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The only warning Vash gets is a faint prickle at the back of his neck. And then—
VASH THE STAMPEDE.
The eerie sensation of Legato’s voice sliding into his mind doesn’t make him flinch exactly. It’s more of a shiver, his shoulders jolting, like an animal raising its hackles. His fuzzy pre-nap haze dissipates in an instant. Ahhh and he’d worked so hard for it, too!
He grumpily turns on his side to press his face into the back of the couch. “Legato,” he says, “this better be life or death.”
A fine suggestion. Let’s say it’s death, since the two of us are so well-versed. I didn’t interrupt anything of import, did I?
“We both know you waited until I was almost asleep.”
I’ve annoyed you. Legato’s amusement flickers through the connection. A pleasant surprise. One thinks you would be used to it by now.
“One might also think you’d have grown tired of freaking me out.”
That will never happen. To heap eternal suffering upon you is my duty and passion. Nothing brings me greater joy.
“Oh, yeah?” Vash pushes himself up. He reaches between thigh and cushion for where he’d temporarily stashed his prosthetic arm, resigned to his fate. The aches he’d been attempting to sleep through are minor all things considered, and he feels a little better after lying down. “What about those mini cheesecake thingies the girls brought last time they visited? From that bakery in December.”
I will not amend my statement. A pause. The joy is commensurate, if anything. Another pause, just long enough for Vash to finish reattaching his prosthesis. I was planning to respond to Ms. Thompson’s letter today.
Vash squints at the bright rectangle of light filtering through the transom window of their front door. “It’s still early. We can head into town and drop it off.”
He should probably answer Meryl’s most recent correspondence too. He’s trying to be better about keeping up with her letters. When he goes too long without responding she and Milly tend to drop by unannounced—which he loves, don’t get him wrong, he can’t wait to see them again—but the first time they’d done it had been only a few months after he’d stumbled across Legato. It had been…a lot.
“Are you sure about this?” Meryl had asked him, voice low. Her eyes kept darting towards the small living room where Milly’s genuine sweetness had managed to entice Legato to park his chair next to her instead of following through with his initial plan to retreat to the bedroom until unexpected company was gone. “The Earth Federation is still calling for your head. If they find out who you’re sheltering…”
Vash had laughed then, because it had honestly never occurred to him what his reluctant roommate situation looked like on the outside. He’d been a little busy dealing with uh, everything happening on the inside. Still was. Probably would be forever.
“Last I heard,” he said, leaning over the kitchen table conspiratorially, “the Humanoid Typhoon was in cahoots with Millions Knives. Isn’t it only natural for him to hunker down with a former member of the Gung-Ho Guns?”
Meryl’s lips had flattened into a thin, unimpressed line. “Not this one.”
He couldn’t argue with that. So he’d smiled at her and said nothing.
It came down to this: Legato was alive, and he was alone. Two things he did not want to be. Vash knew better than anyone what that felt like. And life handed you a blank ticket whether you wanted it or not, whether anyone alive or dead believed you deserved it.
“Look, obviously I’m not telling you what to do,” Meryl said. “I know you can take care of yourself but you’re my friend. I can’t help worrying about you.”
Vash hummed. “I’d worry too. Legato is scary.”
“Stop trying to make light of this.” Meryl poked his shoulder, rolling her eyes at his exaggerated pout. “I’m being serious.”
“Sorry, sorry! I know. I appreciate it. But…”
“But I should mind my own business?”
“No, of course not. I’d never ask that of you, and honestly I doubt you’d be able to tame that curiosity of yours.” Vash took her hand and gave it a squeeze. Never to be outdone, she squeezed his right back. “I'm not going to sit here and say Legato is harmless—”
As if to punctuate that statement, they heard Milly gasp, “Wow, the handles have spikes! That's so cool, Mr. Legato. You know, one of my cousins actually just got pink wheel covers. Here, let me find a picture.”
Vash continued quietly, “But I can’t say I’m harmless either.”
“I still don’t trust him,” Meryl said.
“Not asking you to.”
She gave their joined hands a shake. “But I trust you. Always.”
“Aw, Meryl.” He smushed his lips against her cheek and made a big wet kiss sound. “What are you being so sappy for, huh?”
“It’s called being genuine. God, you never change.” She pushed him away, laughing. “Knock it off!”
In the present, Vash smiles to himself. He misses his insurance—ah, no reporter girls. Eh, whatever. One of these days he’ll get used to it.
Hmm. It’s been silent for a while. Legato doesn’t tend to leave him hanging this long.
“Hey, you’re not still in the shower are you?” Vash flops an arm over the back of the couch, twisting his head to look down the hallway. “If this whole thing was your way of inviting me to join you, I think the ‘eternal suffering’ stuff was maybe not the right vibe. Also now I’ve got insurance on the brain.”
Not to mention they only have one shower chair and Vash’s knees aren’t doing so hot today. He bites back a groan as he stands.
“I’ll write a quick response to Meryl and then we can head out, okay?” The bathroom door is closed and Vash doesn’t hear water. He raps his knuckles against it before trying the knob, just in case. “Legato?”
