Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day the town handyman retires, a hole opens up in the roof of the orphanage. This isn't a cause and effect, just an unfortunate coincidence. Still, Nick thinks, it's a coincidence he could have done without.

The roof was old; those boards lived a long life before they came to their current home, probably already at work before Nick was even a thought in God's mind. It was only a matter of time before they gave up the ghost. Knowing it will do him no good, he calls Wyatt, the aforementioned handyman, to ask him to fix it as nicely as he's ever asked for anything. As a testament to their years of friendship, Wyatt takes a look at the hole, declares it to be a hell of a hole indeed, and gives Nick all of his tools. Which would be a very kind and helpful thing to do if only Nick had the foggiest idea what to do with them. He's hazily certain that you're supposed to hold a hammer by the handle and hit stuff with the flat metal bit. There’s also a spiky bit that would certainly do some damage if applied to the human body, but that’s probably not its intended purpose.

All of that to say, this hole’s a fucking inconvenience, and it’s not going anywhere. A couple of the guys in town help Nick put a tarp over it to keep the sand out, with the understanding that beers will be owed later. Once they’re gone, Nick sits down at his battered desk (most everything in December is battered or secondhand or both) and starts drafting a help wanted ad. It's a punishing process; he's only good at bullshit, not the real stuff. Definitely not asking for help. At the end of it, rather than tossing the whole thing in the trash, he sends copies of the ad to the local paper and a couple of neighboring towns. Then, he waits.

It takes a week. Honestly, Nick's pretty much resigned himself to his impromptu skylight by the time someone comes up to the gate and asks to speak with the person in charge. One of the kids ushers the stranger up to Nick's office, where he's slogging his way through the orphanage's accounts.

"Mr. Wolfwood?"

"What's up, small fry?" Nick asks without looking up.

"This guy said something about help wanted?"

Nick looks up at last. Mika's in the doorway, small for nine years old. Behind them stands a man who decidedly doesn't look like a handyman. He looks like a mirage, something too soft and pretty to exist in hardscrabble December. He’s tall, though he holds himself like he doesn’t want anyone to notice that fact, and his wild, blonde hair is a little reminiscent of a bird attempting to fly away. The worst part is his face though. The stranger has high cheekbones, fair skin, a soft smile, and the bluest eyes that Nick’s ever seen.

“Uh…” says masterful wordsmith Nicholas D. Wolfwood.

“Cool,” Mika says, rolling their eyes. Nine is such a fun age. The kid looks up at the stranger, craning their neck all the way back, and asks, “You got it from here?”

“Think I can find my way, yeah,” the stranger answers easily. Mika flashes him a thumbs-up, which he returns with every indication of seriousness, and then the kid clomps back down the hall, leaving the stupid adults to do whatever stupid adults do.

Nick mentally shakes himself and sits back in his chair. “Come on in,” he says, motioning to the chair on the other side of his desk. Its usual occupants are children, who tend to experience a lot of large and unprecedented emotions that they need to discuss, so the thing’s seen better days. Still, the stranger sits without comment. “You’re here about the handyman ad?”

“Sure am,” the stranger answers.

“What’s your name?”

There’s a pause, just a split-second too long. “Vash,” he says.

Nick smirks and asks, “Like the famous outlaw?”

Vash spreads his hands a little and smiles, chagrined. “Like the famous outlaw,” he agrees.

“You don’t look like a deadly gunman.”

“I get that a lot.”

“Well, are you?”

Vash blinks, eyebrows going up. “Am I what?” he asks.

“Are you Vash the Stampede?”

Vash spreads his jacket, an old, tan duster, to show no holster at his hip. “Would a deadly gunman travel without a weapon?” he asks dryly.

Nick snorts. “No, I guess not.”

“Anyway,” Vash adds, sitting back in his seat and crossing his ankle over his knee, “He disappeared into the desert or something years ago, didn’t he?”

“So they say,” Nick agrees. “Never to be seen again. They only ever found his coat and his gun, pretty close to here, actually.”

“You don’t say…”

Vash looks like he’s checking out of the conversation, eyes wandering over to the window. Nick swallows the urge to ask if he has somewhere else to be and opts to get back on track. “Yeah, they have them in a museum in town now. Anyway.” He clears his throat, and Vash zeroes in on him again. “You have any construction experience?”

“Some,” Vash answers, nodding. His mouth twists a little. “Though…I don’t have tools. I’ve been on the road for a while. Gotta stay light, you know?”

“Well, it’s your lucky day, then, because I’ve got tools but no experience,” Nick says brightly. “You wanna meet in the middle?”

Vash blinks at him again, then that smile comes back, crooked and just a touch rueful. “That easy?” he asks.

Nick spreads his hands wide. “You see any other guys knocking down the door for this job?”

The asshole makes a big show of looking around the room, craning over his shoulder, even looking under his chair. Then, he straightens and fixes Nick with those big, blue eyes and declares with perfect innocence, “I guess not.”

Nick stares at him for a long second before barking out a laugh and standing up. “Come on, smart guy. I’ll show you what needs to get fixed, and we can talk about your price.”

They fall into step together in the hall, heading towards the all-purpose room. Nick shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing sideways at Vash as they walk. From one liar to another, Nick knows he’s not telling the truth about something, but he wasn’t lying about not carrying a gun; there’s no outline of a pistol in his pocket or a concealed holster under his coat. Since the ability to tell when someone was packing heat used to mean the difference between walking away from a fight or not, Nick’s confident in his assessment. Which only leaves about a thousand other things Vash could be holding back.

It’s hard to resist another sideways glance; Nick convinces himself it’s because he’s trying to solve a mystery and not because Vash himself is interesting to look at. Alarmingly, he finds Vash already looking in his direction, expression speculative. Nick raises an eyebrow and is delighted to note Vash’s ears going pink. He covers it up admirably by asking, “So, you run this place all by yourself? Lot of kids out in the yard there.”

Saint of Peace Orphanage is Nick’s penance. After years of violence and debauchery and battering his soul, he landed in December with two choices: let the desert take him, or make it all mean something. So, he took the money that he’d made in blood (his own and others, but mostly others) and put it to good use. He bought a place that used to be a church, back when people still held out hope that there might be a God to worship in this dust bowl, and he turned it into a place for kids who would otherwise end up like him. It’s the one good thing he’s ever done, and he loves those kids more fiercely than his own life.

But Vash doesn’t need to know that. Nick says instead, “Not all by myself. There’s some staff that helps out.”

“Nice to not be alone,” Vash notes.

Nick cuts him a sideways glance; for a harmless observation, that was awfully close to the mark. Vash doesn’t look even remotely aware of what Nick is thinking, but he’s starting to think one of the things the stranger might be holding back is that he’s a lot smarter than he lets on. “Yeah, sure,” Nick mutters, absently wishing that he hadn’t left his cigarettes in his office.

They reach the all-purpose room, and Nick wordlessly points upwards. Vash follows the direction of his finger and whistles under his breath. “Someone fall through it?” he asks.

“Just crumbled,” Nick answers. “You know how it is with that old engineered wood. No way to tell what it went through before you buy it from a reclaimer.”

Vash nods slowly, still looking up at the hole and biting his lip thoughtfully. Nick drags his gaze away from the delicate column of his throat; this is no time to be ogling a stranger, especially not when he knows exactly zero things about the man. Even his name is followed by a question mark in Nick’s mind.

“I can fix it,” Vash declares, easy and confident. “A hundred double dollars a week for however long it takes, plus materials.”

Nick stares at him again. He can’t help it this time. “A…you said a hundred? A week?” he asks.

Vash rubs the back of his neck. “I could probably do it for ninety…” he amends, sounding embarrassed.

“No, that’s not…it’s not that it’s too high,” Nick says, unsure how to explain this in a way that won’t end up with him having to rebalance the accounts, this time with a lot more in the negative column. “The guy who used to fix it charged a hundred a day. You said you worked construction?”

It’s like Vash visibly realizes that he made a misstep. His mouth hangs open for a second, and then he laughs a little. “I said I have construction experience,” he corrects. “Oh, well, silly me. But you know, since I already said it, too late to walk it back now!”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Nick says slowly, though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s just…is this guy for real?

