#150 bullets

It's in the way his hand brushes your lower back when he moves past you. Lingering. The way he jumps up to help when you're reaching for the powdered milk rations for one of the kids, stretching long and bumping his chest into your back. The way you catch him staring more than you can count while you laugh over morning tea with Marla, the farm matron, kids finally off to school.

"Well," Marla yawns, washing out her tin cup and placing it to the side to air dry, "I better go feed the toma. Y'can hear 'em gettin' rowdy for their breakfast." The squawks in the distance testify to this. Shucking on her boots, she calls out, "I'll be back in a few," then closes the kitchen door behind her.

You have two seconds of waving her off when, suddenly, you're airborne — not violently, but by Vash's hands latching onto your waist and lifting you. You gasp and brace a hand against his shoulder. He laughs. Sits you on the dining room table. The old metal gives a slight bend under your weight. Instinctually you scoot back, giving your bum more to sit on and legs hanging over the edge. Vash scoots closer, his own legs bumping your knees, hands at your waist until you're settled. Now it's time to give him a look for doing that. Your jaw ticks to the side as you stare.

"Hey pretty girl," he says, shy but smiling. Then he swoops in and pecks you on the lips. Twice. Three times.

Your face heats, and you look toward the closed kitchen door. "Vash, she'll come in and see!" A hand gently pushes at his shoulder. Not exactly a hard 'no,' though.

He doesn't budge. Picks up on your hesitance. Bullies his way into the space between your thighs. "She's feeding the toma, we have a few minutes." Even sitting on the table, he's a few inches taller than you.

And just like always, you give in when those pretty blues peek over his glasses. Letting out a small grunt of defeat, you take the glasses in one hand and brush through his hair with the other. "You need a hair cut," you quip, lips pursing, "your ends are starting to split."

His eyes close and a quick, cricket-like purr sings from his throat. He cuts it off, cheeks red as beets.

You coo at his embarrassment. "It's cute!"

"It's weird," he sighs, burying his head into the crook of your neck. Still, the chirrups come back when you brush fingers over his ears, his shoulder blades. His fingers work to go just under your shirt, rubbing the skin of your hips softly. There's another puff of hot air as he says, "Don't know why you like it."

"Hmm," you turn your head to kiss the side of his neck. Going right for the sweet spot under his ear. He jumps, a chir-RUP! errupting out of his mouth. When you laugh, his teeth sink into your shoulder as punishment. Soft and gnawing. "Because I know it means you're happy."

Vash's teeth turn into lips soon, pressing kisses into the indents left behind and up your neck. Your hand splays across his chest. That rumbling, sweet purr candy to your ears, tingling your fingertips. He reaches your jaw and starts peppering your face all over with his love. Laughs when you scrunch your nose, holds your hands down when they come up to curl at your chest. "Let me," he says. And you do. You always do.

"You're very lovey today," you murmur past a kiss. Feel his smile at your words.

He pokes your side to revel in your squirming squeal. "Don't you say 'I'm always lovey?'"

You hum, hands going to the back of his neck as he presses his nose into your own. "Yes, but you're being very blatant about it today."

Vash lets out a honk. It makes you laugh, and he's attacking you with a long kiss again. Catching your joy. He's careful with his hands, roaming up and down your side, over your thighs. Your ankles hook around his legs to pull him closer. Rub his shoulders. Barely feel the scars underneath trying to push up and out always. He's happy, you think, and kiss him more fiercely for letting you see it.

Then the door opens, and Marla clears her throat loudly, and you both freeze.

"Well," she says, and you hear the wry humor in it, "that's one way to use the table, I suppose."

In record time you're standing on the floor again, Vash ramrod straight and red as the coat still up in your borrowed room. His hand seeks yours, and together, you say, "We're sorry."

"Ha," she says, going to the sink and rinsing out a rag, "just about as sorry as a couple of teenagers, I bet. Here, wipe off the surface. And go take some spare clothes from my dresser — we need to start a load of laundry."

She tromps out again after tossing the rag over. It doesn't seem she's worried about you two.

You look to Vash, and when he looks back, you both giggle. Picking up his glasses from where they were set, you place them on his nose and peck it. "Thank you for the love."

He seems surprised by the words, but melts into a smile. Pulling you close, he murmurs, "Anytime. Anywhere." And gives you a kiss.

Your fingers twitch and rub together. What you'd give to see him yourself. Give him a piece of your mind and a knife to boot. Vash's coat, purpled in the dim dark ahead, warps with the wind blowing. Even now, you see his own exhaustion. His knees bend awkwardly. Head tilting from side to side like he can't decide which Plant to go to first, so many sisters crying out for help at once. He tries to keep it to himself, but still, his sigh carries in the breeze like a dying light.

