppy.”
Talk about his own nonchalance, disappearing down the drain. He opened up the cabinets a few steps away from the sink and found a pile of synthmesh scrubbers that smelled faintly like mildew.
Milly’d gone down on her knees to search the compartment under the sink for soap. With his back to her, Nicholas only heard her inhale and the crick! of a plastic bottle being squeezed before she said: “Whatever do you mean, Undertaker?”
She was still bright and cheerful as the rising sun, like a little scavenger worm doing a shimmy on a fresh carcass. Nicholas wouldn’t have caught onto anything wrong in that voice, ever, if he weren’t so familiar with how people sounded when they had something weighing on their mind. With how he sounded when he had something weighing on his mind. Nicholas D. Wolfwood was a practical man with a lot of thoughts and a lot of feelings and very few words he was ever willing to say them with. It was something ingrained into him by experience: the need to be reliable, not the one doing the relying. Milly Thompson sounded just like him whenever somebody had the gall to ask, “You want some help with that, Nicholas?”
He waited until she was back on her feet and looking over at him with those big blue eyes to continue speaking. “The way you, y’know,” Nicholas gestured vaguely, “high-tailed it outta there like you had the devil on your heels.” It was an exaggeration; Milly took it in stride, breaking into a light giggle. It felt out of place in the same way as his next observation had felt fifteen minutes before: “And you were smilin’ the whole time, mind you. That just made it weirder.”
Milly did a lot of staring. Humming, too. She blinked, sure—it wasn’t the unsettling kind of staring that Nicholas was used to back in the Eye, the kind of look that was more invasive than inquisitive—but there were too many points in the conversation already where she fell silent and just spent her time staring. What was she thinking about? What had she latched onto in his words, in his face, in how he held himself? Was she taking time to think about her own thoughts and not tuning in to making her eyelids move, or was she trying to consume as much information as she could about the outside world, notating what she saw and reading beyond that quick, precursory glance? It made his skin crawl. Bless Stryfe’s natural belief in the best of everybody, but this new girl’s whole goofy-analytic schtick had Nicholas’ intuition toeing closer to distrust with each passing second she spent reading him like a glass book. She knew too much—and if she didn’t know, she’d learn.
That kinda trait was dangerous in his line of work. In Vash the Stampede’s line of life. Nicholas felt a deep and caustic knot growing behind his ribcage that he identified as a premonition she’d get hurt if she kept staring like that.
At last, when Nicholas crossed the ship’s kitchen to stand next to her by the sink, Milly graced him with a reply.
“I have eight siblings,” she said abruptly, “twenty-two cousins, and a whole lot more little cousins and second cousins beyond that. The list changes almost every month, so everyone’s responsible for keeping track of their own closest relatives in their own books. I’m better at it than most—it cost me a pretty penny, but I write to ‘em, each and every one, when we’ve got paper and ink to spare on the road. They used to call it the Milly Monthly; everyone read it like the morning paper. It’s why I went into journalism. Quite a lot of ‘em wrote back.” Her previous efforts at evasion had been stuffed down into a little box, far, far away from the directness with which she spoke now. Her eyes, though—Nicholas felt that her eyes were telling a different story than her tone. She was still holding something back. “But you must be thinking, with a family like mine, we must live pretty high off the hog in order to feed all those mouths, right?”
Nicholas shrugged, still watching her eyes. He reached out to turn on the water, felt it beginning to heat up when he put the plates in the basin. “Sure. Basic math.”
“We have a rule,” Milly said as she took the first wet plate and squirted a glob of green soap on it. The sound of the bottle made her temporary silence after the starting statement sound all the more hollow. “…It’s the Thompson Rule. The biggest, most important one that all of us have to follow, or we all pay the price.” Nicholas handed her a sponge. Milly took it, swiping it across the printed plastic in little circles. Bits of dry egg began to clump together on the netting. “It’s one sentence: take care of your own. I like to think that I apply this motto to everybody I care about, and not just to my family.”