“I’m a man of my word,” Vash informs him seriously. “I told you a hundred a week, so I’ll do it.”

“Are you for real?”

“Incredibly real.” Vash puts this fake stern look on his face, chin jutting out in a cartoonish scowl, staring straight forward as if he’s a general going into battle.

It’s all Nick can do not to laugh right at him, but he manages. Instead, he rubs his mouth like he’s deep in thought before thrusting out his hand. “Alright, needle noggin, you got a deal.”

They’re literally in the middle of the handshake when Vash stops, apparently just catching the nickname. “Hang on. I’m not a needle noggin,” he says plaintively, brow furrowing.

“Too late, you shook on it,” Nick answers airily. “Invoice me for the materials. Tools are all in the closet there.”

“Hang on a second!”

“See you tomorrow! Don’t be late!”

“How can I be late if you didn’t even tell me when to show up?”

“Guess you’ll have to figure it out, won’t you?”

Nick leaves Vash sputtering behind him, and he whistles his way back to his office. He lights up a cigarette and perches on the window sill, which gives him the perfect vantage to see Vash leave a minute or so later. The stranger’s long, tan jacket blends in with the packed desert earth, and he doesn’t look back as he walks through the gate. And that is in no way disappointing to one Nicholas D. Wolfwood. Not at all.

—

Morning is heralded by the rumbling of a truck at the gate. A truck on the street isn’t unusual on its own, but when the sound doesn’t go away, Nick has no choice but to drag himself out of bed to see what the problem is.

He sticks his head out the window and hollers, “There’s kids trying to sleep in here!”

“And you too, by the looks of it,” Vash calls back from his position behind the wheel of the truck. “Sorry, Mr. Wolfwood!”

Nick remembers suddenly that he has a physical body, and that body is not currently wearing a shirt as he just had to pull himself from his slumber to shout at an idiot in a truck. Instead of giving into the irrational urge to cover himself with something, he shouts, “Give me a minute.”

The idiot in question waves cheerfully. Sighing deeply, Nick turns away from the window. He changes as quickly as he can, splashes some water on his face, and jogs down the stairs and outside to open the gate. “Where’d you get this truck?” he asks in lieu of a greeting, once Vash has pulled into the yard and killed the engine.

“I asked the reclaimer if I could borrow it when I bought the wood from her,” Vash answers, climbing down from the cab. He starts unloading planks and shingles from the bed while Nick stares at him. He’s been doing that a lot.

“You just…asked her?”

“Very nicely.”

“Did the heavens open up and a choir of angels come down too?” Nick asks meanly.

“You’re just jealous that she likes me better than you and let me borrow her truck,” Vash sniffs.

Maybe a little, but fuck him for saying it. Nick rubs his eyes and shoots back, “I’m jealous of the version of me that’s still sleeping and didn’t get woken up at ass o’clock by this stupid truck.”

“You said don’t be late! You said to figure it out!”

“You definitely did not figure right.”

“I’ll be earlier tomorrow.”

“You better fucking not.”

“That’s no kind of language to use when you’re responsible for kids, Mr. Wolfwood.”

“I’ll show you responsible…” Nick gripes. Vash pauses in unloading to flash a grin at him, and he finds his mouth hanging open a little. “You’re fucking with me! I can’t believe this!”

Vash goes back to his work, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”

Recognizing a dismissal when he hears one, Nick turns away, but not before muttering, “I hope another hole opens up in the roof and you fall through it.”

“Bye, Mr. Wolfwood!” Vash chirps.

Well, he’s obviously not going back to sleep now. Nick doesn’t bother mourning the loss; he’d probably have been forced out of bed by some emergency or other anyway. Instead, he goes into the kitchen, pours himself a cup of coffee as unobtrusively as possible while a couple of the staff are working on breakfast for the kids, and moseys up to his office to start the day. By the time he finishes his first cigarette, he’s forgotten all about Vash.

Midway through the afternoon, the head teacher, Mrs. Golightly, knocks on Nick’s door frame. “Nicholas, that banging on the roof hasn’t stopped all day,” she informs him crisply. “We’d like to take the children outside for their break instead of to the all-purpose room.”

Nick feels his shoulders straighten of their own accord. Mrs. Golightly has that effect on everyone, as he understands it. As professionally as he can, he replies, “That’s fine, Mrs. Golightly. Whatever you think is best, of course.” He pauses. “Do you know if Vash ate lunch? The guy on the roof?”

“I couldn’t say. Judging by the noise, I don’t think he’s taken a break, though we’d all like it if he would.”

That won’t do. He waits a tactful amount of time after Mrs. Golightly leaves, counting forty-five seconds in his head, before making his way down to the kitchen. It’s much closer to the all-purpose room than his office, and as he draws near, the sound of hammering becomes audible and incessant.

Once the staff there understand that his theft of a sandwich will result in a few minutes of blessed quiet, they throw in a canteen of water for good measure and shoo him out again. Nick walks outside to where he can see Vash on the roof and shouts, “Yo! Needle noggin!” The banging continues, but it’s difficult to say whether he’s being ignored or if Vash genuinely can’t hear him. Nick waits for a break before trying again: “Vash!”

His little blonde head pops up immediately, freezing in place with the hammer held over his head. “Huh?” he shouts back.

“You eat lunch?”

“Oh. I, uh…”

“No? Good. Get down here so I don’t have to yell!”

There’s no better word to describe Vash’s next move than a scamper. He picks his way blithely to the edge of the roof and climbs down the ladder with surprising grace for someone who seems to be surprised by his limbs every single minute. At some point, probably when the suns got too high, he donned a pair of orange sunglasses and ditched the jacket, but he’s still wearing a loose work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. For the first time, Nick realizes that one of his arms seems to be a prosthetic, which makes his chest clench for some reason. That’s stupid. Lots of people have prosthetics; the world is a dangerous place. At least it looks well-made, not like some of the back alley mods he used to see back in the bad old days. Everything else about this man may still be a mystery, but that feels like a clue.

Close to the bottom, Vash glances aside and catches Nick watching, and one of his boots slips on the last rung, which results in an ungainly landing. He straightens with a weak flourish. “Ta-da,” he says.

“Great work. Tens across the board,” Nick answers dryly. He holds out the canteen and the paper-wrapped sandwich.

“You flatterer. Are those for me?”

“Is that really a question that you want to ask me?”

“Oh, wait, hang on.” Vash’s face twists into a clearly fake scowl. In a passable imitation of Nick himself, he says, “No, needle noggin, they’re for all of the other guys on the roof.”

“I don’t sound like that. Are you gonna take these?”

“You literally sound like that right now,” Vash replies, sounding like he’s trying not to laugh. The bastard. Still, he takes the food and water and adds, softer, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Nick grudgingly allows.

Vash glances up towards the roof and bites his lip. Hesitating, he asks, “If you…have a few minutes, would you…want to stick around, sit in the shade for a bit? It gets a little boring up there with no one to talk to but the birds.”

And that's how Nick ends up sitting on the ground next to Vash, both of their backs leaning against the wall. The stones are still warm from the morning, but they're thankfully not scorching any more now that the suns have passed by. Vash takes measured sips from his canteen.

"So, what's your story?" Nick asks, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. If he's taking a break, might as well be a smoke break.

Vash eyes him sideways behind his glasses. "Those things'll kill you, you know," he says with the kind of mild-mannered disapproval that always made Nick want to shove five more cigs in his mouth just to prove a point.

Instead of giving into the inclination, he lights his one cig and answers, "Everyone dies someday. You gonna answer the question?"

Vash sighs, and then he's quiet. Nick is about to press him or threaten to get up when he takes a breath and says, "I'm from…a long way away. It's not on the map any more. My brother and I…I have–had a twin. We traveled together when we were kids, but things didn't work out. So, I've been on my own for a while, just trying to find a place to be and not hurt anyone."

Nick sits with that for a moment. It all sounded true, but it sounded true in the way that it would be true to say that life is hard in the desert; it's an understatement so egregious that it's almost offensive. It's three sentences' worth of information to describe the entire life of a man. Every word is layered with secrets, holes in the story so big you could drive a truck through them, papered over with a smile. He takes a drag from his cigarette while Vash unwraps his sandwich and says, "Most people don't think about finding a place where they won't hurt anyone."