You bite the inside of your cheek. No, you'd do more than give Nai a knife to the chest. Much more.

You stumble. Fall. Your knees catch you, and you spit out in frustration. Why can't you keep up?

A hand to your shoulder. You look up. See the stark blue of Vash's eyes, even with his glasses on. Something human in you, primal, makes the hairs on your neck and arms raise. Lips thinning, you look back down. "You should go on ahead," you mutter.

"Like I would ever do that without you," he says. He puts his pack down and starts the process of pulling out meager camp supplies. "We've gone far enough today. I'm sorry."

You sigh at his apology, but make no rebuttal. Instead, you quickly shimmy into your own sleeping bag while Vash zips his up. There can't be a fire, even a little one; too many eyes hunting the both of you down out here.

It's dark. Even still, you feel Vash's hands reaching out for you, pulling you close and resting your head against his chest. His heartbeat is so irregular. Bump-ba-bump-bump-ba-bump-ba-ba-bump. Always marching to the sound of his own drum.

He won't sleep. Hasn't slept the past five nights. You feel the need to stay up with him, somehow. You talk. "Which one are we going toward?"

Vash lays his head back further, sighing and swallowing. "I think the one in Viridian-Holl is closer. But I know the one over in Faust needs help sooner."

You blink in the black. "Will Viridian-Holl be able to hold on if we go to Faust first?"

"…I don't know."

That heartbeat is irratic under your ear; stressed. Thinking too hard. Healing Plants always takes him out for a while—a few hours to a day at best, and that's only if he hasn't been pushing himself. Vash knows this. You know this too: you will only be able to save one of these towns.

"Why is he doing this?" You mutter to yourself. Vash tenses under you. A bolt of anger courses through your belly. "Why is he doing it now?"

Again, that long, lonely sigh. "I don't know." He pauses, then again, "I don't know."

It's the only answer there can be. Who can understand the insanity of one's own brother? So you press your head toward his heart and whisper that you love him, and you're with him, and to please, try to get some sleep.

All he does is kiss the crown of your head. You're asleep before he ever is.

A/N:

"I had it handled," you grouch.

He rolls his eyes and looks over his shoulder. Meryl has her nose buried in her notebook, readying it for answers. Roberto looks drunk, but his eyes still wander to your figures. He's an observant one, if nothing else. Would be tricky to slip away right now. "Look," he says, turning back to you, "we've tried everything else, and now I've got a bounty on my head. Maybe if we just try to tell the truth…?"

You sigh. "You know that never works. People love the more sensational things; they'll never believe a highly wanted outlaw has been framed by his evil twin brother!"

"Well, not with that attitude, missus." He has the gall to tap your forehead in reproach.

You smack his hand away. "Vash, I wouldn't be surprised if this entire town turns on us in the next hour. They know about that bounty now! We need to hightail it out of here." Fingers fidgeting together, you breathe in and out to calm yourself.

Vash takes your hands to stop the movement and raises them to his lips. "Let's just try, okay? If it doesn't work, we'll leave. Alright?" When you grumble and look away, he holds either side of your neck and pulls you close to peck your forehead. "I promise, it'll end up alright."

So, he gives the interview, waltzing over with you trailing like a sulking shadow back to the table. And you're right: they don't believe the evil twin story. Not without proof, as they say.

While Vash's head pounds against the table in defeat, you order a few light drinks from Rosa. "We'll get out of your hair soon," you tell her, rubbing a hand on Vash's back. "Just need something for the road." Rosa nods, going upstairs for what you assume is more stock.

After a moment, Roberto reaches into his jacket and pulls out a flask. "So. What's he got over ya?"

Everyone at the table blinks at Roberto. Vash lifts his head. The reporter chuffs and unscrews his flask. "C'mon. Gotta be somethin'. What's a librarian doing following a wanted outlaw around?" He leans on an elbow and quirks his brow. "He promise you protection? Can't be money for the Program. Or did he catch you doing something and now you owe him? Got access to a few black market books?"

Meryl blinks and hums. Seems she hadn't considered that. You look to Vash just as he looks at you. How much do you say? You shake your head vaguely, but Vash's lips thin into a smile. Gently, he takes your hand under the table, squeezes it, and looks back to the reporters. "She's my partner."

"Partner…like, in crime?" Meryl asks. Roberto mutters something about 'newbie' and takes a swig of booze.

Vash laughs. "Well, we try not to be."

"There've been a few stolen toma over the years," you add on, thawing at the innocent question. "We always return them or pay the owner back, though."

He laughs and scratches his neck a moment. "Might take a few months. We get looted a lot. But mayfly is good about keeping a record of everyone we owe."