It’s empty. He frowns, opening his mouth to call again when he hears a muted thump. Ah. He’s pretty sure he knows exactly what that sound was.
He’s proven right when he enters their bedroom and nearly trips over Legato’s cane. He props it back up against the wall—more securely this time—and closes the door behind him with a soft click.
“Stampede.” Legato’s eyes are closed, his head tilted back. Almost peaceful if not for the tension in his jaw.
“The one and only,” Vash says.
Legato sits crosswise on the bed. He’s wearing nothing other than a towel that has been draped over his lap, probably less for modesty’s sake (Vash has seen it all) and more out of his dramatic propensity for artfully positioning himself whenever possible. His back is flush against the wall, long legs bent at the knee so they don’t hang past the edge.
He must have needed more support than the pillows could give. And he can’t use the headboard because their bed doesn’t really have one. Just a slightly taller piece of wood that ends where the off-white jut of an awkwardly placed window begins. They’ve both made the uncomfortable mistake of trying to prop themselves up against it. The metal brace running along the length of Legato’s spine has grown particularly resentful of it over the years.
But he has also spent countless hours with his cheek pressed to the sill, watching the suns’ rays dance, unforgiving and golden, across a certain flourishing apple tree. Their small house has a good view of it. Not too close, not too far.
Vash has always preferred to make the short trek to sit outside beneath it. Faint breeze in his hair, cool bark at his back, leaves rustling overhead…an old rosary clutched carefully between his fingers.
They don’t talk about it much. Their separate, adjacent grief. But it’s always there. It slips out in the dead of night. When it’s dark and they both taste like whiskey, and the emptiness—the pain of missing—sits so unbearably heavy, a sharp and tangible thing filling the space between them with its lack.
Vash rests one knee on the bed as he leans over, thumbing aside damp hair to check Legato’s temperature. The backs of his fingers brush against an old scar. A remnant of their last big fight, of Vash’s unwilling bullet and the instinctive flick of Legato’s threads that managed against all odds to keep him alive.
A small furrow appears between Legato’s brows at the touch. “Is there something you require of me?”
“You invaded my mind first.” Vash lightly knocks their foreheads together. “Weirdo.”
“Ow,” Legato says without inflection. He squints one eye open. “I assumed you would go back to sleep.”
“C’mon, no you didn’t.”
“You accuse me of lying?”
“Yup.” Vash fully climbs up to settle next to Legato, shoulder to shoulder. “If you didn’t want me to hunt you down, you wouldn’t have gone out of your way to talk to me. I know you.”
Legato makes a faint noise of agreement. “As I know you. Don’t think I missed the stiffness. Your joints are bothering you.”
Vash waves him off, wrist twinging with the movement. “It’s not that bad.”
“A pity.” Legato’s lips quirk, revealing a hint of dimples. “Though I do prefer your suffering to be exclusively at my hands. It’s—” He breaks off, eyes squeezing shut. A laugh escapes through clenched teeth. “Shit.”
His nails dig viciously into his bare thigh. Vash is quick to catch his wrist.
“Nope. Let’s not do that.”
“Release me.” It comes out breathy, almost choked. Legato’s fingers twitch as if to manipulate invisible threads. Then, almost against his will, he twists his hand to grasp Vash’s forearm. The grip is firm but not bruising. “Vash.”
“I’m getting some mixed signals here.”
Legato says nothing. His chest heaves, each breath shaking on its way out and in. He clutches tighter to Vash, knuckles paling.
“Okay, okay.” Vash presses his chin to Legato’s shoulder, a careful little nudge. “Not going anywhere. I’ve got you.”
Days like this aren’t uncommon for either of them. Sometimes it’s a change in air pressure, or overexertion, or just one of their bodies deciding three in the morning is a good time for a flare-up.
It’s second nature by now to sit beside Legato when it happens.
And Legato may talk a big game but when Vash’s scars ache, when the skin above the port on his left arm grows inflamed, hot and sensitive to the touch, when the phantom pain in his missing limb makes him want to curl up and never move again…the former Gung-Ho Gun has never once sought to extend his agony.
Maybe that’s another example of Legato being possessive, wanting to be the sole being to cause Vash pain without aid from external factors. And Vash had considered that initially. It’s difficult not to lean into bitter thoughts where Legato is concerned. But it’s not possessiveness. Or at least not just that. It is part of whatever hidden conviction he has that makes him freeze when Vash unthinkingly cries out “no, wait, stop” during heightened moments of intimacy. An awkward sort of civility that slips out when you least expect it.
There are simply some lines Legato won’t cross. Not even with Vash.
Legato’s grip finally loosens. There’s a brief moment where it seems he might speak but then he turns his face away, hiding his expression behind a curtain of deep blue hair.
“Hey,” Vash says. “Want me to grab your meds?”
“I already took them.” Legato takes one slow, controlled breath, then another. “Today is not going as intended. I had plans. In an effort to accommodate them, I was careful not to exert myself this morning, and still I—”
“Misjudged the amount of fuel in the tank,” Vash finishes for him. “It happens. What were your plans? If it was just the letter, I’ll send it for you.”