"No?" Vash asks. He takes a bite of his lunch and adds with his mouth full, "What do they think about?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

"Sorry, Mr. Wolfwood."

"They think about finding a place where people won't hurt them, I guess."

Vash glances sideways at him again, a quick there-and-gone flash of blue before he looks up at the sky. "I don't believe that was what you were thinking about when you settled here."

"Yeah, well, I believe you talk a lot to avoid saying anything real," Nick shoots back before he can catch the words and swallow them.

Vash chokes on his sandwich, either out of surprise at the directness or because he has worse food habits than the kids. Nick hits him on the back a few times until he recovers and says weakly, "Your sandwich tried to kill me."

"I know we've only known each other for a day, but I can understand the impulse," Nick admits, though he's smiling when he says it.

Vash answers with a sheepish grin. "Aw, Mr. Wolfwood, don't be like that," he says, scratching the back of his neck.

He fucking did it again, Nick realizes. He diverted the conversation when he didn't like the direction it was going, turned it into a joke, and it worked! The guy's gotta be a hypnotist or something. Nick opens his mouth to point it out, but Vash beats him to it: "Anyway, I better get back to it. That roof won't fix itself! Thanks for the food!"

And then he's gone, leaving Nick sitting on the ground and wondering what the hell just happened.

Chapter Text

Nick remembers the concept of lunch much sooner the next day. The kids are playing outside when he comes out, a handful of them kicking a ball around in the yard while others dig holes and make up games. He reaches the bottom of the ladder and calls Vash's name, and then several things happen in quick succession.

Vash looks up from his work, smiles at Nick like a little piece of the sun that came down and started fixing his roof. Behind Nick, one of the kids kicks the ball way too high. He hears someone go, "Oh, shiiii–" as it flies into the air, heading straight for Vash. This will end in blood, he knows, a trip to the doctor, broken bones, bills they won't be able to pay—and then, without fanfare, Vash catches the ball one-handed right in front of his face. Nick didn't even see him drop his hammer.

Vash tosses the ball back down and descends the ladder, not bothering to disguise his dexterity this time. When he lands, he gently kicks the ball back towards the group. "Nice kick, kid," he says, directing the ball and the compliment towards Leo, one of the older ones.

Leo automatically stops the ball with his foot, still staring at Vash. They're all staring at Vash. "Nice catch, mister," he answers, voice tinged with wonder.

Saki, already a ringleader at eleven years old, tugs on Nick's sleeve and asks, "Mr. Wolfwood, can he play with us?"

Abruptly, multiple pairs of eyes land on Nick, including Vash's. He's twice as tall as the kids and looks four times as pathetic. "Please, Mr. Wolfwood?" Vash asks. "Pleeeeease?"

The rest of them take up the chorus until Nick relents and waves a hand dismissively. "Fine, fine, just shut up," he says, looking away so he feels less pinned under Vash's big, pleading eyes. A cheer goes up in the yard, and play resumes while Nick resigns himself to getting nothing done today. He settles in the shade to watch instead.

Not everyone is good with children. Some people don't know how to talk to them. They end up treating teenagers like babies or even younger kids like adults, both with disastrous consequences. Watching Vash bounce the ball on his knee a couple of times before fumbling it—Nick is growing certain now that all of his mishaps have been on purpose—he clearly doesn't have that problem. They all love him immediately, magnetically drawn to the tall, weird jester man.

After a few minutes, Vash wanders over to Nick and flops down next to him, panting. "Those youngsters have a lot of energy," he observes.

Nick snorts. "Youngsters? What are you, eighty?"

"You know, I lost track a while ago. I might be older than that."

"Guess you better stay hydrated then, old man." Nick offers him the canteen, which he accepts gratefully, and the two sit in companionable silence. "It was a good catch," Nick adds after a moment.

Vash laughs a little. "Aw, I just got lucky," he replies. He's ditched the jacket again, sleeves rolled up.

"I don't think that's true," Nick counters. "You've got plenty of muscle, and you move like some kind of acrobat." He tries not to think too loudly about broad shoulders and a trim waist, but Vash gives him that sideways look, and Nick thinks he might have failed.

"You been watching me, Mr. Wolfwood?" Vash asks, something sly and teasing in his tone.

Oh, this feels dangerous. This feels like flirting. That's not a good idea. Nick wishes desperately for a cigarette, even though he made a conscious decision to leave them upstairs. He scrubs a hand through his hair, ducking his head. "Only the kids call me Mr. Wolfwood. You can just call me Wolfwood. Or Nick."

"Or Nicholas?"

Nick shudders theatrically and answers, "If you really must."

"Okie dokie, Wolfwood it is," Vash says with a grin.

It's really too bad there's no God out there, because Nick could use a prayer right now. He shoves a paper-wrapped sandwich at Vash, who makes a surprised noise, and then he tries to recover even a modicum of dignity by asking, "How's the roof going?"

"Oh!" Vash says. "I can have it done in a couple more days, I think."

"Oh," Nick says. He pauses. "Are you…gonna move on after that?"

"Dunno. I hadn’t really thought about it yet.”

“Well, if work’s an issue, I’m sure I could find more people who need someone that’s handy with a hammer.” Nick can’t look at him when he says it. He inspects the dirt, the stone walls of the other orphanage buildings, the sky. When the silence stretches too long, he risks a sideways glance at Vash to find the man smiling at him with so much fondness that it makes Nick’s stomach hurt.

“Wolfwood…do you want me to stick around?” Vash asks.

“Not if you’re gonna make fun of me,” Nick snaps, pulling the emergency ripcord way too late on a conversation that he was not remotely planning to have at this exact moment. He hurriedly stands up and dusts himself off.

“I wasn’t–”

“I gotta get back to work.”

Nick beats a hasty retreat, feeling like an idiot, and spends the rest of the day snapping at anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. Then, he feels like a guilty idiot and has to make the rounds to apologize to everyone. By the time he comes outside to apologize to Vash, the suns are sinking towards the horizon. The ladder and tools are tidied away. Vash is gone.

—

Errand day. The worst day of the week. Nick's nemesis.

Nick forces himself out of bed and puts on his best suit, the one that's the least worn and wrinkled. He even buttons his shirt most of the way. (It was a hard-learned lesson for a man who used to kill for a living. It turns out that if you want to have a lasting business relationship with people in a town, you can't look like a disreputable mercenary. Who knew?)

Armored for the day and with no other means to delay the inevitable, Nick walks outside and almost runs straight into Vash.

"Whoa, sorry, Mr. Wolfwood!" Vash says. He's smiling but without the tooth-rotting fondness. Nick hates that he's starting to recognize which smiles are real and which are performative.

"I told you yesterday that you can–"

"Right, right. Wolfwood. No mister. Hey, you look kind of fancy. Is that a new suit?"

"No, it's the one I wear when I have to go into town so that people like me," Nick replies dryly.

"What?" Vash asks, eyebrows rising. "Is it magic?"

Nick's desire to apologize for yesterday evaporates. "Fucking laugh it up, wise guy," he mutters, pulling out his sunglasses and shoving them on his face. "We don't all have big, blue eyes and stupid, fake smiles."

"Oh…"

Nick looks at him again, caught by the tone of genuine surprise in that little, meaningless syllable. Vash's eyebrows are still raised, but he's just kind of staring like Nick pointed out something that wasn't glaringly obvious. Once again pinned, Nick says, "Most of the time when you smile, I think it's just because it makes other people more comfortable. You do it because you think you should, not because you want to." Vash blinks at him a couple of times, mouth hanging slightly open. Scrambling to fill the uncharacteristic silence, Nick adds desperately, "It's obvious."

At that, Vash huffs a laugh, recovering himself. "You know," he says, "I don't think anyone's ever said that before. Any of it."

Nick's face feels hot. He scratches the back of his neck. "Well, someone should have," he answers. "You're clearly full of shit."

This time, the smile that Vash aims at Nick is real, the same smile as yesterday. Seized by a sudden, masochistic urge, Nick blurts out, "Do you want to go into town with me?"

Fuck!