"And everyone who owes us." You give him a look. "Wouldn't get too far out here if we didn't pull some favors every now and then."

"So," Roberto interrupts, smacking his lips and blearily looking between the two, "nothing? You just decide to stay with…with him?"

Your brow twitches. "What do you mean by that?"

The reporter shrugs. "Nothin'. Just surprisin', considering how much of a mess we hear he is."

A rush of offense fills you, magnifying at Vash's self-depricating laugh. "Now you see what I ask myself everyday! 'How do I get a girl like her to like me?'" He doesn't shrink under your glare, but he does tense.

You turn that heat toward Roberto. Vash squeezes your hand. A reminder: cool down. Though your voice is strained, you manage to get out, "I thought seasoned reporters knew better than to assume everything you hear is true. Vash is ten times the man most people hope to be in their lifetime. You'd know it too, if you stuck around long enough."

Vash's smile is small and shy: your favorite one. "Lot of situations we get into." His twinkling blues look at you fondly. "But we always get out of them, yeah?"

You only hum a laugh and peck him on the cheek. Realization dawns in Meryl's eyes finally, her mouth opening to a small 'o.' It turns into a smile. "That's very sweet," she says. "You don't get to hear about love out in the wastes much."

"Might be able to open your own Relationship Column, newbie," Roberto belches and slumps in his seat. "As a backup to your Big Break."

Meryl's lips twitch in annoyance. "If I did, it'd be the best in the Land! But there won't be any need for a backup because—"

And of course, that's when Tonis comes by with his worms. Which leads to Meryl freaking out, to Rosa yelling for Tonis to leave, and then, of course, to the click of guns and an entire town's worth of betrayal.

There isn't enough time in the day for you to tell Vash how right you always are.

As always, you stay to the side and allow Vash to bask in the all-too-brief glory of fair weather friendship. Your bag ruffles with a few of his "wanted" flyers you tugged down on the way here, just in case the townsfolk get it in their heads he isn't that much of a hero.

Though he is, you smile, sipping the pulpy orange juice by your hand. Stomach was on the fritz today, thanks in part to Vash's antics. He went through a few too many ragdoll throws for your liking. Your notebook is open, sketching out the silly comic entry of the day: Vash standing victorious atop a pile of bandits.

You glance up then and find his eyes on you already. A certain zing goes down your back. He's still at the bar, and that bartender is trying to subtly pull her top lower, but he's looking at you and is so, so happy. It's in the crinkle of his eyes, his clear-sighted joy even as he gulps down more drink. Even his canines are showing. He's being allowed to be around the people he so loves, and he's soaking it up.

He lowers his mug and motions with his head for you to come over. Your brow ticks up. No way are you doing that, and he knows it.

So he laughs and winks and goes back to talking with the townsfolk, but always looking back at you, hopeful. Come join me, his puppy eyes say. Nevermind you already took an hour to do just that, yacking it up with the same people and receiving harder-than-needed back pats for a job well done.

Wants to have his cake and eat it too. You laugh under your breath. Sorry, birdie, but you know my limits. You look back to your journal and add more details.

As you sketch out the 'Y' in 'VICTORY' at the bottom of the page, you suddenly feel it.

The symptoms pop up too quickly. First in your jaw, a pain that throbs to the back of your neck. Your right shoulder tenses and cramps. Then, in your minds eye, you see a swirling, black ball of yarn form in the pit of your stomach and start spreading throughout your limbs, making them lead; heavy. You drop your pen, journal forgotten, bags forsaken, and rush to the back door.

—

Vash is three shots down, planning on three more to get that nice buzz going. It's a pleasant drink, a bit fruity thanks to the capabilities of this particular Plant. Strawberry? Maybe guava? You'd know, he realizes, and thinks with hope: this'll get her back over here.

He glances at your spot again, just in time to see the last tips of your hair run out of sight to the door leading to the alley. One of the barmen squeezes at the wall to let you through, only looking at you once before shaking his head and muttering "drunk."

That doesn't make sense; you never drink as much as Vash, and you definitely didn't have enough tonight to make you sick. He glances at the half-drunk orange juice sitting by your open journal and left-behind bags. Brows twitching with a slow worry, he smiles at the bartender and sets his fourth shot down. "Bathroom break," he laughs, watching how she bats her eyelashes at him.

"Hurry back, sugar," she says. Her hand brushes his own. He tries not to flinch, glancing where you should have been before pulling away.

