#eventheodds

He tries not to let himself feel overwhelmed. He tries harder and far more often to keep himself hopeful, positive no matter the circumstances, but sometimes--

He can't use the phrase "only human", obviously. Wouldn't think to try. But sometimes there are moments, and he hates it when anyone else is there to witness them. Like that's an extra mistake he's made. It's temporary, he knows, and it's Meryl, and it's... okay. Mostly okay.

It's uncomfortable, though. The heat along with the adrenaline that has yet to fully let go. Vash isn't usually all that affected by temperature, really, but it's all circumstance. He can survive longer, under harsher conditions, but that doesn't mean it's pleasant.

Complaints feel petty at best when Meryl directs them to somewhere cooler. She's the one he ought to worry for, not himself. It's got nothing to do with strength or capability; water supplies running low and the fact that even when the heat of the day does finally give way to night, the temperature will drop dramatically and it all matters more with humans. It matters more with her, even if he isn't prepared to admit that to himself in full.

He's ready to refuse the water until he notices the dryness in his own throat, electing to take a sip instead. Just in case. Prepare for the worst while hoping for the best, right? "We got out alive." He agrees, internalizes, careful to enunciate the words while keeping his voice soft. There's no point in aggravating his throat, after all, but he reaches for Meryl the moment she starts coughing miserably.

Vash's hand lingers in the air, not quite connecting. Not quite pulling back, either. There's little to do but rest a bit, to wait and keep going in turns. He's used to this. He wishes she weren't getting to be about the same, if she's not there already.

Making a decision with a little frown, his organic hand finally rests gently on her shoulder. Comfort, assurance. Acknowledgement. No more talking. And, as usual, he's a hypocrite immediately. "A few minutes." His throat's still dry. It's still hot. There are still questions to answer, and he can feel the salt tear tracks dry and flake, otherwise unacknowledged.

“You are good, Meryl.” Because she tries to be, even when she feels like she isn’t. Even if she has blood on her hands. Vash can effortlessly draw lines when comparing himself to others. To buoy even when he is drowning. Though these past few days have been the longest stretch of time he has spent not alone, and for that reason alone maybe he can say he is treading water instead.

“Here, hold this up for me. Gotta get all the sand out before I start fully taking it apart.” Vash offers her a smile, sheepish with wrinkles as he runs a soft brush along the seams and between cracks and delicate joints. The firelight is more than enough for him to see by as he brushes the fine grains caught in his prosthetic’s finer mechanisms. “I mean, I shouldn’t be letting sand get in there in the first place, but…” It didn’t feel all that important to maintain his arm after a while. Rushing its doom wouldn’t have made a difference, or so he thought. 

“Guess we’ll both have to do our best. Wouldn’t want to disappoint all our new old friends, huh?” Vash tickles the bottom of Meryl’s chin with his brush, then stows it away in the unrolled toolkit that he set on the ground. “I’ve got a lot of regrets, but I don’t think meeting you or any of the others could ever be one of them. Don’t try to go it alone. That was my biggest mistake.”  

"W-what do you mean?"

Caught. Mid-stride, even, or mid-escape, bag over his shoulder and the wide-open desert just blocks away beyond the borders of town. If he'd been a little quicker, maybe he'd have given her the slip.

He could have been quicker, but something in him just doesn't want to be. It's been so good being back in their company, but...

With the impossible bounty on his head, he is more of a danger to them now than ever.

There it is, a titter of laughter and a smile he does not feel, but he has gotten marginally better at forcing the expression up into his eyes. Maybe it will be enough to allay concerns, to turn attention away from the core of guilt and urgency that might just crush him with its gravity.

"I can't turn invisible, Meryl, that's ridiculous, ahaha."

Try as he might, Meryl never once loses his trail. The sands have grown ever more perilous without the boons granted by Plants. In truth, he probably isn't trying hard enough. He does not regret the company, only that the circumstances made Meryl feel it was necessary. It would be safer to stay in one place, to go where the other refugees were going. The mass exodus to Octovern continues to pass them by, and with each group that they encounter, he wonders if he's making another mistake letting her stay. 