Yet again, Vash blinks at him. "Like…a date or something?" he asks slowly.

Wow, Nick really needs to get a handle on himself. Maybe pay someone to follow him around and just knock him unconscious when he says stupid shit. He'd spend a lot of time unconscious, but it would be better that way. He forces himself to take a breath before answering casually, "No, like I have to run errands, and I can introduce you to everyone in town that could send work your way after you're done with the roof."

Vash's expression is inscrutable for a second. Then, like clouds clearing away from the sun, he smiles and says, "That would be great! But I don't want to get in trouble with my boss for missing a day of work…"

"I'll put in a good word for you," Nick answers, rolling his eyes. "Come on, needle noggin."

And that's how Nick ends up walking into town with Vash, who keeps up a steady stream of chatter that seems to require little from Nick except the occasional comment or grunt. He talks about how he'd traveled from May City, where he stayed for a little while, but May always makes him kind of nervous, y'know, because he didn't have a very good time last time he was there, but they fixed it up real nice, and you mostly can't even tell which buildings were demolished before. Not like Jeneora Rock, he never goes there if he can avoid it, and wait a second, hey, are those doughnuts?

"Huh?" Nick asks, pulled from the spell cast by Vash's monologue.

"You guys have a bakery here, and you didn't tell me?" Vash asks indignantly. He's already veering off-course, aiming for the fancy bakery that Nick never goes into.

"I wasn't aware that was my responsibility," Nick gripes, following unwillingly after him. "Hey, look, this isn't a fun day trip; I've got stuff to do today."

"I just want to look," Vash lies. He stops about an inch shy of pressing his face to the glass like a kid, like Nick did when he was little, before he understood that fancy bakeries aren't for orphans who think that ten cents makes them a big spender. Even now, he shies away from the display.

"You've looked. Now, come on."

"Hey, I haven't eaten breakfast. Did you? Do you want something?"

"I don't like sugar," Nick lies, because this is apparently a morning for lying.

"Wolfwood," Vash gasps, as if Nick has insulted his whole family.

"Don't Wolfwood me, needle noggin. Not liking sugar isn't a moral failing. Come on, we got stuff to do."

Vash's eyes well up. His lower lip trembles. He starts making a weak noise that turns into a pathetic sob. "Just…just one doughnut?" he pleads, so small and sad.

Well. Nick's not a monster. He relents: "Fine. One fucking doughnut."

Like magic, the tears are gone. Vash grins hugely and whoops, and then he disappears into the bakery. Wolfwood stands there, wondering not for the first time what the hell just happened. After a stunned second, he shakes it off and follows Vash into the bakery, though with considerably less enthusiasm.

Inside, it smells like sugar and looks like a dream. The walls are painted light blue, and the display in the window is a pale imitation of the display in the bakery itself. There are doughnuts, cookies, intricate cakes that hardly look real, all encased under glass that's been polished to an immaculate shine. There are pastries that Nick doesn't even know the names of, dusted generously with powdered sugar. It's exactly what he pictured as a child. He wants to get the fuck out of there.

Instead, he forces his shoulders to relax. He's shot men dead in cold blood. A bakery is no big deal, right? Right. Get it together, Wolfwood.

Vash stands up at the counter as a lady in a frilly apron uses a pair of tongs to pick out a doughnut and place it delicately into a sweet little box. He's practically bouncing on his toes, which would be adorable if Nick wasn't currently having to talk himself down from going and getting drunk at nine in the morning.

"Should we bring some back for the kids?" Vash asks over his shoulder while he pays the lady.

Nick rubs his eyes under his sunglasses. Get it together, Wolfwood. Fucking get it together. He rejects the instinct to snap about not being made of money and replies coolly, "Another time, maybe."

Vash glances at him curiously but doesn't comment. He takes his doughnut, and Nick holds the door open for him, and then they're back outside in the fresh, sugarless air. "Do you mind if I just sit here and eat this?" Vash asks. "I haven't had a doughnut in…years, I think."

"Fine," Nick says. He sits down on the step and lights a cigarette.

"Aw, Wolfwood, come on. Not next to my doughnut," Vash whines, though he sits down right next to Nick regardless.

"What was with the crocodile tears?" Nick asks, exhaling smoke skyward.

"Huh? Oh. I just really wanted a doughnut," Vash says. "And you seem like kind of a sap, so I figured that would work."

"Anyone ever tell you you're un-fucking-believable?"

"Yeah, but it's always nice to hear it again."

Vash delicately extricates the pastry from its box. He takes a moment to admire it, and then, almost reverently, takes a bite and moans , low and ecstatic. Nick watches all of this with his cigarette dangling from his lips, utterly forgotten. He doesn't even realize he's staring until Vash glances sideways and asks, "What? You want a bite?"

That's one way to put it, Nick thinks. He hastily tries to unthink it, but it's too late. He just has to go through his whole fucking day with that sound rattling around in his brain. His entire life is one big regret.

Impressing himself with how normal he sounds, Nick answers, "Nah. You paid for it; you oughta eat it."

"I don't mind sharing," Vash insists. He holds the doughnut out. "You should try it. It's really good, even for someone who doesn't like sugar."

Knowing it's not a good idea, Nick leans over and takes a bite of the doughnut while Vash is still holding it. He probably meant for Nick to take it and then give it back, but instead Vash just sits there, holding his doughnut in midair between them, while Nick maintains direct eye contact. It is actually a really good god damn doughnut. He chews and swallows and decides, "Not bad."

Vash clears his throat, looking pink. "It's the best doughnut that's ever existed," he counters, and his voice comes out just a touch higher than usual. "You're just trying to be hurtful."

Nick's not sure what he's trying to be, other than an idiot. There's a little fragment of sugar glaze at the corner of Vash's mouth, and if they don't get moving, he's going to do something unwise. (There's a part of him that still yearns to dig up the cross buried in the corner of the yard, that says it's okay to throw a punch at an asshole in a bar, it's okay to leave behind a trail of destruction. That part is sitting up and begging right now, and that, more than anything, is how Nick knows he's looking down the barrel of a bad decision.)

He's saved from his failing restraint when he catches sight of two women over Vash's shoulder. One of them is tiny with blue-black hair, while the other is a giant with brown hair, which probably makes it tough to capture them both in the same picture. Nick's never asked, and he doesn't want Meryl to bite his ankles, so he never will.

With more false cheer than he can usually manage, Nick calls out, "Good morning, you two!"

The girls look around before ultimately determining that he was, in fact, greeting them. Admittedly, it's an unusual occurrence. One might say unprecedented. The taller one calls back with real cheer, "Good morning, Mr. Wolfwood!"

As they make their way over, Vash murmurs dryly, "I thought you said only the kids call you Mr. Wolfwood."

"They are kids," Nick mutters back. It's not strictly true, in that the girls are both adults in their early twenties. But spiritually, it is true and correct to look at someone in their early twenties from the lofty heights of someone in their early thirties and think there's no way you were ever that young.

Once they're closer, Nick says, "Vash, this is Meryl and Milly. They work for the local paper."

"How do you do?" Vash says around another mouthful of doughnut.

"I told you not to talk with your mouth full. That's disgusting."

"Sorry."

"Nice to meet you," Meryl says, gamely ignoring the exchange and Vash's mouthful of pastry.

"Say, you have the same name as that gunman," Milly says brightly. "Isn't that a funny coincidence?"

Vash says, "I get that a lot," at the same time Nick says, "He gets that a lot." Vash rewards him with a big, goofy smile, which Nick ignores. Instead, he continues, "Vash is fixing the roof over at the orphanage, but he'll be done with that soon. You don't happen to need the services of a top-notch handyman, do you?"

Abruptly, Meryl's uncertain politeness melts into a sardonic smile. That girl has stuff going on, Nick's sure of it. She says, "Do we? I got stuck in my office last week and had to climb out the window. The door wouldn't budge! My editor keeps saying he'll fix it, but it happened again yesterday, and Milly and I both had to climb out the window! I'm about ready to take the stupid thing off its hinges."

Milly blinks at her and asks, "Do you know how to do that?"

"I can figure it out!"

Vash takes this in, looking thoughtful. Slowly, he nods. "Yeah, I can fix that," he decides. Smiling, he adds, "And if I can't, I'll show you how to take it off the hinges so it won't bother you again."