The back alley is like most—dingey, dirty, with a strange brown smell permiating throughout. A lone yellow light flickers overhead, barely banishing the dark of the desert from the space. Sand grits under his boots when Vash steps out. Takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. There's the bins, scraps of bent metal leaning on the next building, a few roaches scurrying here and there. And then—

"Mayfly," he gasps, running to your side. Sprawled on the ground in an old puddle of something, you emit a strange whine from your mouth even before he kneels to lift you up. Your eyes are rolled back in your head. "Hey, hey!" He calls your name. Gently slaps your cheeks. Then harder. Harder still.

Your eyes roll in your head and you grunt. He sits you against the wall. "Hey, mayfly, look at me," he says, tapping your shoulders and tilting your chin up. Your eyes are still closed. "I need you to look at me."

You don't. In fact, you start convulsing. Vash feels everything in him flinch. What do you do with seizures again? He guides you back to your side and cushions your head with his palm. The shakes are small, then violent. All the while the whine in the back of your throat buzzes like static, like flies in the air.

Then, the lines appear.

Plant lines. First on the tip of your nose, then spreading in erratic pink waves across your skin with every shake. The buzzing at the back of your throat intensifies. Vash hears it, hears the distress he always hears from his sisters when they're failing. Your eyes slit open a moment, unseeing. The lines are there, too.

Vash is…he can't describe what he feels in that moment. Stunned? Awed? Horribly terrified?

You jerk up and hit your head against the wall. BANG. Vash lurches and places his hand against your forehead, goose egg already forming. You're going to hurt yourself more if he doesn't do something.

He does the only thing he can think of: pressing his forehead to yours, and calling on all calmness and serenity he's ever felt.

It's a connection; instant. He knows these pathways like he knows his own gun, his arm. He feels you enter his mind like you own it. And you are distressed, so far away from understanding what is happening. You pull back just as quickly as the connection happened.

But Vash moves forward. Calm. Assured. If there's one thing he knows he can do, it's calm a Plant. Waves of serenity pulse out to you, and you take them, filling up like a long-awaited drink of water in the desert. There's a physical part of him that's still aware, still feels your shaking form in his arms. He holds you close. Whispers to your lips that you're okay, I'm here, you're not alone.

And, slowly, it works.

Your trembling lessens. Your lines turn from pink, to purple, to blue. And then your eyes flutter open. Foreheads touching, you're both cross-eyed. You stare at each other, unseeing, yet knowing all about the other for a moment. All about the Fall, your sister, Nai, the Plant that consumed you, the burgeoning feelings from—

Vash is shoved back. Not hard, but the connection snaps, and he is left delirious and shaken. You scramble out of his arms and push your back into the grimy wall. Your hands shake. Goosebumps all over. You see those lines, those damned lines, fade quickly from your skin. You look at Vash and see his slowly receding as well.

"Mayfly?" He whispers, hoarse. His eyes blink once, twice, then rapidly. Shakes himself as if out of a trance. A big, gulping gasp comes from him, and he sits back on his rear. Still, he asks, "Are you okay now?"

Your tongue feels swollen. It licks the back of your teeth. You aren't sure what to say. "Fine," you croak out.

You're anything but.

“No moving! You’ve done enough of that,” you say. Your voice is warbly with tears, but you’re whole, thanks to the man before you.

So, Vash sits and waits and watches you pull up buckets and pour them over his head. His muscles ache, both from the fight and from tensing, telling himself to keep still. He wants to help so badly. But would helping hurt in this case?

Another wave of water runs down his hair and cheeks. This time, you take up one of your old shirts you’ve repurposed into a rag. You come around and face him, eyes darting to the cut above his brow, the scrapes along his jaw. They’re still bleeding, but not as severely. You start at his hairline. The dirt and sand are wiped away, revealing whole skin and battered bruising. You tut at this, but keep going.

“Mayfly,” he tries again, raising a hand to the rag.

You jerk it away before he can take hold. “Vash, please, let me do something.”

He does. With a sigh, he bows his head and lets you scrub at him. For the next half hour, as the cold winds of night blow in and you’re both shivering from the splashes of water on your clothes and his skin, you clean him of the debris leftover from the gunfight.

You lead him to the nearby ghost town and pick a building to hole up in. Your flashlight, pointed at the ceiling, illuminates the space well. Broken chairs, dusty couches, and best of all, no inhabitants.

Vash doesn’t let you check the bed. He lays on it first, feeling the springs through the mattress dig into his back. He winces, but at least nothing’s poking out. You sit right by his head and pat your lap. You’re offering to do his favorite thing.

Vash takes the bait. With a little grumbly-whine, he pulls you close and lays his head on your thighs. Your hands go to work right away. Combing through the blonde and black strands of hair, you quietly say, “Thank you for helping me today.”

“Don’t thank me,” he says, a sigh pulling out of his lungs, “it’s my fault you were even there in the first place.”

