#vash reader insert

A routine was grounding. It was a reminder that he survived another hard day on this godforsaken planet. It gave him something to look forward to.

On the flip side, when a routine was interrupted, it unnerved him; it made his skin crawl. When you don’t have much to look forward to, tremors rattling a routine can feel like earthquakes.

The other week, after a terrible run-in with some bounty hunters, Vash shakily splashed tepid water on his face and reached down low for his shirt, only to miserably recall he tossed it aside after he used it to wipe down the blood from the freshly sewn wound on his leg. As water dripped everywhere, he released a shuddered exhale, only to feel a hesitant hand rest on his arm.

When injured man forced an eye open, he noticed you held out one of your own fresh shirts. Making no move to accept your kindness, you lifted it to his face to dry it yourself.

Despite snapping back to reality and fervently denying your offer, this was a welcome tremor against his nightly routine. You were an embraced earthquake.

“Vash?”

He blinks, snapping to attention as his gaze focused on the flickering embers in front of him.

“You havin’ a staring contest with the fire? Hope you’re winning.”

He heard you tease him under the shared sleeping bag a small distance away. His bright eyes squinted and peered over at you from his spot near the dying fire.

When he softly called back, inquiring what you needed from him, you sighed almost dramatically, draping your arm over your forehead like a fainting maiden. Vash snorts.

Hastily, you flung the fabric from your body and folded your arms over your chest, staring at him expectantly and petulantly. 

“Vash the Stampede. Did you forget that I sleep better when you’re right next to me?” You accuse lightheartedly, but he doesn’t miss the wobbly grin threatening to split your face in twain. For extra motivation, you sweetly pat the space next to you. His nose scrunches as he slowly raises himself from the simmering heat, kicking the flames out. Smoke wafts from the singed brush he collected earlier as he dusts himself off.

“Haven’t forgotten,” he reassures, keeping his voice low and light to not wake the others. The sound of his boots kicked up the sand as he finished his words, “…was just thinking.”

His routine before you came along and forcibly jammed yourself into his heart included brushing his teeth, spitting the foam into a basin or onto the sand, wiping the dirt from his face, ripping his boots off, diving into a sleeping bag on the unforgiving ground, and having yet another restless night.

It wasn’t like that these days.

Vash hoped he’d never go back to that old routine.

He liked his new one with you in it.

Your eyes softened at his words as you watched him gingerly undo his boots and holster. Your arms relax from their position as you prop yourself up to watch him. The silence between you two mixed with the desert air and the quiet hum of the worms around the campsite. Intimate.

The gunman swiftly undid the taut laces, tucking them into the boots.

Soon, Vash ruffles his tresses with a sigh and crawls next to you into the sleeping bag.

His routine, while delightfully altered since your loud arrival into his life, remained mostly the same.

He still spat his toothpaste onto the desert sands.

He still used the bottom of his ratty shirt to dry his face, and he still removed his boots at the end of the day before he buried himself into the bag. 

Nowadays, his routine didn’t end with him laying in bed, tossing and turning, praying for ‘no nightmares, please no nightmares—‘

He used to cross his fingers, hoping he’d wake up without hearing the sound of a clicking hammer and seeing up the barrel of a rusted gun. Early in his travels, well before he learned how to check his surroundings, he found himself rousing and at the mercy of desperate souls looking for life-changing money.

These days were better; he’d crawl into a sleeping bag with its seams screaming for mercy because he’d share it with someone dear to him.

These days, he’d train his eyes on you, watching your expressions as you rambled about the day, as if he wasn’t there to begin with.

He’d feel you shimmy yourself next to him, commenting about how warm he was and how good it felt when the rest of the world was so cold at night. You’d always face him, your breath colliding against his with how close you laid next to him. 

These days, he’d hear you whisper about whatever was on your mind as you brushed his hair back behind his ear. You’d repeat that soothing motion over and over. Your nail would gently scratch at his scalp on the way back around, and he’d sink deeper into the worn padding of the bag.

On harder days, the days that battered you down, you didn’t talk like this. You’d tiredly look at him, and he’d tiredly stared back. Vash would gently place his hand on your cheek and rub the apples of it, wordlessly offering his own affections.

On the nights when his flesh hand touched your skin, you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut. He’d wipe any tears, and he’d wish deep down he could wipe away your troubles too.

On the nights when his mechanical fingers graced your skin instead, you’d croon at the chilled feeling, listening to the whirring of the motors and joints as he cherished your visage. You’d wrap your hand around his, stopping his ministrations.

Instead of crossing his fingers and praying he didn’t have to bolt the first thing in the morning, he would timidly cross his fingers with yours. When you didn’t pull away, he’d hold on a little tighter.

Currently, you were whispering about how ridiculous Wolfwood looked when riding a toma, struggling to balance himself and the obnoxious cross on his back. “I cannot believe he rides a toma like… like this…!”

When your arms excitedly shoot out and almost slam into his nose in the midst of mimicking and mocking the priest, Vash snickers and gathers your fidgety hands in his. Before you could grumble, he gives them a firm squeeze.

Today was a good day though. Even if limbs weren’t tangled under the bedsheets on a real bed, it was a good day.

“Thought you called me over to sleep, mayfly.” He chided without bite, hesitantly brushing his lips against the knuckles of your hands. You snicker and explain that nighttime is the perfect time to gossip about your sleeping companions. Thus, you continued but moved on to the next exhilarating topic.

All the while, the man in the nearly ripped sleeping bag admires the crinkles forming at the corners of your eyes. When you shook with laughter, he felt his own lips quirk up as well. 

By now, the moons were high in the sky.

As you continued to chatter, your words slowly melded into one another. Vash felt his eyes grow heavy, and he was hoping for good dreams.