Meryl's mouth forms a silent 'oh' of surprise, and then she says, "That's great! How much? When can you come out?"

"Fifty double dollars," Nick cuts in before Vash can say something stupid, like ten.

"Wolfwood!" Vash protests, and his indignant pout in the corner of Nick's vision confirms his instinct was correct.

"Done!" Meryl declares. "And if my editor's too much of a cheapskate to pay from the paper's budget, I can pay that. What about when you can come out?"

Vash glances sideways at Nick and mutters, "You gonna speak for me on this one?"

Nick takes a drag of his cigarette and replies airily, "Nope. Long as it's after you finish our roof."

Vash sniffs haughtily, then informs Meryl with infinite cheer, "I can come out and fix it in three days. Will that work?"

"Wow, so soon?" Milly asks, sounding impressed.

"You're getting in on the ground floor," Nick answers. "Better take that spot while you can get it, or it'll be gone." Vash elbows him none too gently in the ribs, but Nick's taken worse hits from a seven year old, so he doesn't react.

Milly looks at Meryl with those big, earnest eyes. "We'd better say yes, Meryl," she declares.

"Oh! Yes, three days is fine," Meryl says. It's a miracle that December's quiet and has a limited number of unsavory characters; these two would be prime targets if Nick was looking to take advantage of a couple of unsuspecting young women. The power of suggestion and proper tone of urgency would be all it took to convince them. Nick's gonna have to talk with Roberto about his so-called journalists.

The girls bid them farewell, and Nick and Vash continue on. Unsurprisingly, most of the people they meet love Vash immediately. The rest seem skeptical of his bright facade, but Nick gets the best deals he's ever gotten on groceries thanks to Vash and his big, stupid smile.

"I oughta take you with me every time I run errands," Nick comments as they're leaving.

"I'll have to see if I can fit you into my busy schedule," Vash answers. "You pretty much shoved me at every person you could find."

"What, you don't like making money? Ungrateful."

"Maybe if you were nicer, you'd have better luck with people."

"I'm nice!" Nick squawks, indignant.

Vash glances sideways at him and has the absolute audacity to laugh. "Wolfwood, you're a lot of things. I don't think 'nice' is one of them."

"Yeah, well, fuck you, pal."

"See what I mean?"

The suns are sinking towards the horizon as they wander back to the orphanage, throwing their shadows long and unsteady in front of their steps. Normally, Nick returns from errand day like a soldier from battle, scarred and exhausted. But today, with Vash, it was actually not the worst. Hell, it was almost fun at times. Nick takes a breath and, before he can think better of it, says, "Stay for dinner."

Next to him, Vash's head pops up in surprise. "Huh?" he asks, looking at Nick owlishly.

"You should stay for dinner," Nick repeats, slower this time. Intentional.

"Oh, you don't have to…"

"The kids'll be happy if you do," Nick wheedles, pulling out his trump card, knowing it's a low blow.

Vash still hesitates, but as much of a sap as he thinks Nick is, Nick knows Vash is more of one. Finally, he relents, "Oh, alright. But I want to help make the food."

The condition comes as a surprise, but if Nick actually thinks about it, it really shouldn't be. Of course this man would be invited to dinner as a guest and immediately want to help. They've known each other for a handful of days at this point, and Nick really should have seen that one coming. He shrugs and says, "The kids are in charge of dinner, so you'll have to get their say-so."

"You make them cook you dinner?" Vash asks doubtfully.

"You're kidding, right? I don't make them do anything. They demanded the right to make dinner."

It started a few years ago, he explains as they walk. There were less kids then, and Nick wanted to teach them some life skills. So, he brought them into the kitchen and showed them how to make a couple basic dishes. They asked for more, and it became an ongoing class, though someone else teaches it now. After a week or so, a few of them bunched together shyly in the door of Nick's office and told him very formally that they wanted to make dinner for everyone once a week. (Nick doesn't remember the last time he cried, but he got pretty close at that moment.)

Nick set some ground rules and told them this was their call, so the routine stopped when they stopped. And the rest is history.

Vash sniffles at the end, and Nick is starting to understand this is just a thing for him. He looks over to find Vash crying, as expected. "That's so beautiful," Vash practically wails. "You've raised such amazing children."

Nick ducks his head, face warm in a way that has nothing to do with the desert and something small and pleased blossoming in his chest. "Yeah, yeah," he mumbles, bumping his shoulder against Vash's. "Don't make it into a thing."

Dinner is a success, as Nick knew it would be. He watches in delight as the kitchen crew, who are all about half Vash's size, boss him around like he's some newbie. To his credit, Vash is a good sport about it. He even introduces them to the phrase, "Yes, chef," which Nick has never heard before, but Vash very seriously explains it to all the little upturned faces. Apparently, it comes from the fancy, big city restaurants, where they have lots of people cooking like this and need to acknowledge instructions. Whether that's true or not, Nick knows it will enter the entire orphanage's vocabulary before the end of the week.

The kids beg Mr. Vash to sit with them at dinner, but he demurs. Nick hears some protesting, and then things go quiet. He looks up in time to see everyone huddled around Vash, who's crouched down to be on their level. The huddle breaks up, the kids all take seats, and Vash drops unceremoniously into the seat next to Nick.

"What'd you tell them?" Nick asks when his curiosity ultimately wins out.

Vash glances sideways and winks at him. "It's a secret," he answers.

Yeah, dinner is a success. Nick hasn't had a drink, but his chest feels like he has, the aftermath of that first sip of whiskey when you feel like you could breathe fire. He spends the evening bumping companionably against Vash at the knees and elbows, laughing at his unexpectedly acerbic wit, reveling in whatever this is.

After dinner is over, before Vash can start making moves to leave, Nick asks, "You wanna stick around, have a drink?"

Vash smiles at him, the teasing kind that Nick is developing a craving for. "You're just trying to make me take back what I said earlier about you not being nice." He pauses, then adds, "Yeah, a drink sounds good."

Nick doesn't drink much any more, not like he used to. For one thing, he's not as young as he used to be; nowadays, if he gets blackout drunk and passes out on the floor, his back hurts like hell for days. And the hangovers! He's taken bullets that were less painful than a hangover after he passed his mid-twenties. The other, more important factor, is that Nick is now responsible for a couple dozen tiny lives. If he's no good to them, he's no good to anyone.

Still, he doesn't hate to have a drink every now and then, especially if he's sharing it with the strangest man he's ever met.

Vash settles in on the sagging couch that takes up most of one side of Nick's office, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "Been a long time since I worked a kitchen shift," he sighs. "And I don't remember the grown-up cooks being so demanding."

"Only the best around here," Nick answers as he pulls out a bottle and a couple glasses. Taking a moment to admire the view, Nick gets the feeling this is a version of Vash that few get to see. His throat exposed, his shoulders relaxed, he looks vulnerable in a way that those empty smiles never manage to achieve. And of course, of course, his sleeves are rolled up and the top couple buttons of his shirt undone, and Nick has to stop himself before this gets creepy.

He sits down and pours them each a drink. Vash sits up to accept his, and they clink their glasses against each other. "So," Nick says, "you're a handyman with no tools, a cook, an acrobat, what else?"

Vash takes a sip at the same time Nick does, stalling for time. "I've been lots of things, you know? Spend enough time traveling, you have to learn a lot of trades to stay alive. What about you?"

Nick smirks a little. "I was a priest."

"Bullshit," Vash scoffs.

"Hand to God, I was a traveling priest. Mostly did funerals, but one or two weddings, took confessions. You know, priest stuff." It's not a lie, exactly. Just an egregious skewing of the truth, which is Nick's specialty as much as it is Vash's.

"Can't picture you officiating a wedding."

"But you can picture me doing funerals?"

"Oh, yeah, easily."

"I still have the traveling confessional around here somewhere if you have any sins you wanna get off your chest."

"No, thanks. I don't think we have that kind of time."

"I've got no other plans tonight."

Vash looks sideways at Nick like he's debating something with himself, and Nick's not sure what that something is, but he has hopes. With care, Vash sets his drink down, turns to face Wolfwood on the couch, and—

"Mr. Wolfwood?" asks a small voice from the door.