Gently, you tap his cheek. “No, we’ve been over this: I’m here of my own free will.”

“Shouldn’t be,” he mumbles, pushing his face into your stomach, “shouldn’t be a hundred miles near me.”

Instead of answering, you massage his scalp. Rolling circles into his skin, pulling softly at the strands of hair. Slowly, like that of a hurt animal realizing he’s safe in this foster home, Vash untenses his muscles. His hair is still damp and cold. Your hands warm his head, trailing from his head to his ear and jaw.

“You’re brave. And strong. And I love you,” you whisper.

His lips thin. Your hands go back to the top of his head and comb through his hair. His hands reach for something. Something to do, some way to help you. He leans into you more and reaches his arms around you, forcing your shirt up to let him trail his tired fingers along your spine. You stop for a moment, and he feels the goosebumps rise on your back, but then you continue.

“You’re mine. My Vash. My love.” There it is again, that little warble in your voice. “I love you.”

Vash feels his own tears build up. He closes his eyes quickly and wills them away. He opens them again when he feels your tear drops on his head. “Mayfly…”

“I don’t ever want to leave you, Vash. Please don’t ever make me.” You swallow thickly and give him the shakiest of smiles. “I love you.”

And there’s his moment. With one great heave, he pulls you down to him and kisses you.

Maybe it doesn’t help the guilt you or he feels. It’s a constant, gnawing thing. But for now, it helps both of your tears abate, and brings a solemn peace back to your world.

A/N: coughcuffsniffol i caught bronchitis over the weekend that's why you guys didn't get 'more chapters' like i said lmao

Credit to @magisom here on Tumblr for the prompt: "Washing our boy's hair. Just really wanna show him some care and love (Bet he'd love to do a selfcare routine together hehe) Gently massaging his scalp to relax him after a hard day"

Vash looks around the cave with this thought. It is different than when he first arrived; the records are neatly piled in the far rounded corner of the room, by the bookshelf that leans. There are more lights now, powered by a tiny generator that hums near the entrance. Bags of food sit near his sleeping bag as well as water jugs. The walls are painted with whatever came to his mind at the time — large, purple and blue bugs with green eyes, a sunset over a plateau, hands reaching out to touch another pair of scarred hands.

Maybe he hasn’t been twiddling his thumbs. But it feels like it.

He treks out every day to the various towns surrounding the area. Acts like a local hobo, trading his labor for food and supplies before heading back out into the desert, careful no one follows. Sometimes he’ll go further — travel to a town in need of help with their Plant, especially if it’s bad. It makes his skin itch when he does, but he does it. All the while, he keeps both ears open for something. A rumor, a hint, some description of the beautiful woman who stole his heart years ago and has taken it with her to who-knows-where. Every time the assigned librarian travels through, he asks about you. And every time, the librarian shakes their head. Nothing. No return.

It is hard to describe the anguish and guilt he feels. He took his eyes off you for one second, and now you’re gone, as if you vanished off the planet. Maybe you did. Stranger things have happened, haven’t they? Like him falling in love with you. Even stranger, you falling in love with him back. 

How did you do this for ten years? He wants to ask when month six passes by. The day is hot, the two suns blazing overhead as he walks through the small town of Velvetine. A few of the locals nod at him, recognizing the familiar red coat by now. A couple more give him the evil eye. Most pass by without notice. Dangerous as it is, he visits the sheriff’s office to look over missing person posters, ask the coppers if they’ve heard or seen or know anything.

Nothing.

“Happens to all of us, son,” the old, grizzled deputy huffs out a laugh, patting Vash on his shoulder, “we all got someone who got away.”

Vash has to swallow the tightening of his throat at the words. Leaves before the tears can fall. There is nothing for him anymore, is there? Nothing but waiting. Hoping.

And so, he paints. Decorates. Brings more lanterns and fairy lights into the cave to brighten it up, though they’re hardly on to conserve gas and energy. Fills the floor with soft pillows and shiny trinkets. Places rugs, hangs textiles, hell, even starts crocheting. Something to make it more of a home than a cave. Anything to make the time pass quicker. Make it suitable for your arrival. Because you will come. You have to.

He isn’t sure where he gets the inspiration. Scratch that — he does know, but doesn’t want to acknowledge it. He’s weird enough as a Plant. No need to get into ‘cycles’ and ‘displaying.’ But the thought of you finally coming, and not just to a cave but a…a nest…

Vash sighs, dragging a ragged brush through blue paint and striking it on the wall. “Losing my mind. Might start eating paint chips soon,” he mutters. 

He may well be. It’s been seven months. No sign of you, not from the villages to the east and south, not from couriers or librarians, nothing. A deep pit is constant in his chest now. He feels guilty any time he leaves the cave to help a Plant. Guiltier when he returns and you still aren’t there. Should be looking for her, his heart murmurs. Need to stay in one place, the logical brain whispers. 

