There is an exasperated expression on the tiny woman's features, a pair of bright eyes - far too tired for her age - watching the gunslinger clad in red for a moment.

"Believe me," she offers, following a moment of silence.

"I know."

@bulletblessed asked: “ If you can’t run away from your problems, you’re not running fast enough. ”

"You cannot just keep getting away with saying stuff like that."

"You are scaring the hoes. You are doing them a concern."

"MEANS ANSWER's still th' same, spikey."

He doesn't even turn to him when he speaks, much more focused on his hands deep into the oily bowels of Angelina. Tools are scattered all around him without an apparent order, some even piled up one on top of the other, his jacket laying in the sand not too far away but far from any potential spill. His arms and shirt are already covered in black spots - he doesn't have to sacrifice more of this outfit on the altar of this fucking inconvenience. That'd just make his mood even more sour.

It started innocently enough - a few sputters and hiccups on the way, easy to be mistaken for bumps in the sand when they didn't last longer than a few seconds. Except that then they kept coming back, and again, and again, more and more frequently, till eventually he almost had to push the bike into the nearest town before it ended up exploding or god knows what under their asses. Not ideal. Less than ideal, in fact. At least the owner of the inn they have been staying at for the past two days has enough tools to share, so he's been spending the best part of said days trying to figure what exactly broke and how he can fix it. Fuck, patching it up for long enough so he has time to get her to a proper mechanic would be progress already.

Unfortunately, no such luck.

@bulletblessed

HIS FIRST response is a sound halfway between a snort and a laugh, not enough of any of the two to be either mocking or amused. It dies after a few seconds, disintegrating between the four walls of this impossible shelter, moonlight filtering in through the tattered and filthy curtains that have never known washing and likely never will - one of the several mattresses creaking under their weight, springs threatening to pierce their legs but never actually ripping through the fabric. The stove corner in the other room (too small to be a proper kitchen, so well-used that it has almost earned the name by now) is littered with dirty dishes none of them had the will to make and the remains of their latest run into town, an empty paper bag nesting a few crumbs of dough and glaze. Faded bloodstains look at the opposite wall of the bathroom from the chipped sink and the edge-cracked mirror, right next to the heap of threadbare towels they fished from the closet earlier.

Funny, how a year ago all of this was unimaginable. Eleven months ago he was more ghost than living in this house, sporadically passing through, leaving little signs of his coming and going at all. Eights months ago he started leaving extra packs of cigarettes, setting up hidey-holes for whatever vials he managed to stash away unnoticed (they are all still there, close to the stack of the mattresses, behind the cables powering the stove, under the floorboards of the back porch), taking into consideration the idea of leaving long-lasting provisions in the pantry. Half a year before this night he came to think of this place as a refuge - not a home, not what he's been grieving for years and years, but a house at least. A spot to rest his head and hide even if only for a day or two before getting back on the road again, always hoping, always praying no one would find this little corner he reclaimed all for himself.

Then, four months ago, Vash walked through the door for the first time.

He isn't saying that's when he caught feelings, when his heart started tumbling down a steep he could've never imagined before; no, that came way before that day, before he turned and saw the other stand awkwardly in the middle of the living room, so tall and bright and still trying to fold into himself like one of the paper cranes one of the older girls at the orphanage used to make. What he means is - that was the turning point, an epiphany he couldn't ignore when it was shining in his eyes, sun-blinding. A shelter so carefully kept away from everyone's curios eyes, for which he fought tooth and nail out of sight, now so easily shared with the last person he should've gotten attached to.

Was it then that he knew? Was it then that his whole being reverberated through oceans of time and dimensions, an infinite ripple echoing between universes and carrying the knowledge that this happened times and times before and will happen times and times again, their lives forever intertwined with one another so tightly they can barely survive for long at the same time?

(It'll kill me. An' I accepted that so long ago.)

But there is no way he can say any of this out loud. Mere seconds have ticked by after that strangled laughter, and when he speaks - Vash's body pressed against his, his prosthetics laying close by - his voice is thick with sleep, rough and yet so sweet.

"Yeah, well. God's always got a different plan for me in mind."

(Even if this is no divine intervention. He has carved his way to this man over and over again with his own hands, and he'll bleed and draw blood to ensure he'll never lose sight of him.)

She does not ask before reaching out to pull the other closer by the collar of his ridiculously complex jacket; and still, she has to stand on her tippy toes, despite her best effort, to even reach the spot she is aiming for.

Who allowed the blond to grow this tall, anyways?

Soon, a kiss is planted on the Humanoid Typhoon's forehead, right in the middle, between his brows.

She figures he will allow her a moment of indulgence.

"You really need to take better care of yourself," she scolds quietly, gently. Clearly, she does not mean to cause harm, merely to express her concern. Care.

"Making us all worry. Honestly." Puffed cheeks and the frown on her features do make for a rather comical display, yet the sentiment she approaches the other with is genuine.

Dearest Mr. The Stampede, you are loved and cared for. It is, unfortunately, a fact of your life now. And it shall not change anytime soon.

"..."

There is a moment of silence. Prolonged one, causing the ears to ring, the air to become thick and the atmosphere generally uncomfortable.

So... why did that blue-haired freak try to get the Stampede killed so damn hard, why did he put in so much effort, when things could have been... so simple?

Hah. Know thine enemy, was it not?

For once, the priest may have been useful, after all.

Now, to retain this information. And use it, when the time was right.