God fucking dammit. Nick drops his head for a second before turning around to see Mika standing there, barefoot and sleepy-eyed. Forcing his voice gentle, Nick asks, "What's the matter, small fry?"

"Can't find my bear, and Miss Mary had to take Nira to the nurse."

Nick lets out a little sigh. It's not Mika's fault, or Mary's, or Nira's, but this was starting to feel like something, and now he can feel that potential slipping away. He looks at Vash and says very seriously, "Needle noggin. Do not move. I will be back in two minutes."

Vash has that fond look on again. Nick has a feeling he'll be gone as soon as Nick's out the door. "Better go find that bear, Mr. Wolfwood," Vash teases softly. Short of tying Vash up—which does have its perks as an idea—there's nothing Nick can do but get up, take Mika's hand, and walk away.

It takes three minutes to find the bear, under the chair where Mika sat for dinner. True to form, Vash is gone when Nick gets back to his office. He finishes his drink by himself and goes to bed alone.

Chapter Text

The roof gets finished. Vash gets paid. Nick keeps the interaction surface level to give himself some time to figure out the probably-non-medical reason why his chest hurts when Vash gives him one of those hollow smiles.

Vash is walking out the door when a thought strikes Nick. "Hey, needle noggin," he calls out. Vash turns, eyebrows raised, and Nick continues, "Take the tools with you."

"Huh?" Vash asks.

"You've got folks waiting on you to fix things, right? Tough to do with no tools."

"Wolfwood, no, they're yours."

Nick rolls his eyes. "What the hell am I gonna do with tools I can't use? If it really bothers you, just bring them back before you leave town."

Vash takes the tools in the end, bemusedly wheeling their little cart out the door. Nick's still not sure about that aching feeling, but he has other concerns. He goes about his day.

He sits up in the middle of the night that night with the realization: hurt. The aching feeling was hurt. Fuck, Vash hurt his feelings! What the hell is that? Is he some kind of teenager? Nick's literally killed people, and now he's nursing his bruised heart like a protagonist in a romance novel. What a fucking idiot.

He considers getting up and finding Vash, shaking him until his teeth rattle. The only problems with that idea are that he doesn't know where Vash is staying, and he's also probably asleep and wouldn't get up even if Nick kicked his door down, because Vash is an asshole. With a huff, Nick lies back down, already making plans to track Vash down in the morning and get some answers out of him.

In the cold light of morning, Nick's grand plans look a little less grand. He can't exactly confront a man and ask him, "Why did you make me have a big, stupid crush on you and then leave when I asked you to stay?" Even in his head, Nick has to admit that it doesn't quite land. And admitting that Vash hurt his feelings (yuck!) makes Nick want to bury himself next to the Punisher in the yard, so that's out. Ugh.

He gets a cup of coffee, smokes his morning cigarette. Then, the day starts, and the day passes, and the day ends before Nick even realizes. Okay, he'll find Vash tomorrow and talk to him like an adult.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Somehow, it's errand day again. Nick has no idea how a whole week passed, but he puts on his nice suit and walks into town, this time without a chatterbox next to him, filling up the air with words and begging for pastries. Not that he's already missing that or anything. Not that he's secretly hoping—

Vash is right there. As if summoned by magic, Nick catches sight of him strolling down the street. Vash smiles at people he passes by, wishing them a good morning, and Nick wants to call out, but…there's some little curiosity in his mind that says maybe he can wait. They're walking in the same direction; he'll catch up eventually. It's not like he's following Vash, he insists in the privacy of his mind, where it's abundantly clear he's just making excuses. That doesn't stop him though.

Hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, Vash seems to be wandering aimlessly. He makes a couple of apparently random turns, and then he opens the door of the town museum and goes inside. Nick waits a few seconds before following him in.

The museum isn't big. It's just a house that was converted a few years ago by one of those people who are obsessed with local history, even though ‘local history’ is an oxymoron. There are a few rooms with display cases and artifacts from the town's founding, accompanied by hand-written plaques explaining their significance. Nick's brought the kids before, in an effort to get them out of the orphanage and into the world for a little culture. It did nothing for him, but they loved it. It's much easier to be impressed when you’ve never been anywhere, and you're three feet tall.

There's a woman at the front desk, next to a sign that names the suggested donation for entry. Nick pays it without kicking up a fuss, because even though the town museum is stupid, it's someone's passion. With the woman's blessing, he makes his way inside, blinking in the dim light.

Vash isn't in the front room, but with a sudden flash of clarity, Nick knows exactly where he'll find him. He bypasses the displays and makes his way to the furthest room of the museum. All the way back, the crown jewel is displayed in a room by itself, surrounded by wanted posters and newspaper clippings.

Vash is standing right where Nick knew he'd be, in front of a tall case with a battered red coat and a hefty revolver. The mannequin displaying the coat is too short, so the curator tucked the ends to make it look nicer, but no amount of tucking can obscure the bullet holes scattered over the fabric. There are even more that look like they were patched and sewn up with care, if you look closely, but Nick doesn't pay much attention to the coat.

Though Vash's hands are still in his pockets and his shoulders are still relaxed, Nick can see the tension in his jaw. He leaves a careful amount of space between the two of them as he joins Vash in front of the display.

"You want me to ask them for your gun back?" Nick asks dryly out of the side of his mouth.

Vash the Stampede almost laughs, a short exhalation through his nose, but there's no real joy in it. Equally quiet, he answers, "I'd rather have the jacket. It was a gift."

"I could steal it."

"Wouldn't exactly help me keep a low profile. Anyway, it's not who I am any more."

"Who are you now, then?"

Vash glances sideways at Nick, sizing him up. He doesn't seem at all surprised to see him. "Apparently, I'm the new town handyman, thanks to your generous efforts," he says mildly, putting an inflection on generous efforts that makes it sound like it actually means idiot meddling.

"You're welcome," Nick answers archly. He pauses before asking, "You want to come back to my office, talk about it over a drink?"

Finally, the mask of neutrality slips for a second, exposing honest surprise before Vash can cover it up. Slowly, as if Nick is maybe a little stupid, he asks, "You want me to come back to the orphanage, where you live, where there are a bunch of children?"

Nick shrugs one shoulder. "You were there every day for a week, fixed our roof, and completely failed to kill or even maim anyone. Way I see it, if you were gonna be a problem, you'd have been one already." He tips his sunglasses down to look Vash over from top to bottom. "Plus, I'm pretty sure I could take you."

Vash snorts, but judging by the way he also blushes, pink and pretty, he couldn't have failed to pick up what Nick was putting down. He looks away and clears his throat. “Alright, sure,” he says.

On their way out of the room, Nick jerks his chin at the biggest of the wanted posters, which depicts a manic caricature of Vash, all spiky hair and sharp teeth and beady eyes. “Not the best rendition of you, by the way,” he says.

“You don’t think so?” Vash asks.

“You’re hotter in real life.”

It’s oh so worth it to hear Vash choke next to him. Nick doesn’t look sideways, because there’s a very real possibility that he’s in love with Vash the Stampede, who he now knows is good with children, enjoys doughnuts, and has a wicked sense of humor, and if they make eye contact right now, Nick’s not sure what he’ll do. He vaguely remembers seeing a supply closet somewhere around here, but field trip opportunities are too scarce to risk being permanently banned from the museum for being caught in the middle of a lewd act next to the brooms and ladders. So, he keeps his eyes straight ahead, and they exit the museum without incident.

The walk home is quiet. Nick’s going to need to reschedule errand day, especially if Vash does end up taking him up on that drink at ten in the morning, but that’s not the worst thing in the world. Vash is somewhere far away in his head, somewhere Nick can’t reach. It’s not like he’s going to start firing off questions in the middle of the street though, so that’s fine. He can wait.

By some miracle, they manage to avoid running into anyone between arriving at the orphanage and getting to Nick’s office. He closes the door and locks it for good measure, a step he rarely takes but which seems like a good idea no matter which way this conversation goes. Then, he shrugs off his jacket and asks, “Do you want that drink?”

“It’s not even noon,” Vash says dubiously. Nick just shrugs, one eyebrow raised. Vash considers, then shakes his head.