There’s journaling, too. Something he picked up again thanks to you. It’s mostly one-line entries. Got lights. Need to get more spices. Still no sign. Where??? Baroch Plant. Nothing incriminating. That’s all in his head. There are moments when he really thinks about where he is in his life. How you have changed the course of it by just being. If it were anyone else, he’d assume they left. He’d feel sad, maybe let down, but go on with his lonely life. But not you. You have proven yourself again and again and again that you love him, and will stay with him if you can help it. Even if you can’t help it, you still stay. 

So where are you?

Month eight comes and goes. Then nine. On the way home from Velvetine again — home, he thinks with a sardonic laugh — Vash’s feet drag through the dust and sand. The pack aches his shoulder and his mouth is dry. Sweat has built up and run down his face in rivulets, but he doesn’t swipe at it. Lets it sting his eyes. 

The last light of day fades before he makes it to the cave. It’s still deep and dark; Vash has to chase a few worms out of the entrance before he can make his way in.

Something zings through him, though — an instinct, cold and raw. It makes his hair stand on end, and he is suddenly snapped out of the fugue state he slid into. What is it? What? Then, he realizes: he smells something. Something new in the cave.

Body odor. Spilled paint. Nutmeg?

He hears it — humming.

He’s crouched and moving swiftly before he can think. Hand to his gun, boots quick and quiet, missing all the rocks he knows are in the dark. A primal sort of anger surges in him. Who has come to the cave and violated his space? His nest? No librarians alive know about it, only one. And you haven’t come. He preps himself for a fight. It’ll be tight quarters. He’ll likely get hurt badly if it's a bandit. Good. He needs some punishment for his crimes, his inability to keep you safe. 

Light trickles through the gloom. Whoever it is has turned on the lights. Vash’s jaw twitches. He runs now, headlong into the cave. The room bursts open. The humming stops. 

The room is hardly touched — a few pillows moved, his sleeping bag shoved to the side to allow for another. A few records have been opened carefully on the small nightstand he built just last month. The electric stove he bargained for is cooking something in a closed pot on top. He smells nutmeg, and sugar, and chocolate. 

Movement on the left.

His eyes immediately go to the intruder. There is his ragged paintbrush gripped in a hand. Dirt on boots, sweat in hair.

Eyes. Your eyes.

All at once, the fight goes out of him, just like the breath. “Mayfly,” he says.

And yes, it’s you. You, dressed in khaki shorts and a dirty white t-shirt, hair shorter than he remembers. You, who puts the paintbrush down slowly, careful, like you might spook a wild animal. I feel like one, he thinks distantly, muscles all tense and twitchy. You, who walks over the pillows to stand before him, looking up at him, and say, “Hey birdie.” There’s hesitance in your gaze. Like you’re wondering if he even wants to see you.

Vash heaves in air, and is on you. 

His arms wrap around you so, so tightly, squeezing your lungs dry, squeezing a sobbing laugh from you. His knees buckle; you both go down, landing on the pillows and cushions. Your arms go around him and oh, if he could bottle up this feeling. This feeling. “Are you real?” He asks, voice shaking into your neck. He pulls back and holds your face. “Are you real? Are you okay? Where — where — “

You laugh. Laugh! At a time like this! “I’m real!” You squeal, “I forgot, I’m sorry, I forgot because I got knocked over the head and — “ He surges forward to kiss you. He’ll kiss you senseless if he has to. Drink up that wonderful, contagious laugh. You take it. Teeth bumping his, you kiss him back with as much excitement and desperation. He feels like a dormant volcano waking up, ready to consume, spread, feel. He knows he’s crying. Erupting.

“I missed you so much and I can’t believe you made me wait this long, what were you thinking, what was I thinking, ten years is so much worse but nine months sucks, I made the place pretty for you, for you, you, you’re here, you’re here!” All said between kisses and nose bumps and hands fisted into clothes. 

“Yes,” you say between breaths, taken so aback by his emotion, “I see! I see! It’s beautiful!”

It is. The lights, the pillows, you. Gods above, you are so, so beautiful.

Vash will pull the story from you later — how you lost your memory from a bad head injury, how you wandered nameless for months, how a wanted poster with his ugly mug would bring everything back into sharp clarity. And now, how you're making pumpkin bread for him. That's where the nutmeg came from, he thinks, kissing you again and again.

For now, though, you are safe. You are here. His arms are full again with the love of his life. And it feels like the world has stopped tilting.

