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The wind in the desert is never enough. Never calm enough to settle your anger, passion, or grief entirely. Never loud enough to drown the sound of loud machines and engines barging out of the city, disappearing in a cloud of dust.
The wind is also never cold enough to cool down a heated clan of 123 members, huddled together in the makeshift camp they built up to rest for the night.
V frowns again, a loud grimace crossing his face, twisting his mouth to the side while he ticks, arms folded on his chest. It’s well past noon, and the sun is scorching hot, once again, melting all the ice and rendering the fans useless, sweat pooling on his brow, dark tank top drenched on the front. This couldn’t have been avoided. At least, not while in the desertic part of the Independent State of Texas.
Nomads travel. That’s what they do, it’s in their genes. They can settle, for a time, to look for work. When the Bakkers were still a family, V had seen most of Nothern America, camping out in the cold wilderness and staying on the side of a city for 2 to 3 months, to gather equipment and make money. The Aldecaldos had done the same, but waiting out by Nightcity for longer - 6 months. Saul’s plan to team up with a corpo, Biotechnica, had been to hope for a solution for the nomads to grow their own crops, while being the corporation’s slave. Of course, that had been, well, shaken up, the moment V had come to view and helped Panam retrieve the Basilisk.
But even after the stolen vehicle was assembled, even when the clan risked their lives on the Arasaka heist, they couldn’t stay any longer. Couldn’t settle.
Panam and him found a way out of the cancer growing in his head, thanks to a former clan’s contact, Joe Manet, in Arizona. A story full of surprises, and surprisingly smooth in its end.
And now they’re in the middle of nowhere, bordering a town that refuses to provide any water, oil, or supplies. Because of the heat and their own problem to deal with it, supposedly.
He’s not stupid. None of them are. Most Americans hate nomads.
Panam shifts in her cot, clammy skin paler than before, sweat bathing her body and the dark green fabric of her bed. V moves the watery cloth to her forehead again, a moan of discomfort pulled out of her lips.
Even the badass queen of the highway can’t escape a heat stroke.
“Shh, it’s okay.” He whispers to her, green eyes locking on her barely opened brown ones, the freckles on her nose and cheeks almost fading with the red of her skin, fever sizzling her like a steak on metal.
She breathes deeply, wanting to thank him, scold him, or hell, tell him to stop pitying her, but her lips stumble in their try. She’s too weak to talk, but at least she twitches her mouth in a shadow of a smile before grunting again. He inhales, the cold water barely doing anything to her heated skin.
Mitch stumbles into the tent again, and V lets him. Although others seeing their leader, and his input, in her underwear could lead V to launch an attack of extreme violence on them, the older nomad has a pass.
“Not cooling down?” The red cap sits on his head, turned to the back, freely exposing his worried gaze.
“Nah.” V talks calmly. “It’s been since yesterday. She should be cooling down soon. I asked Dakota to check if we could have more cooled intravenous fluids soon. She’s looking into it.”
Dakota didn’t travel with them when they left Nightcity. She still considers herself a nomad who simply doesn’t travel - what is the fucking point - and keeps her fixer business afloat. With V’s history and her presence by the biggest city in the perimeter, getting the needed medical information, supplies, and personnel is bound to be quick. At least that’s the plan.
Mitch scratches his stubble, closing the tent behind him.
“We still got a bit of ice left, but some think we should keep it for the children. They’re weaker in that heat.”
V clenches his jaw, nostrils flaring. Panam is weak. She needs to cool down, to get better. Not because she’s his input, not only. She’s also their leader, arguably the most important person in the fucking clan. And they want to keep what could help her get better away for children that are just sweating a bit? He sucks on his teeth, hand gripping the cloth harder, mechanical hands dangerously close to Panam’s head.
Johnny probably would have told them to get fucked in the ass and taken the ice to keep his input, or whatever woman important enough to him was, safe.
Johnny didn’t know what being a nomad implied, and the leader’s responsibilities.
Vincent does.
He exhales, retreating his hand to dip the cloth in the water bucket again, the other hand holding onto Panam’s stomach gently, keeping her centered.
“Yeah… Keep it for the kids. I’ll go to town and get what we need.”
The blonde man places the cloth under Panam’s neck calmly, while Mitch stares at him in disagreement. People aren’t fond of the nomads, and the nomads are not stupid. Engaging in a fight that would bring a battlefield to a growing, yet dehydrated clan, would be the worst luck the veterans could think of. And Panam would beat his ass to the ground.