"Still determined to help me find him, huh?" His lighter clicks shut, a flash of silver caught in the tumble of a well-practiced sleight of hand before it disappears into the depths of his pants pocket. The scent of worm spice takes its place.

Meryl has grown increasingly reticent as they followed in the Ark’s wake. Wolfwood, in turn, has found himself scraping the bottom of an already empty barrel for scraps of conversation. Utter silence isn’t like her, but confronting the problem directly would imply that something is wrong.

So many things are already, and there is so little he can do about it that the mere thought infuriates him.

Wolfwood reclines against the partially unfurled bedroll in the alcove they have made camp. Angelina is parked facing outwards. Her panniers are unfastened, left peeped from the camp supplies they lifted out previously. If need be, they can make a quick exit by stuffing their supplies in haphazard. They’ve encountered the need at least once already.

The grip of Vash’s gun pokes out from beneath her coat. He hasn’t seen her go a night without it within arm’s reach. Vash’ll need it, after all.

He can't stand the silent treatment anymore.

Various items from newspaper clippings to lost buttons have found their way onto its surface. There’s always that thought where the clutter will be sorted and these items will find their respective homes or tossed out, but it’s never gotten that far.

Today, among the mess, are Vash’s glasses.

It’s the light of the suns filtering in through the almost threadbare curtains that make her notice them. The glint off those yellow lenses and the metal frame would have gone unnoticed otherwise.

Meryl picks them up, inspecting them for a second before putting them on. They’re too big and immediately slide off the bridge of her nose, so she holds them in place behind her ears. Turning around, she looks at her reflection in the full length mirror behind her and giggles at the sight.

They don’t particularly suit her face, probably because she’s so used to seeing Vash wear them, but it gives her an idea that she can’t get out of her head.

Tilting her head back so as to make sure the glasses don’t continuously fall off, Meryl poses in front of the mirror, mimicking Vash’s stance.

“Love and peace,” she chants at her reflection, trying to make the sign with her fingers but always having to readjust the glasses.

“Love and peace! Love and peace! This world is made up of love and pea—Oups!”

She did the sign, thrusting her arm out before her, but wasn’t quick enough to catch the glasses as they fell. “Oh no,” she whispers, bending down to pick them up and immediately inspects them to make sure they’re not damaged.

Briefly, she glances to the mirror and can see Vash standing there in the doorway—which prompts a small shriek from her and fumbling with his glasses again, but she manages to keep hold of them, although barely.

Meryl tends to work quietly when left to her own devices. 

Unlike himself, she has no tendency to wander directly into the heart of danger, stoke fires in the hearts of men who would sooner truss her up and turn her in for profit, or– well, she probably would help a little old lady across town, but being a good samaritan doesn’t typically lead to a full on shootout in broad daylight.

Curious then, when Vash returns with an armful of sandwiches, fruit, and a pair soft drinks, that he finds her there posing and generally having a good time in front of the mirror with his glasses…looking like she wants to start a bit of trouble using love and peace. 

His brows lift when Meryl finally notices him standing there in the open doorway to their hotel room through the vanity. Well. He’s glad she didn’t drop the glasses when he startled her. Their lunch provisions rustle in the brown bag carried in the crook of his arm as he elbows the door click shut behind him. 

“Meryl.” Vash’s voice is warm and amused. “What are you doing?” 

Vash drops off the food on the nearby round table, then joins Meryl by the mirror to adjust the glasses back onto her face with a grin.

There's the softest empathetic wince as he can tell that the question didn't instantly get the best sort of response. He's not about to dig further there, to ask for anything that he hasn't already, because now even that seems nearly a step too far--

But the presence of the lightest of weights on his coat sleeve seems to keep him tethered there in silence, the urge to apologize held back. He's grateful for it as Meryl starts speaking, starts answering, and she has his rapt attention. He listens, and watches, and lets the details fall over him all at once. There's no real need to pick through them, but they're safely locked away in his memory regardless. That, and... well.