“It’s a good rule,” Nicholas said, starting to clean a plate himself. He was pretty sure it was Vash’s; there were too many leftovers crusted around the edges in an effort to make it look like he’d eaten more than he actually had for it to be the work of any other bending-over-backwards schmuck. There weren’t a lot of those in this world left alive.
Milly nodded in agreement. She kept going: “We’re Wam fishermen. Technically, also farmers; we have a flock of toma, but all the eggs go to market to keep the water on. The rest of us are hunters, laborers, or we learn a trade, like me.” The helpless shrug she gave him then slotted itself into the blue-eyed puzzle Nicholas was trying to solve. “We don’t have it good. We’re stretched thin, really—but we make it work, because of that rule. We all work as a team, and that’s how the community stays afloat. After all, a single person all alone can’t take down a grandwam.” The final sentence solved the rest, laying down the last edgepiece that closed the border and let the picture really start to take shape. “So, Mister Undertaker, that’s why I high-tailed it outta there; I was having some pretty nasty thoughts ‘cause of how much that rule means to me, and how much it seemed to not matter to somebody else.”
(Nicholas didn’t know if he could say that Ship 3’s treatment of Vash rubbed him the wrong way in the same way it’d rubbed Milly Thompson.
He wouldn’t claim it was all sunshine and rainbows, no, but if he picked at his skin and peeled back a few layers, he wouldn’t find it lodged in his flesh like a stone in the soft underhoof of a tomas. His family meant the world to him. Milly Thompson’s family meant the world to her. But the conundrum of the issue to Nicholas was that he was just the wrong kind of fucked up to prefer being left in peace himself as she was the right kind of put together to see such a thing as crueler than respecting his wishes. Neither of them knew what Vash would’ve really wanted, and both were passing judgements totally from their own perspective. Nicholas had known him for longer, but Milly had a knack for insights he didn’t want to discount.
They didn’t know if Vash would’ve preferred to fall into a deep, unbothered slumber after the shit he went through in Julai. They didn’t know how he’d feel about speaking to the people he loved after he’d been involved in the death of so many. The core of Vash’s identity had been ripped apart by his own family’s hands; wallowing in that despair on his own was just the kind of risky bullshit Nicholas could see Vash the Stampede choosing over burdening Ship 3 with his grief. If he let anybody else get close, they might get dragged into the pit. They might succumb if they tried to clutch his hand and pull him out. Wouldn’t it be easier then, for himself and for all the people he loved, if he simply sank?
Even still—Stryfe had kept searching for the entirety of the last two-and-a-half years, and Nicholas’d gone and disappeared to deal with his own problems after he’d performed his task: finding Peacebringer, and keeping it in his pocket for the inevitable when. The job was complete, and the follow-through was out of his hands. Sticking his neck out more than he already had was just… stupid. Hopeful and stupid. He’d escaped that hellhole; he intended to keep it that way. Vash the Stampede was an inevitability, the kind of filmy space mold that could always grow back in the worst of conditions. He was only meant to be Nicholas’ problem until Nicholas D. Wolfwood was scrawled on that piece of paper, and Conrad finally sealed the lid on the Punisher’s coffin.
He told himself the only reason he’d have to keep looking for Vash was because he missed him. And even if Nicholas missed the man, he sure as hell didn’t miss that fucking contract.
But then again, Nicholas thought—Milly wasn’t passing judgement as much as she was allowing herself to experience feelings, and then keeping those feelings far away from the people they were about, so that she couldn’t hurt them with them. It was as mature as it was avoidant. Self-sufficient as it was lonely. It made him envy how easily she rode those feelings through to completion, instead of letting them boil and fester in her heart. The “thing” she’d been holding back was anger, and she’d managed that anger expertly. Not a lot of people had a claim to being capable of that. Her eyes were clear again, satisfied after venting. Nicholas could see the ship’s fluorescent light reflected in them when he looked at her.