“V, don’t start anything…”
“I won’t. I’ll just be nice, and if they point their guns, I’ll back off;” He jokes, rolling his eyes, looking at his friend confidently. He can’t quite hide the tense expression on his face.
Mitch sighs, shoving a hand in his pants pocket to retrieve a rag, whipping out his brow. A war veteran like him doesn’t get stressed anymore, thank the army for their brain-rotting military cocktails, literally. But if he did? Oh boy, would he gnawn at V’s bones anxiously. The man simply nods at him solemnly, a glint of understanding in his eyes before he leaves.
The wind carries out his footsteps, boots stomping the dirt and sand. V stares for a minute, green eyes blank, lost in the ever-shifting tent he has shared with Panam for a year now.
A mirror sits on a chair, in the corner left, by the flapping entrance. If he twists around a bit, he will only see exhaustion, anxiousness, and fear, doused with sweat and uncertainty. It all reminds him of a period he can never forget, can never fade into a dusty memory, where he was in her stead, and her in his. Afraid he’d die the next hour, coughing up blood until he’d choke on it. Panam’s condition is barely any better, at the moment. Still, pale, clammy, feverish, breathing rapidly at times… V isn’t worried she’ll die. She simply won’t. It’s as simple as that. A woman as strong as her, with fire in her veins, cannot die because of a measly heat stroke. He won’t allow her either.
But now he knows how she felt, some forever ago. Changing his clothes, making sure he was comfortable, rubbing his back tenderly while he vomited. Anxiously, eagerly waiting for the day he will smile at her, make her laugh, and be alive again.
Panam moans, V’s neck cracking hurriedly, focusing back on her. The miracle doesn’t happen, her honey skin isn’t back, and her eyes stay closed, but a weak hand holds onto his with the little force she managed to gather.
“Hey… It’s alright, I got you.” His voice is soft, his whispers only for her.
She grins, shut eyes rolling back in an attempt to blink. Her breath slows, focusing on her effort to speak.
“You… go?” Her voice is cracked, weak, it stings his heart knowing he can’t make it better in the blink of an eye.
“Soon. And not for long.” He admits, leaning close to peck her cheek, barely placing any weight in the kiss, too afraid it might hurt or bother her - her skin must be tingling in discomfort all over.
Her groans rattle in her throat, displeased, and V huffs in amusement and understanding alike. He hates to leave her behind, for one minute or one hour. To be absent when she’s the weakest he has ever seen her, missing her tired smiles, unable to soothe her the best he can, and remain on the dirt ground, watering her body the way only he can, only he is allowed to. She whimpers in need, her tough act gone to show her pain, her fear, and he caresses her stomach again, massaging it. At times, she throws up, incapable of keeping the little food she could ingest. She doesn’t crouch over yet, V takes it as a good sign. He stares back at her, eyes droopy and mouth tightened.
“I’m going to the town. I’ll buy something, anything, that can help you. And the clan.” He promises, worship in his voice, and watches Panam sigh in relief.
“No… Shit, no trouble…” The fire in her veins isn’t entirely gone as she orders him, one metaphorical hand raised at him in warning.
“No trouble, I promise.” He chuckles, brushing a sticky strand of hair from her damp forehead.
Her skin is less feverish, or maybe he’s grown used to it with his constant caresses, but she still has trouble talking, thinking and even sweating. He stands up, hesitantly letting her go. V needs to warn the others about his venture, and someone needs to stay by Panam’s side until she gets the medicine she urgently needs.
He turns from her, scanning the room for a light top, a small thing to cover herself up in his absence. Sure, nomads live together, and seeing someone in their underwear isn’t a novelty. But, just in case, just for this time, when he’s gone and she will be alone, she won’t have a feverish peak where her body will compel her to think she’s cold. He’s had it before, laying in the desert, sweating out so much he was dehydrated, and yet he was feeling cold. Needed to cover himself. Panam might have the same urge, and she won’t have the strength to even pull a cover on top of her.
So V picks up a white shirt from a nearby chair, ripped here and there from years of service, small dots of oil sprayed on the hem. Some time ago, she wore this to fix her car.
He carefully places the shirt on her chest, not covering her, but laying it partially on her belly, mechanical hands tenderly folding it under her back, avoiding her armpits and chest. He feels her heartbeat through her skin, a hectic melody, and he tightens his jaw again.