A/N: Lo siento for the rushed ending, but I had to actually cut a large portion of this chap bc it was getting massive and I didn’t want to make another part lmaoooooo

GUYS. I kissed the Lizard. All is right in the world.

But that isn’t what you’re staring at. No.

It’s your friend and the brick house build he was hiding under the coat.

His broad back is turned to you. It feels like an eclipse. Vash is messing with lunch, letting out hums and little clicks of the tongue as the food cooks in the blazing suns’ rays. The outcropping’s shade keeps you cool enough. Still, you feel sweat slide down your back, and you have to squint against the metallic shine from the nearby town.

You don’t know how he handles the heat. Eyes roving over his figure (his very large, very interesting figure), you boggle at the black turtleneck. It’s not a thick shirt by any means, but still. How is he not baking? And the coat on top of it!

Looking back to the coat on your lap, you pinch the fabric between two fingers and rub. It lets out a skeet-skrt sound. Very hardy. You don’t know how bullets bounce off it. You glance at Vash again. He’s so…big. How did you miss it? How do the bullets miss someone so big? You trace the line of his back, the rounded muscles of his shoulders, his slim waist. He reaches for some powdered potatoes and water, and you see the delicate bunch of his forearm’s muscles when he grabs them. Your mouth waters.

As if sensing your stare, Vash looks back at you. His smile is instant and pleasant. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

A blush overtakes your throat, and you’re left clearing it and looking anywhere but him. “Just…wondering how you’re not hot wearing all of this.” There. A half-truth.

Vash pauses and looks down at his clothes as if seeing them for the first time. Then, he chuckles and goes back to cooking. “Guess I’m just used to the heat!”

That’s a lie. No one is used to the heat of this dead planet. But you’ve already dodged one bullet; you aren’t about to start prying into what he doesn’t want you to know. So, you go back to staring. He stirs what’s in the pan. It sizzles and pops, and you watch his bicep and forearm bunch and contract with use. His other limb – the robotic one – holds the pan steady.

What would it take for him to hold you steady?

You prick your finger suddenly and hiss. You’d forgotten you were even sewing. A blot of blood wells on the tip. Reaching for your medikit, you’re aware of Vash’s eyes suddenly on you. Again, you feel embarrassed; that familiar flush to your skin. “I’m fine,” you say, bringing out a small Band-Aid and wrapping it quickly around. You hold up your finger to show. “See?”

Vash shakes his head and stirs the meal. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I can mend my coat.”

“I know,” you say, then scramble for something else to reassure him, “but then I’d have to be the one cooking, and I’d definitely get sweat in it.”

Vash laughs. “Gross.”

A smile comes to your lips. It falls away again when you look him over. His large stature, his resistance to heat, his easy smile whenever something goes wrong…What else are you hiding? You wonder. Taking up needle and thread again, you force yourself to focus on sewing up the holes and tears he’s endured.

Maybe, in time, you’ll be able to do it to his heart, too.

Vash laughs nervously. He keeps the two bags of doughnuts he already bought behind his back. “Just some bullets!”

You sniff the air. Lean forward and brush his cheeks with your fingertips. It comes away with powdered sugar. “Vash, did you get more doughnuts?”

He feels his stomach clench with guilt and hunger. Looking down, he gives a sheepish smile. “I just…wanted to try that other shop too.”

“Vash,” your mouth works, words forming and dissolving as you think of what to say. You’re fighting a smile. “We agreed we only had enough fun money for one bag of doughnuts.”

“I know.”

“We have three bags of doughnuts now, birdie.”

“I know,” he says again. He pouts, wondering what got into him. He’s usually much better about his money, but, lately, being with you…he feels…he doesn’t know. Like it’s okay to get food again. Even if it hurts the wallet a bit. “Hey, we don’t have to split a doughnut now, though! Look,” he pulls out a chocolate glazed doughnut, then another. “Two for one! BOGO!”

“You’re such a problem,” you groan.

He knows you’re joking. He knows. But something inside him shudders, and he wants to fix it. Make you feel better after his mistake. “Well, I’m your problem.” He says it as a joke. Tests the waters. See if there’s blood in them.

Your smile is genuine as you punch him in the shoulder, hitting the plating of his arm. “Yeah, you are. Heaven help me, but you are. Now give me a doughnut.”

The stirring of crickets in his stomach is the only warning he has of what’s to come. Your problem, he smiles, handing you a jelly-filled doughnut and eating his second with you. He likes the sound of that.

--

He toys with the idea. Handles it around and around in his head like a child with a very delicate antique, so clumsy with his hands but knowing how special it is.

It comes up again.

Nothing goes right all day, and by the end of it, you’re both tired and in a bad mood. Camping out in a buried, derelict ship is the last thing either of you want right now, but the ghost stories will keep the locals away. You set up your sleeping gear nearby. No fire tonight; there’s too many eyes searching for you two.