Vash almost startles at the imaginary camera pointed in his direction, then lets out a laugh at himself while he poses. Dramatically, of course. Heroically, even! Hands on his hips, head back, looking... ridiculous, probably. Something he wouldn't do if there were a real camera in her hands, probably, but it's fun then. It feels important, then.

With another laugh, he drops the pose and thinks it all over for a few seconds. It's something precious he's been handed. Not delicate, just-- Something to handle with care. "I'm glad. About the camera, I mean. Life changes in simple ways, you know?" That's an understatement, to be sure.

It's--

Tense. They've gotten themselves into situations before, of course, and they walked right into this one knowing the dangers, but that only accounts for so much of exactly where they've wound up, and why.

There's one thin door separating them from a group of people who wouldn't hesitate to tear them apart, and Vash is pretty sure that's literal. They're in a glorified broom closet and there's very loud talk of The Stampede and The Reporter getting involved where they don't belong, and how much trouble they're being. And what ought to be done about it.

Vash is watching the door, motionless, leaning against Meryl. So close he can feel her pulse where they're pressed together, shares her less-than-perfectly-calm breath, but he's not moving. Not making a sound, even when one of the people on the other side come close enough to the door to open it -- then keeps walking. They all do, at that point, leaving the secret closet-dwellers to catch their breaths.

He knows he has to move fast to get them out of there. Evidence is everywhere within reach; it's just a matter of what either of them grab. Vash needs to clear the way so they have a chance of getting out, and he can't risk speaking. Too close already, and the footsteps haven't faded entirely, so he just... he just--

He doesn't expect it to make sense, he just needs to take her hand and opens his mouth and-- Sharp teeth rest on Meryl's knuckles. He doesn't break skin. He won't break skin. He needs it, needs it, the pressure and the motion even if he can't explain, doesn't fully understand himself, has no idea if he's really able to convey the race of thoughts in his mind with teeth to skin and eye contact, but--

Stay here. Stayherestayherestayhere I'll be back I promise, I swear, I'll be back for you, I'll be back to get you, stay quiet, don't move, please please--

It's been... rough. That's putting it all much too lightly, but there are things that words can't really bother to cover. Best to fall to severe understatement, less trying to hold or cover it up with a single word than to simply fall back on simplicity. Rough.

Not always, not as an overarching and inescapable feeling. But it's there just the same, layered and endless, rising and falling like sand dunes. He could get lost in the metaphor if he wants, but the whole thought is dropped, pushed aside, left behind until it catches up to him again.

Vash hadn't felt awkward about approaching, and not about sitting. He feels awkward in speaking after that silence, but it's something that's been sitting on his tongue and little by little making it hard to breathe. He hasn't been keeping an eye on Meryl because she can't be trusted, and certainly not because she needs someone to tend to her, but he still wants to stay... close. Close enough. Dichotomy; he still wants to keep himself away because he is, really and truly, a disaster. But the urge to protect, defend, make up for keeps being stronger.

(That doesn't make it right, he reminds himself. Often. As often as he ignores it, because that doesn't make it wrong, either.)

Meryl's reaction isn't really stronger than he expects, but it's altogether different. Stunned to wide-eyed silence, there's an enormous part of him that wants to reach for her, to comfort with touch the best way he knows how-- He doesn't know if she wants that. How she might consider it in the moment, if she'll know he doesn't mean to treat her like a wounded thing. Vash decides to wait on an invitation for touch, or to get closer, but he doesn't so much as turn away. He won't. At the moment, just being there seems... fine. Almost enough.

When asked about a drink, he offers only a quiet, "Yeah." Deep thoughts while swallowing down a line of liquid fire isn't as rare for him as it should be, maybe, but as he hands the bottle back, he allows himself a few seconds to think about what he wants to say. How he wants to say it. Words almost don't leave his tongue with the little wheeze that comes first, needing a cough and another swallow first. "Doesn't seem fair if you put all the blame on yourself, either." And maybe, maybe, he can be reasonable about it. See that maybe it isn't... entirely his fault. Or maybe-- "We didn't know. We couldn't have known. So we... shouldn't blame ourselves."