#bsd verse.

. @moonhund ; "When was the last time you actually got some rest?" lack of sleep starters . accepting

eyelids are heavy as the administrator looks up at the origin of the voice on the other side of his desk. wriothesley's eyes burn against the light from the lamp sat only a few inches away from jono's visage hanging in the swimming darkness above the hound. he'd fallen asleep at his desk again, hadn't he? scrunching his face up and pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes, wriothesley jolts upright with an unceremonious noise somewhere in the back of his throat. the hint of concern he's sure he heard in the hunting dog's voice is immediately put down to his being half asleep still as the guard dog stumbles to his feet - readying himself for the sight of a fresh capture stood just behind jono--

no one. jono's alone. stood there with a decisively uncharacteristic frown plastered across his expression.

he's not sure how long he's been walking. vash doesn't remember falling through the door or finding his way to a main street, he doesn't remember collapsing somewhere along the way he hopes is the direction home, doesn't remember falling to the ground and curling up on his side against the wall. the ability user trembles, curling tighter on himself with every fresh wave of pain that runs through him like ice. he over faced himself, got caught up with the mafia - that's his fault. he got ahead of himself, got cornered and now he's paying the price.

this isn't good.

eyes are tightly shut when the sound of an unfamiliar voice hits him with all the force of a brick wall. the stampede stills, hand against the knife wound in his stomach grips tighter still - the soaked material warm as it sticks to his skin, fills the creases of his fingers and covers everything in a thick layer of fear. he can't feel anything nearby to help himself with - his ability is no use when he's in a state like this. still - maybe it's not the mafia? maybe it's someone who wants to help - maybe they'll take pity on him--

the sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows against a city lit with golden light as the sky shifts through its palette of blues, purples and reds. vash doesn't notice any of this, though. usually, he'd stop and watch the clouds as they light the sky above with their pinks and yellows where they hang in their slow drift through the atmosphere. tonight, though? his head is bowed, hand pressed flat against concrete wall as he steadies himself - willing his body to just make it a little further. he just needs to make it through the door and then wolfwood will get home and he can help. glasses are clenched in his free hand as laboured steps start to drag the closer the stampede draws to their humble apartment.

he's already made it up the flights of stairs. he just needs to-- the door handle sends a shot of relief up the ability user's spine. he lifts his head, matted and still damp blood leaving a smear as vash leans against the wall to free up a hand to fish for his keys with. nicholas is so going to kill him when he finds out... though if it ends up being for vash's disappearing act or for the deal he agreed on... that remains to be seen. "ah hah--" fingers catch the key, fumble it into the lock and push the door as the stampede stumbles through and just about manages to push the front door closed behind him.

still, he's not sure how he got here. not here, sat at a desk with sweaty palm as he tries to decipher the deliberately obtuse wording on all of these forms, but rather here at the detective agency. vash supposes he could blame nai for that, if he really wanted to. their abilities were enough to get the attention of powerful people and vash always seemed to be the one who got swept up in the least savoury selections of that group. he does owe dazai one, though. ok... more than just one. more like his whole life's worth of one's. as much as vash likes to think that someone else might have gotten wind of where he was and what the mafia were doing... dazai was his guardian angel that day and vash supposes this is his atonement.

this, being paperwork duty under the watchful eye of both his saviour and captor.

"my... my friend?" the confusion in the stampede's tone is obvious as pen drops and tired gaze lifts to focus on the younger of the two still sat there watching every word he writes. cerulean gaze locks with auburn beneath that dark fringe and the person dazai is hinting at finally clicks in vash's head. oh. his friend. grin splits across vash's face, shoulders lifting as he rubs the back of his neck in something of a nervous twitch. "he's... well he's more of a roommate - a--a housemate!"

the question of exactly who dazai knows that could be telling him about vash's... about wolfwood, doesn't really cross the rookie's mind as he shifts in his seat - rolling it a few inches back as if that would shift that intense gaze from just above him. well, he supposes they are detectives after all - he can't blame them for wanting to know a little more about the stray picked up from the port mafia's dungeon.

though, nicholas really will kill him if he finds out that he's been telling his new (and very first) co-workers all about him and his home life. it's not like it's much... but it's enough for them, and that's what matters - right? they have a roof over their heads, a place to cook and a place to sleep and vash thinks that's more than enough. but then... why does he feel like dazai knows something he doesn't? why does it feel like vash is an outsider, stood on the wrong side of the glass and watching in on wolfwood like he's a stranger? his expression drops minutely, the feeling of being something dazai wishes to dissect and study under a microscope returns and - not for the first time today - the stampede wishes he were at home.

"uh. thanks but i know what he does for a living - actually. he's a government worker, you see. he does government things... for the government." there's no hint of hesitation in his voice as vash forces something of a smile onto his lips, unable to shift the uneasy feeling starting to fester somewhere at the pit of his stomach. the air in the office starts to feel too thick and unwilling and nervous twitch has vash pushing tinted lenses up his nose again. briefly, he's stood before wolfwood, expression dire as blood trickles from the corner of stampede's mouth and vash watches - helplessly as the scene before him swims. the cold tile against his cheek wakes him--