This time, when he sits on Nick’s couch, there’s none of his previous vulnerability. His shoulders are hunched, protective, the posture of someone trying to take up less space that Nick recalls from the day they met. Was that only a couple of weeks ago? Nick leans against his desk, waiting.

Finally, Vash rubs his face and looks up at him. He doesn’t smile this time, and for all that it’s a relief not to put up with the mask, the alternative is almost worse. Vash’s hollow exhaustion makes something twist in Nick’s chest. He wonders for the first time how old this man is, with his ancient gaze and heavy burden. Nick had assumed when they met that Vash was near his own age, maybe even a little younger than him. But that doesn’t make sense; the Humanoid Typhoon disappeared nearly a decade ago. There wouldn’t have been time for all of the destruction that seemed to surround him, unless he was declared a walking act of God when he was just a kid.

“Where do you want to start?” Nick asks, and curses himself when his voice comes out weaker than he intends.

“Why did you invite me back here instead of trying to turn me in? Sixty billion double dollars would help a lot of kids.”

“They closed that bounty out years ago. Three years after you disappeared, I’d say.” Nick pauses. “And I’m not that kind of guy. Not any more.”

Something like a smile tugs at the corner of Vash’s mouth, an echo of the fond look that makes Nick’s stomach squeeze. He says, “I don’t think you’d ever have been that kind of guy.”

Nick shakes his head a little, and then shakes it again, harder. “You’re wrong. You wouldn’t have liked me if we met back then.” At Vash’s skeptical expression, Nick sucks in a breath and forces the words out: “I was a mercenary. The priest thing was a cover.”

Vash, bastard that he is, doesn’t look in any way surprised by that information. He shrugs and answers, “I doubt there’s any version of you that I wouldn’t like.”

It’s a sucker punch of a sentence. Nick can’t handle that information and Vash’s eyes on him at the same time, so he looks away and mumbles, “Fuck off.” His face is hot. He reaches automatically for his cigarettes, fiddles with them, and then decides against lighting one and puts them down again. Sounding impressively normal to his own ears, Nick changes the subject and says, “So, why’d you disappear?”

Vash takes a breath, lets it out slowly. “It’s a long story,” he hedges.

“I’ve got time.”

There’s a moment of quiet before Vash says, “I have a brother…”

“Your twin, yeah. You said the two of you used to travel together?”

Vash looks up at him. “You remembered that?”

“Course I remembered,” Nick answers.

Vash flashes a quick, grateful smile before sobering again. “His name was Nai. And I loved him more than…anything. But he always had this…darkness in him. He could hurt someone and then go about his business like nothing had happened. It cost him nothing to kill. And he got this idea in his head that…the way humans act when they’re scared, or in pain, that was what human nature was. And he decided to wipe them all out.”

Nick tries to imagine a man with Vash’s face but none of his unthinking gentleness. He tries to conjure a copy of Vash in his mind who would look at the world and find it beneath him. The image won’t come, but there’s something else itching at the back of Nick’s mind. “You talk about humans like you’re separate from them.”

“I tried to talk him out of it,” Vash continues, like Nick hadn’t spoken. “He was too far gone to listen, though, and I was too weak to stop him. I tried to fight him, but…Nai was always stronger and smarter than me. I lost an arm, and he disappeared.”

“He cut your arm off?” Nick asks, aghast.

Vash swallows, flesh hand straying absently to smooth over the carapace of his prosthetic one. “A long story for another day,” he decides. “You wanted to know why I left.” He pauses again, gathering his thoughts. “I wandered for a long time, trying to find Nai. He started going by Millions Knives. He gathered a following, a bunch of people as bloodthirsty as him but without the…”

“Without the what?”

“Meanwhile, everywhere I went, it seemed like trouble always followed. I never wanted anyone to get hurt. But while I was chasing Nai, he was chasing me too, and people getting hurt, people dying, that didn’t mean anything to him. Finally, he caught me in a trap, one I couldn’t get out of.

“I was so tired, Nick. I think there was a little part of me that just wanted it to be over, but I couldn’t let him do what he wanted. So, I fought him. We fought until neither of us had anything left, and I got the upper hand.”

Nick waits for Vash to continue, but he’s trailed off, staring at his hands. Slowly, carefully, like Vash is a skittish creature that will disappear at the first sudden movement, Nick crosses the office to sit on the couch next to him. He's close enough to hear Vash inhale shakily. He doesn't press.

After a moment, Vash rubs his eyes and confesses, "He asked me to kill him. Begged me. But I couldn't do it, no matter how angry I was, no matter how much he'd hurt me and how many lives he’d taken. I couldn't kill him. He was still my brother.

"I put him into cold sleep instead. It was the only way to let him live without putting everyone else in danger." Vash's head sinks into his hands. "It's the cruelest thing I've ever done. In a lifetime of selfishness, putting him in that pod was the ultimate selfish act. I told myself I'd wake him up when things were better, when the world was kinder. Maybe in another couple of centuries."

The last part sounds like he's talking to himself more than Nick. It sounds like something he's held on to for so long that he's forgotten the weight isn't part of him. Or maybe it's become part of him, something embedded too deep to take out that the flesh has grown over and scarred. The world feels silent but for the sound of Vash trying to hold himself together with both hands.

Nick knows he should probably be scared. He has lots more questions, some of them he's sure he won't want answered. But when he searches his heart, there's no fear, just sorrow. Unsure whether he's doing the right thing but knowing he has to do something, Nick moves closer to Vash, until they're pressed together from knee to shoulder. When Vash doesn't shy from that, he puts an arm around him.

"Love is selfish. Mercy is selfish," Nick says quietly. "But that's not always a bad thing."

Vash leans into him. Nick can't see his face from this angle, but he can hear the tears in his answer: "How is it not a bad thing to put my brother before the entire world?"

"You didn't. You stopped him. But you'd have lost something you couldn't get back if you killed him." An image rises in Nick's mind of his own brother. Livio's not a twin, not even a blood relation, but he can't imagine killing him for anything in the world. He adds, "What if you'd finally gotten to a world worth showing him and you couldn't?"

Vash makes a noise like the idea causes him physical pain. "I couldn't stand to be all alone," he whispers. He's quiet for a long time while a wet patch grows under his cheek on Nick's shoulder. When his breathing steadies, Vash continues, "Our fight…drew a lot of attention. Nai and I. After he was asleep, I didn't want anyone to come looking and accidentally wake him up too soon. That was why I disappeared, to distract people. And…so that I could rest. I wasn't in good shape after. Couldn't defend myself."

Nick thinks about the bullet holes in the red jacket. "People still shot at you," he says. It's not a question.

"At first, but they stopped once I got far enough away."

It's the toneless way he says it that really gets under Nick's skin. Like it's okay because they didn't chase him down and shoot him until he stopped moving. Nick has a nasty feeling that he might identify a little with Millions Knives, at least when it comes to being alright with wholesale destruction where Vash is concerned. The thought doesn't sit well. "How can you still want anything to do with people, after the way you've been treated?" he asks.

Vash shrugs one shoulder, a movement that jostles them both with how close he is. "I like people," he insists. "I like that people are smart and caring and trying to do better."

"I think you and I might have different opinions of humanity."

"There's a university in November, you know? Where they're figuring out how to use flora to lessen the burden on Plants. There are places where they've started growing gardens in the desert." Vash pauses, and it sounds like he's smiling. "There's an orphanage in December, run by a guy who decided he didn't want any more blood on his hands. Now, he's raising kids who will have a chance at a long, peaceful life."

Okay, yeah, Nick walked into that one. Vash picks his head up, and his eyes are red-rimmed, but he's giving Nick that fond smile that makes his heartbeat pick up its pace. And it's the easiest thing in the world to close the tiny gap between them and kiss him.

Vash makes a little surprised sound, and Nick immediately pulls back. "Sorry," he says. "Sorry, I should have…"

Vash is staring at him like Nick is a revelation. But that's not right, Nick thinks. He's not special. He's not worth looking at like—

Vash kisses him. His kiss is more assertive than Nick's was, and his lips taste like sugar glaze. Nick tries for a moment to remember the last time anyone kissed him like this, but there was no last time. No one's kissed him like this before. Then, he stops thinking and focuses on Vash's tongue in his mouth, which is much nicer and less depressing.