“And return riddled with bullets, no doubt. Going to a highly populated area by yourself is a disaster waiting to happen.”
“That’s a funny way to say you’re worried about me.”
“Dreaming Saint.” Legato stiffly tilts his head back towards Vash. “If you bleed to death at the hands of some no-name bounty hunter, leaving me here to languish without any chance of reprieve, forever barred from a release that can only come from the barrel of your gun…”
Vash doesn’t say that Legato is already barred from it. He doesn’t say that the idea of pulling the trigger to kill anyone is so distressing he wants to leave the room right now, just get up and walk and walk and walk until there is nothing but sand. He doesn’t say that when he dragged a bleeding half-dead Legato from a cocoon of wreckage and sat at his bedside while he sobbed, feverish and barely lucid, for Vash to finish the job, there was a part of Vash that had wanted to. And that hurts him. It frightens him.
So, yeah. He doesn’t say any of that.
He smiles. “You’ll what?”
“I don’t know.” There’s something in Legato’s gaze, like he knows what Vash is thinking. It’s difficult to look at. “Ask me again when it doesn’t feel like my brain is melting down my throat.”
“Eugh.”
“Yes,” Legato agrees, a tired but wry twist to his mouth. “My sentiments exactly.”
“Well.” Vash puffs out a sigh. “I can’t in good conscience leave you here alone while your brain melts. Let’s go into town tomorrow. And hey, today doesn’t have to be a bust. We’ve got a full fridge.” He pats Legato’s arm and begins to scoot off the bed. Nothing has ever been able to ruin Legato’s voracious appetite. “What do you want to eat? No wait, don’t tell me. Spaghetti, right? I’ll make it.”
Legato shifts his knee just enough to bump against Vash. “Hold on.”
“Hm?”
“I would like to accompany you. Seeing as my threads are”—he pauses, fingers twitching—“unreliable at the moment. I may wish to torment you and find myself unable to reach your mind.”
“We can’t have that,” Vash says dryly. He stands, stretching his back.
“I will require assistance.” Legato’s eyes flick down. “Getting dressed.”
“Oh.” Vash blinks. Right, he’s still naked and movement is mostly a no-go. “Yeah, I can help with that.”
“Just that. Don’t take liberties.”
“Give me a little credit.” Vash lifts his hands, palms up. “I recognize there’s a time and place to be a pervert, and that this is not it.”
“Exactly. That’s when you tend to act out the most.”
“I promise not to feel you up until your legs stop spasming.” Vash waves him off with one hand, sliding the closet open with the other. “Now tell me which shirt you want or I’ll pick a weird one.”
“No buttons. Other than that, I hold no preference.”
“Gotcha.” Vash dips down to access a shelf below the hanging clothes. He flips through the folded shirts for a soft one. Legato’s nerves are shot in some areas, hyper-sensitive in others. Best to veer on the safe side.
He tosses the chosen shirt over his shoulder and grabs a pair of loose sweats that he’s pretty sure are his, but he and Legato are practically the same size. So, eh.
“Figure we start with these,” he says, tossing the sweatpants on the bed, “and work our way up.”
Legato hums an agreement. He slowly straightens his legs, breathing a little unsteady. He picks at the towel over his lap.
“Need a minute?” Vash asks.
Legato swallows. “No.”
Between the two of them, it’s not difficult to get the pants on most of the way. When it’s time to pull them up, the towel gets flung towards one of the metal hooks next to the door. It catches.
Vash blows nonexistent smoke off a finger gun. “Bingo.”
“You infuriate me,” Legato says, but he’s almost smiling. “That was so stupid.”
Vash sticks his tongue out. “You’re stupid.” He mimes holstering the gun. “C’mon, we’re almost there. Can you lift your hips?”
“An excellent question.” Legato presses his palms flat against the mattress. He pushes down in an effort to ease himself up, arms straining. “Let’s find out together.”
He manages it just long enough for Vash to get the job done, then sags back against the wall.
Vash waits until Legato’s breathing has evened out before picking up the shirt. He’s not sure of the best way to put it on. Anything he can think of involves Legato having to move his neck at least a little. Vash settles on gathering the fabric so that Legato can slip his arms through, then pulls it up, stretching the neckline to help ease it over his head.
“There we go.” Vash reaches around Legato’s back to finish pulling the shirt down. It’s almost like a hug. Which isn’t really something they do, but it’s kind of nice in this instance. “All done.”
Before he can extricate himself from this facsimile of an embrace, there is a warm cheek resting on his shoulder. Unsteady breath puffs against his neck.
“Hey, what’s this?” Vash rubs a hand down Legato’s back. “You okay?”
“Stampede.”
“That’s what they call me.”
“Vash. Thank you.” Legato’s voice is low to a near-imperceptible degree, but undeniably sincere.
The simple words strike Vash like a fist. And as with an actual blow, he takes it like a champ. No recoil. He locks his hands at the small of Legato’s back and says, just as softly, “Anytime.”