“V! Got something!” A voice calls from outside, and he hurriedly steps to the tent’s opening to peek his head outside, a concerned look on his face.
Carol is walking up to him, carrying a box carefully, an inquisitive smile on her lips. The red cross on the box is a clear indication of medical utilities, fresh and brand new, and many eyes land on the package curiously. Brand new isn’t a very nomadic term. Recycled, sure. Brand new means money was spent.
At the moment Carol steps into the tent, V receives a message on his phone, the interface in his kiroshis lighting up.
From Dakota
Pete could get me these quick. Your chooms jumped on the occasion and accepted the money right away. Viktor assured me that was the best of the best. More to come, but will take longer.
Take care of our leader, brother.
A wave of relief washes over him, eyes widened incredulously, grin stretching his cheeks. He thanks Dakota briefly, promising to keep in touch with her, and dives back into the tent, where Carol is already untangling the wires.
Even thousands of miles apart, Nightcity still pays its debt, and the few friends and many partners he found himself working with eagerly answer his call. It was never meant to be that way, when meeting an injured man in the dead end of a street, begging to be shot to escape the pain, turned into being provided premium quality materials and information in exchange for V’s protection in this shit city, gangs steering clear from walking on the merc’s turf. It was never meant to be the start of a friendship meeting Viktor through Jackie, and finding only the best ripperdoc the city could provide, forever a rock in the storm of the Relic Crisis.
And yet. Even lost in the desert, V’s call has been answered and provided. The dust and the wind can never tarnish his image in their eyes, neither can it ever erase his debt of gratitude towards them.
Carol maneuvers around the bed, pulling the shirt from Panam’s chest, beeping sounds activating here and there. Strings and wires untangle from her hands while cautiously unloading small pouches of liquid, the metallic box of supplies hissing when opening. Frigid air meets scorching heat, and while a light cloud of mist forms, it quickly evaporates. V rushes closer, closing the box in an attempt to keep it cool, and Carol mumbles something under her breath. V doesn’t care, she has a habit of grunting for nothing.
Panam frowns, ruckus around her skyrocketing her headache to new heights. She gasps in unease when Carol unceremoniously stings her arms, wires attached to the cooling bags. Her face twists a bit more, mouth twitching and eyes tightening before the effect washes over her, body sagging in relief.
V steps closer, eyes traveling up and down her body, scanning her completely. With this one moment, her temperature already dropped, the cooling effect is immediate. Her heartbeat is calmer, although still higher than normal, and while her skin will remain paler than before for at least a few more days, her whimpers die down immediately. He smiles tenderly, relieved, blinking a few times to avoid tearing up instantly. Carol is still in the tent.
“Panam?” His voice is cracking, weak in hopes she’s better, healed, saved from the one thing he can’t fight for or with her. “Baby?”
She doesn’t open her eyes, not yet. Her breath falters, slowing down into a peaceful rhythm, the same as her body falls into when she’s about to fall asleep. He’s felt it, saw it, wondered over it in the last year, each intake of breath, each rise and fall from her chest. Each time her mouth opens to gather more air, saliva making her lips all the more inviting. The tiny scar on her upper lip, on the left corner. The old scar from a previous piercing, a pitiful attempt at a younger rebellion. The scar on her right eyebrow doesn’t move with her frown anymore.
Panam’s face reflects the comfort a tired body can only find with the miracle of medicine, and while her unconscious slowly attempts to slip her away, she forces one eye open. V shuffles closer, a reassuring smile on his face.
“Dakota helped. Vik too. I’ll help the clan. Now you rest.” His hand instinctively reaches for her hair. While still tied, the locks are looser than before, so his fingers dive gently through her curls, massaging at her scalp. “You’ll be alright.”
Panam’s single open eye rolls back closed, her intake of breath sufficient. She’s cooling down, the liquid hydrating her as well, and his fingers tenderly pressing her head, twirling lazy circles on her scalp soothe her as much as they can, lulling her into a peaceful sleep in seconds.
"I ain't leaving." He murmurs, Carol slipping away silently. V gently pecks her forehead once more, nuzzling her nose against his. "Ever."
In her slumber, Panam's full lips stretch in a smile, knowing and peaceful. She can rest, retrieve her fire and passion, strap her leader role back on, lead the way, thanks to him. With him. Always.