But hell, he needed to stop adding these mental addendums and come to a fucking conclusion—and stick with it, like Milly Thompson was. When he thought about Milly’s anger, he eventually found his own: what did piss him off a little bit was that Ship 3 ultimately sought Vash out only when they needed him. So much for leaving him in peace, when their own peace was disturbed. But Vash the Stampede loved being a bastion of protection, and he probably was fucking thrilled. Just tickled pink by the opportunity to provide. He would’ve dug himself out of his own grave if somebody asked him to come carry their groceries for them; his beloved adopted family crying out “Please, save us,” must’ve been like a straight shot of stimulants to his membrane.
—Nicholas felt sick with hypocrisy.)
Milly Thompson’s laugh drew him out of his head.
“Sorry for dragging you out of there with me, Mister Undertaker,” she was saying, placing another plate into a drying rack. Numbly, Nicholas passed the one he’d been scrubbing to death under a stream of water to wash off the suds. “But I thought, at least, ‘Hey, I can do Mister Vash a favor by giving him some privacy.’” Milly took the plate from him gently, giving him a bright smile when he let go without any resistance. She added it to the rack with a dull clink! “You know him better than I do, so do you think I was right in thinking—that he’s probably gonna have himself a good cry, again?”
Nicholas went to scratch his chin, then scowled when his hand dripped water down the front of his shirt. “Right on the money, big lady,” he said, gesturing for the next plate. Milly’s own was given to him; it was almost already perfectly clean, every grain of rice and shred of egg having disappeared down her gullet with an appreciative fervor few could rival.
“I know that these people,” Milly said quietly, almost sounding guilty, “are very important to Miss Meryl.” Ah. That sure was the source of guilt if Nicholas had to guess. “I don’t want my actions to reflect badly on her. So, I thought it’d be easier for everyone if I just took myself right on outta there before it got ugly.”
“You? Ugly? I wouldn’ta thought it possible.” Nicholas nudged her shoulder. He became aware of how close they were standing, sharing the sink as they worked.
“Oh, Mister Undertaker, you really shouldn’t underestimate me like that.” Milly grinned at him, nudging back. “I’m more than happy to fight a little dirty if I gotta.” She remained close, using the motion to lean into his line of sight. “Just like I’m about to right now!”
“Huh?”
“—Since I told you a little bit ‘bout little ole me,” she said, blinking up at him with an innocence that felt so genuine it looped back around to feeling a little crafted, “would you be willin’ to tell me some about those kids you mentioned?”
Dangerous waters to tread. His earlier thought about her stare resurfaced with a vengeance, and how easy it would be for somebody meaner to lop off the tip of that cute nose she stuck into everything.
“…Whadda you wanna know?” he said, swallowing.
“Where are you all from?” Milly asked.
“South of December. Ever heard of Hopeland Orphanage?” he replied, before adding, “—How ‘bout you?”
“Only from Miss Meryl,” Milly said. God dammit, Shorty. “Never seen it myself.” And then she smiled broadly again—though Nicholas couldn’t keep saying that, describing her as “smiling,” since it was so rare that she stopped smiling in the first place. It was like looking up at the sky to confirm it was still blue. That there were still two suns. That the fifth moon still had a hole in it. “I’m flattered you’re asking me more questions, Mister Undertaker, after all I just yapped at ya—we’re closer to September, though a little ways out from the fancy big city.”
Not entirely meaning it, Nicholas replied, “Hey, curiosity begs for curiosity returned.” More like, “If I answer all your questions myself, hopefully I can keep ya from finding out the answers the hard way.”
“‘Hopeland’ is a nice name,” Milly said. Her smile broadened. Christ, she had dimples. “It sounds very uplifting.”
“Pah!” Nicholas sabotaged that train of thought by sifting for more aggravating memories to share. “More like ‘orphan-lifting.’ I spent my whole damn childhood fixin’ up that old church and doing chores for the nuns that took on more kids than they could handle. Saw me as free labor.” He complained the whole time, but he did the work. Nobody ever forced him to do the work. He did not bring this part up to Milly Thompson. “Do you know how many times a year that shitty flat roof had to get patched up ‘cause too much sand piled up and started makin’ the rafters buckle?”
Milly snickered. “Ehh… A lot?”
“More than little Wolfwood should’ve ever been responsible for, that’s how many. I was an orphan too, you know!”
