Chapter Text
The sound of laughter drifted up from the street below, making him feel very alone in this new town. Not unusual, and yet surprisingly so—had he not been alone for long enough to recognize that pitting feeling that hollowed his stomach (or the space in his abdomen where, if he were human, his stomach would be)?
And yet they do not stop laughing. Why should they? His presence had not been announced, not yet. As soon as it was, the typhoon would engulf them all, despite how he tried to weather its winds. The rain would tear through their lives and cut through the very things that made them human, and he would emerge alive, against the will of everything that came for him in the first place. Another town where he would sink to his knees before the entrance, where he would wipe his eyes but refuse to let them remain wet, before he would push himself up onto his feet and trudge through endless sands to the next town; the next victim.
What then? Another group of people he would have attempted to save, another failure written in the litany of scars and bruises that would sometimes heal, sometimes not. Humanity would still hate him, put millions of double dollars to his bounty and shoo him over to the next town that hadn't yet grown to hate him. But he would run again, and again, and again, and eventually they would forget. Then they might welcome him into their arms, willingly.
They would not thank him, and he did not want that, not in a million years. But they would be alive, and oh, what a success that would be.
Bottles clinked and sloshed with liquid below, a reminder of the livelihood nestled in the ramshackle series of buildings that made up this town, and Vash the Stampede was suddenly aware of how the sounds reached his ears. It was all he had to confirm the vitality of the people from which the sounds originated. His back was pressed against the flat rooftop, his eyes directed upwards; there is no need to squint during the nighttime. The wind that slithered between alleyways had finally made it up past the gravel paths, tossing his hair from his eyes and pushing it back against the warm stone.
When had he cut his hair last? Whenever he had something sharp. When was that? Months ago, he recalled, miles outside of Jeneora Rock before the vultures had circled him, there was a piece of glass that had not yet been worn down by the sands. Before he met Meryl, Roberto, and Nicholas. He lifted his right hand, carded his fingers through his hair, and did nothing to bring the arm back to his side, instead letting it fall above his head with the dull shuffling of fabric against stone. His left arm rested across his torso, the metal having become cold now that the sun had set.
His chest rose with the swell of air, collapsing as it escaped. Another bout of laughter erupted below. A smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
He let his eyes close momentarily. He needed to sleep, just like them. The day had been long and unbearably hot, as most days were. Hopefully the world would wait for tonight, and tomorrow he could face whatever would come. Or, ideally, the world wouldn’t wait, and a great miracle would make everything right. His efforts would not be so long in the making.
To this, he laughed. If only, he thought. The people knew nothing of the typhoon that had crept into their town, whose clouds would soon block out the sun and whose downpour would flood their homes; they were heavy and dark with the oncoming storm. It would come all at once, and they would know who to blame. It would be easy.
Vash the Stampede sleeps.
When Vash woke up, it was to sunlight in his eyes. Well, not quite, since he had yet to open them. It was the all-encompassing blue of his eyelids, but if he tilted his head toward the warmth it became slightly green in a feeble attempt to get him to see the sun itself. Any farther and it became a dark navy, as his face pressed into smooth fabric that blocked out the light.
Unfortunately, with the dawning of consciousness came the dawning of awareness. First it was the awareness of his back and his shoulders: sore and achy, pressed against wood that was like sandpaper to his skin. But it was dry and warm, and he almost leaned into it. Another second passed, and enough awareness had returned that he chose instead to pull the heavy fabric which covered his torso past his eyes. The world was dark once more. Consciousness lost against drowsiness as he began to doze again.
Suddenly, an abrupt rattling sound filled his ears. Gunfire? It was enough for him to sit upright in a flash, his jacket falling from his shoulders and piling in his lap. Wide eyes frantically searched the room.
With his eyes open and the remaining sleep forcibly ejected from his system, Vash took a proper look around. He was inside, laid out on the floor of an empty room. The door on the opposite hall was barely balanced upon its hinges, and light spilled from the corners where it gaped from the frame. The single window flooded the room with light, orange and gold as the sun began to peak over the sands. Its beams had graciously missed Meryl and Roberto, who were each sleeping on the opposite side of the room, their chests rising and falling with the steady rhythm of breathing. Meryl had placed her hat under her head as a pillow. Roberto has done the same thing with his jacket. Curiously, Vash looked at his own pillow. Black, fraying at the edges, and wrinkled where his head must have shifted in the night. He unfolded it gently, revealing sleeves and lapels from where they were hidden beneath the creases.
Another groaning sound fills the room, and now he had the wherewithal to look towards its source. It was not gunfire, luckily, but the source might have been just as dangerous if it had not been sleeping itself. Next to him Wolfwood snored, propped up against the wall, head tilted back. His gray shirt hung loosely across his torso as it normally did, but without his jacket it was uncharacteristically pale. A quick look away from Wolfwood confirmed that his dark sunglasses had been placed on the windowsill, along with his own orange ones, within an arm’s reach if he felt the desire to grab them.
He turned back to Wolfwood. Although the man was propped up against the wall his shoulders slouched over, in Vash’s direction, and his arm was outstretched such that his hand was a few inches from where the jacket-turned-pillow had laid before Vash picked it up. With a hint of realization, Vash shook his head slightly. Blonde strands fall past his eyes, returning to their normal position after seemingly being pushed away from his face; it was surprisingly tidy. There was a faint memory, perhaps a dream that he grasped at, consisting of calloused fingertips grazing his scalp, but it was too hazy to tell. Another snore erupted from Wolfwood’s throat, and only now has it caused a ruckus, as he could hear Meryl sleepily mumble something offensive from across the room.
The little house has temporarily sheltered the world from the typhoon. The storm surge threatened to overtake the town as soon as it hit land, emerging from the door to overtake the bright, clear skies over the desert. But for now it was still, and he could almost convince himself that this is okay.
Vash the Stampede smiles.