After some time, possibly a minute or possibly several brief eternities, Vash breaks away and asks, "Did that answer your question?"

Nick, who had been in the middle of constructing a hazy plan that involved straddling Vash on the couch, asks, "What question?"

Vash is still very close, close enough that Nick can feel the puff of air against his lips when he laughs. "About why I left."

That feels like a very long time ago. "Oh. Yeah," Nick says. "I have other questions too, but I think they can wait.”

“Are you sure? You can ask whatever you want.” Vash pauses, and then his lips curl up into a smirk. He makes a big production of moving away from Nick and stretching and adds, “Unless you wanted to get back to errand day. I know how much you enjoy it.”

Nick is on his lap before he even thinks about it, keeping Vash right where he wants him. Looking him in the eye, Nick says slowly and clearly, “I truly could not give less of a fuck about errand day.”

Vash lights up like neon. Nick loses track of time making sure he stays that way.

—

The days pass, as days always do, beautiful and imperfect. Nick convinces Vash to stay over more nights than not, and they spend their evenings bickering and climbing into each others' personal space. Nick is happier than he can remember ever being. He's pretty sure Vash is happy too; there are less empty smiles, more genuine ones. It's good.

A few months after Vash's arrival, Nick wakes up in the night to find that there is no blonde in his bed to wrap his arms around. This is inconvenient, but not necessarily cause for immediate concern; Vash gets up in the night sometimes. Nick pulls himself out of bed to check his usual spots, but Vash seems to be nowhere inside. His prosthetic is also missing from the side table. Telling himself that it's stupid to worry about Vash the Stampede but worrying nonetheless, Nick pulls on some clothes and a pair of shoes and goes outside.

As it turns out, Vash is also not on the roof, nor anywhere in the orphanage compound. The worry that was simmering gently in Nick's stomach now starts to bubble. Then, he catches sight of a pair of bare footprints in the dirt. They're the size of an adult man's and look as though the owner may have been carrying something with real weight to it, judging by the depth. But Nick knows from experience that Vash is heavier than he looks, thanks to a combination of muscle and metal fixed to his body, so the burden he carried was probably just his heart. He follows the tracks.

The trail ends outside of the industrial building that houses December's Plant, where packed dirt gives way to costly concrete. There's no sign of Vash outside, which means that the only way forward is in. Nick inspects the lock on the door, wishing his lock picks were in his pocket and not his desk drawer, but the door swings easily open at the first touch. Interesting.

Dreamlike, Nick enters the building. There are signs on the walls that point towards the Plant room, so he follows them. It’s the only destination that makes sense. Another should-be-locked door opens at his approach, and he walks into the cavernous space.

The ceiling disappears in the dark. The room is lit only by the glow of the Plant, throwing all of the machinery into a muddy confusion of shadow. But Vash is easy to find anyway. He's standing on the walkway that circles the Plant, twenty feet up, with his hands and his forehead pressed to the glass shell like a man in prayer. Nick climbs up as silently as possible, determinedly not thinking about the signs of movement he saw within the glowing confines of the casing.

Vash doesn't turn as Nick makes his way toward him. He doesn't turn as Nick comes to a stop a few feet behind. He doesn't turn as Nick stares at the creature on the other side of the glass.

Nick's seen Plants before, though never as close as this. They look like pictures he's seen of flower buds, petals growing up from a stem, overlapping and sealing the inside from view. The petals are open now, and within, there is a creature of otherworldly beauty and strangeness. Its eyes are wide set, pupilless, glowing. Its skin is covered in markings, incomprehensible geometry that reminds Nick of the way wind and sand wear patterns into stone. His throat is dry. His mind is blank. The Plant, with its hands still pressed to the glass where Vash's palms rest against it, looks up at Nick.

Vash realizes, finally, that something's changed. Nick notices the way his shoulders stiffen immediately, bracing for a blow. Slowly, he turns.

It takes a moment for Nick to understand what he's seeing. The lines that cover the Plant's skin are shimmering over Vash's face too, covering his cheeks, his forehead, traveling over his chin and down his throat to disappear under the collar of his shirt. His eyes glow blue, a reflection with no source. At first, Nick thinks he must be hurt, but Vash doesn't seem phased by the changes, so there's something else at play that he doesn't understand.

For once, Nick can't think of a damn thing to say.

Vash is the first to break the silence. He smiles, one of the bad smiles that make Nick's chest hurt, and says weakly, "I, uh…I can explain…"

Nick waits for his explanation, but Vash has trailed off, watching him like he's the one waiting for an explanation. He glances up at the Plant and then back at Vash and takes a breath. "So, you two are related, huh?"

It's almost comical how quickly the fake smile falls off to be replaced with surprise, except Vash is so clearly waiting to be met with vitriol that it's not comical at all. Softer, he says, "She was calling out to me."

"I didn't know plants could make noise."

"Humans can't hear it."

Nick nods slowly. He looks up at the Plant again. It—she's still watching him with those fathomless gold eyes. He wonders if she can hear what they're saying, if she understands the world outside the glass. He wonders if he does either.

"Well, now I have even more questions, though you've answered some different ones. Is she okay?" Nick asks. Vash gawks at him. Scowling, Nick snaps, "What?"

Vash shakes his head quickly. "Nothing, I just…didn't expect that to be your first question." He looks up at the Plant and smiles just slightly at her. "She'll be okay. She was just tired."

Nick considers his next move with some care. He's seen the evidence on Vash's body of how humanity has treated him for the crime of being unwilling to take a life. He has no reason to assume that Nick would react any better when faced with the knowledge that Vash is actually, unambiguously inhuman. Slowly, he asks, "Can I come closer?"

It's just a split-second, but Vash hesitates. Nick guesses he's running the numbers in his head, what Nick might do and how likely he is to use their proximity to attack. It breaks his heart. It makes him want to hit something. He forces himself to stay still and quiet until Vash nods jerkily, though he looks like he'd rather say no.

Nick steps closer, stopping just in front of Vash, who's barefoot on the metal walkway and looks so much smaller than usual. Vulnerable, but not in a nice way. Keeping his voice low, Nick asks, "Can I touch you?"

This close, he can see the lines on his throat shift when Vash swallows. He closes his eyes, and there are miniscule lines on his eyelids. Matching Nick's volume, Vash says, "Yes."

Reaching out, Nick brushes a fingertip over his cheek while Vash holds himself so painfully still. The lines don't feel warm, don't feel any different than his skin. "Do they hurt?" Vash shakes his head. "Do you want me to stop?"

"You don't have to," Vash answers. He pauses, and then takes a plunge: "Why aren't you angry?"

"Nothing to be angry about."

"Did you miss the part where I'm not human and didn't tell you?"

That sounds a little more like his Vash, Nick thinks. He shrugs and answers, "Can't help being what you are. I'm assuming you can't, right?"

Vash frowns at him. "Do you have to be so glib all the time?"

There's a memory Nick's been trying to recall, of the last time he felt like this. Finally, he remembers: a little boy in a church, staring up at the stained glass and the ornate ceilings, thinking there must be a God if something so perfect can exist in the world. Out loud, he says, "You're beautiful."

Vash's mouth hangs open for a second, then snaps shut. He stares. The lines are fading now, but Nick is still cradling his face in his hand, his thumb smoothing over the marks that are rapidly disappearing from Vash's cheekbone. Finally, it's just Vash, sleep-rumpled from his impromptu, middle-of-the-night field trip. He doesn't look like something from another world any more, with his hair sticking up at odd angles, but he's still beautiful. When it becomes clear he has no answer, Nick adds, "Was that glib enough for you?"

"Okay, shut up," Vash mumbles, looking away but clearly fighting back a smile. He sighs and rubs his face with one hand. "I haven't let anyone see me like this in a long time."

"Sorry I snuck up on you."

"It's okay. Saves me having to find a way to tell you."

"You ready to go home?"

Vash blinks at him. Nick might be imagining it, but he thinks he can see the weight on Vash's shoulders get just a little lighter. Then he smiles and answers, "Yeah. Let's go home."