“Well, it sounds like you’re plenty familiar with our motto, in your own way,” she said, “and that you had somebody takin’ care of you back.”
A shock of bone-white hair flashed behind his eyelids. A splatter of blood followed, tipping itself over a railing. Nicholas chewed on his tongue, heaving a big sigh to keep the tremor that wracked him from head to toe from Milly’s notice. “…The old bag thwacked me with a broom every time I tried smokin’ worms on the premises,” he grumbled. “Not exactly what I’d call an ‘abundance of care.’”
Milly gasped, drawing the sponge and plate up to her lips like she’d meant to cover her mouth with her hands. “Sounds to me like she was! Nobody under the age of eighteen should be smoking, you know; it’ll damage your lungs for life.”
“Too late fer me.”
“Oh, what was her name?” Milly’s face went through about five different stages of misery as filial piety warred with her tendency to echo what was said to her. “I… I don’t think I can repeat what you called her.”
“…Melanie,” Wolfwood admitted. “Her name was Miss Melanie. She ran the orphanage, though she wasn’t one of the nuns. Just the religious type.” He hadn’t said her name in years. It felt misshapen on his tongue, like something he’d forgotten that didn’t quite fit the shape of his life anymore. “Sometimes I wonder if she…”
(Had she known? Where the Children of Blessing went. What it meant to be Blessed. Where Nicholas D. Wolfwood, with S+ compatibility, was going to be taken. What it meant to be compatible, and with what he’d be changed into to take full advantage of his natural talent. Had they paid her extra for children, or did they slip under her radar by telling her that her kids were just too busy to come visit? Did they tell her they were going to do good in the world? Did they promise her the kids she watched drive away would have a better life? Would she recognize him if he went home?
He prayed that she wouldn’t. The scion of a heretical church, his relationship with religion was complicated; but he prayed that she wouldn’t, to his own God and to his own faith.
—Did she miss them? Did she keep track of which ones went into the black cars with the men and women in gas masks and never came out? The Eye of Michael’s symbol still hung in red above Hopeland’s front door. The funding still trickled in.
Had Melanie known that Livio would follow?)
“…Never mind.” Nicholas shook his head.
Milly dried her hand on her pant leg, then placed her palm on his forearm. Her touch was gentle, barely more than a press of fingertips to his wrist. “Well, thank you for telling me about Miss Melanie, Mister Undertaker,” she said, tugging his sleeve back from where it’d been slipping too close to the dish water. Her skin was cold from the work they’d done together. “I appreciate it quite a lot.”
“Jeez, when you put ‘miss’ and ‘mister’ right next to each other like that, you make me feel old,” Nicholas muttered, because he didn’t trust himself to say anything else.
“I’m just being polite!” Milly giggled. Her laugh bubbled through their point of contact and into Nicholas like a shaken soda can. “Why, would you like me to call you something else?”
“Ya already know ‘Undertaker’ is fine,” he said. He felt his own mouth pulling up into a smile completely against his will. God damned happy people and their sticky infections. “Or ‘Wolfwood’—you know, if yer feelin’ formal.”
Milly squinted at him, then said, “Undertaker.”
She was certainly watching his reaction this time, unabashedly picking apart whatever microexpressions she could glean from one Nicholas D. Wolfwood, who hated being scrutinized. Nicholas tried to scowl back down at her, drawing his eyebrows together and pursing his lips tightly so that all she could get was the faux-obstinance he preferred to project than the true mess of emotions he tamped down on every hour of the day. What a fucking joke he was, with his big, big feelings. He put them in the ground so they wouldn’t distract him from what he needed to do; he got distracted anyway, when a kind person looked at him and tried their damnedest to make him happier.
“…Wolfwood,” said Milly Thompson.
Twitch.
—And another bright, warm smile. Damn him. Damn her. Damn Vash the Stampede and Millions Knives for good measure. Damn the whole planet while he was at it, and the air that didn’t seem to want to stay in his lungs.
“Okay, Wolfwood,” Milly said, turning back to the half-finished stack of dishes. “Let’s keep up the good work!”