Vash can feel the breeze blowing through the holes of the ship. Cool, cool air that will turn to ice once the suns fully set. He looks over at you and sees the goosebumps rising on your arms, eyes picking out each individual hair standing on end. Vash chews the inside of his cheek. “Wanna sleep closer?”

It takes a moment for you to register he’s talking. Blinking, you look up. “Hm? What?”

 “Do you want to sleep closer tonight? For warmth, I mean.”

Your eyes flit across his face. You’ve always been a fan of your personal space. Vash isn’t sure you’ll accept. Then, you shrug. “Sure. Why not.”

The day must have really taken it out of you for you to say ‘yes,’ but Vash isn’t complaining. You drag your stuff over to his and set up sluggishly. “I’m mad about what that mayor said to you on the way out,” you say, baring your feelings like you do, always an open book. “He shouldn’t have called you that. Especially after we saved his daughter.”

He doesn’t feel like talking about it, a fresh wound on his heart that will heal anyway. So he hums and lays down. “I’m just glad we got away before they pulled out the whips. That was…weird.”

You laugh and scoot over to his side, and Vash can feel your warmth. “You think they’re into the freaky stuff?”

He laughs with you and shakes his head. He’s about to respond when you curl up next to him and place your head on his shoulder. Mouth drying out, a strange feeling in the back of his throat forms. You press your side shyly closer into his.

“You don’t mind being my pillow for tonight, right?” You mumble it, and he can hear the embarrassment in your tone. This is hard for you.

He clears his throat and says, “Nah, it’s fine. I’m all yours.”

It goes quiet, and Vash wonders if he said the wrong thing. But then your breathing evens out, and he realizes you’re asleep. The day really took it out of you, then. Carefully, he brings his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer. He doesn’t want you getting cold. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “all yours.”

--

What exactly is it that he wants?

You ask him this on the road. The suns are cresting some cliffs to the side, fall season turning the temperatures just a bit cooler – only just. And he says, “For love and peace to rule.” Typical.

“But what do you want? When love and peace is achieved and everyone’s happy?” You walk ahead of him, minding your steps, toeing an invisible line, kicking pebbles off to the side. “What do you want to be?”

He watches. Your figure curves as you bend over to pick up a white rock, throwing it up in the air and catching it again. You handle it, looking at the tiny crystals within that make it sparkle in the light. A habit of yours, he’s noticed – how you handle everything and everyone carefully, twisting them this way and that to find their hidden facets. You do it with him all the time. You’re doing it now, digging into his psyche, making him wonder about his own desires and wants. His eyes trace the shape of your lips as they purse.

Vash shakes out of his stupor when you glance at him, waiting for an answer. “I’ll probably be some kind of Plant engineer. Keep my sisters safe and healthy.” After all, what else is there for someone like him?

“Do you want to be an artist? An historian? You can’t just be an engineer all the time. What else do you want to be?”

His lips curve up. “I’ll still be with you, right? You’ve got the historian and artist bit down for the both of us.”

You groan and throw the rock away. The sands eat it up instantly, lost once again to the dunes of time. “Without leaning on me, Vash.” You look at him, eyes roving over his face for something he isn’t sure of. “When everything else is stripped away and accomplished, what do you want to be?”

Something in his chest erupts into butterflies. He knows the answer, cheesy as it is. Yours, yours, yours, his heart murmurs. I want to be yours.

--

It comes out in the quiet hours of the night, between dusk and midnight.

Your kisses are slow, sensual. He can’t get enough. The soft sand underneath, the cave overhead, the glow of worms in the distant sky through the mouth. You’re safe. He’s safe. His hands rove your sides, traveling under your shirt to massage the tender skin at your ribs. Your own hands travel from his neck to his stomach, back to his hair, feeling, feeling.

In a pause, a way to catch your breath, you look up at him in the blue gloom and grin. Your eyes are so full of love, twinkling like close stars. “Vash,” you murmur, petting your hand through his hair, tugging at the ends, his growing undercut. Your chests heave together, touching then retracting. Your nails scratch gently behind his ear, and goosebumps hike up his neck. “My Vash.”

It sends a shiver up and down his spine. Yes, this is what it is; this is what he has been searching for. And he should say something like ‘my mayfly,’ but what tumbles out of his kiss-swollen lips is, “Your Vash. Yours.”

Your laugh is deep and happy. He surges forward to catch it, feel it in his mouth as he kisses you again and again. “Yours,” he keeps murmuring, settling it in his own head, his own heart. “All yours. I’m yours.”

This is what he wants to be.

A place to belong. A place in your arms.

Yours.