Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rumor has it there’s something special in the wilderness just beyond New Nevada. If you journey into the outcrop of cliffs and canyons just an hour out and get yourself properly lost, you just might find it. In your darkest hour, with your fuel gone and on the last rations of water, cry out for salvation and a voice might answer you. The toll of an iron bell will lead you there.

The white chapel on a hill.

Rumor has it that chapel can be anyone’s salvation, should they need it badly enough. But rumors come a dime a dozen on NoMan’s Land. You’ll be hard pressed to find anyone who’s ever seen this chapel. The townspeople will shrug you off, chuckling about old wives’ tales. Because rumors are rumors, and you can’t trust those.

Because sometimes, a town’s best kept secret is a rumor best left alone.

Nicolas brings the cigarette to his lips for another drag, holding the smoke in greedily, savoring his daily indulgence. Miss Melanie is always harping on about the smell, the dangers, urging him to quit for his health. Health, yeah, okay. As if something like this can hope to kill him now.

He gazes into the distance as the planet’s suns sink into the horizon. Sunset always casts a bloody glow over the landscape, illuminating the orange crags and canyons and sand. Like a gun wound to the gut, crimson spills from the sky and stains everything in sight. Sunset marks a death, he supposes, and this is all just a product of cosmic carnage.

Nicolas exhales a cloud, watches it tint pink, and takes another drag.

The red deepens as the last rays of garish light dip beyond the horizon. Even the pristine white of his little chapel would glow red at this point. A bad omen, he thinks, doesn’t exist if you don’t look at it.

He keeps his gaze on that horizon. Endless, merciless red, as far as the eye can see. Perhaps that’s why it takes Nicolas so long to spot their visitor.

A lone figure decked out in a bright, crimson, blood, blood, bloodstained coat staggers in the sand some hundred meters away. Nicolas is up and gone in seconds. His previously, unbearably, empty hand closes around the pistol tucked in his belt loop, trigger finger happily finding its home.

He halts his approach a fair distance away: far enough for the stranger to see him, but not far enough to leave the chapel vulnerable. Nicolas stands there, and waits.

He can tell the exact moment the mysterious figure spots him. They stop in their tracks, shoulders shuddering with every ragged breath. At this range, with the dying red glow haloing their head of blonde spikes, Nicolas is just barely able to make out the hint of a smile on their lips. Hands unwrap from their red-clad midsection and raise in the universal sign of surrender. Not a second later, their knees buckle and down they go.

Nicolas huffs and lowers his gun. He doesn’t lower his guard, however, as he cautiously approaches the fallen figure.

The man (and it is a man, on closer inspection) huffs out short, labored breaths as he slowly bleeds out. Sluggish, meaning the wounds are either closing or the man is close to death. Nicolas tsks and chews his cigarette thoughtfully.

He can’t very well leave a man to die out in front of the chapel; what if the children see? He can throw the guy onto his motorcycle and dump him closer to town… but the canyon is treacherous at night and Nicolas hates leaving the kids alone after sundown.

Usually, Nicolas doesn’t hesitate to reach out a helping hand, but this is different. This isn’t a stray traveler or the occasional lost soul that ran out of water. The appearance of this strange man, riddled with wounds and smelling of gunpowder, is highly suspicious.

But, his instincts are strangely quiet. Nicolas’ honed senses pick up nothing hostile from this man. He might just be an innocent victim, and here’s Nicolas, standing around with another life hanging in the balance…

“Ah shit, whatever,” he grumbles, mind made up. “Don’t croak just yet, Spikey. I’ve got some questions for you.”

With a practiced ease, Nicolas squats down, drapes a limp arm over his shoulders, and lifts. And stumbles. Nicolas blinks down in confusion.

For all his gangly limbs, the man is surprisingly dense. Good thing Nicolas is used to heavy burdens. Planting his feet properly, Nicolas heaves the man onto his back, wearing him like the world’s lousiest backpack. They might be similar in height, but this guy definitely has him beat in the leg department.

It’s slow going back to the chapel courtyard, what with how many times Nicolas has to pause and adjust the limp man. He makes the executive decision to use a side-entrance, avoiding the bustle of life in the main halls. Judging from the way his jacket clings to his back, wet with something thicker than sweat, Nicolas knows this man’s condition is not a sight fit for children. That’s why Nicolas also avoids the infirmary and takes the man to his room, perhaps one of the few truly private places in the building.

Well, at least one of the few places where someone will knock first, instead of just barging in.

He’s lucky most of the building’s occupants are at dinner. Someone will probably come knocking for him later, but that’s a problem for later. With the sigh of a man truly put upon, Nicolas lowers the stranger onto his own bed, uncaring of possible (and highly likely) bloodstains. His sheets are far from pristine. Laid out like this, Nicolas finally gets a good look at his visitor’s face.

Spikey (because come on, look at that hair) has a surprisingly pretty face. If you look past the clammy, sick pallor and pained expression, that is. The guy can’t be past his early 20s, skin clear of blemish save for a beauty mark under his left eye. No wrinkles, no sunspots… almost unnaturally perfect. Nicolas catalogues this thought and gets to work unbuttoning the man’s red coat.

As he feared, the midsection of the coat is tacky with blood not readily visible through the red fabric. He briefly wonders if that’s intentional; similar to his own choice of black clothing.

After struggling to get the coat unbuckled and peeled away, he’s confronted by a headache of black leather. He glances over the varied straps and buckles with a frown. Blood is still oozing from what are clearly bullet holes, however, so with another impassioned sigh, Nicolas leans in to start unraveling.

That’s when he sees the gun.

It’s common practice on NoMan’s Land to be armed as a traveler, so the firearm itself isn’t surprising. No, it’s the unusual make of the gun that gives him pause. A .45 Colt revolver, and custom made by the looks of it. It’s strapped to one of the many leather pieces Nicolas has to disassemble; might as well start there.

He reaches out and finds his wrist immediately seized in a bruising grip. Nicolas snaps his gaze up in surprise and is met with a blue that has no business shining so bright in his dim room. Spikey stares at him in wide-eyed confusion, bordering on panic, and Nicolas stares back, maintaining a calm composure. The guy has all the airs of a spooked animal and the strength in his grip is no joke. He needs to calm him down, asap.

“Hey man, easy now. You’re safe. You’re in my, uh, the chapel.” Nicolas keeps his voice low and even, the same soothing tone he uses with crying children.

Thankfully, it seems to work.

“Chapel… oh, the white church…?” Spikey’s voice is scratchy, throat probably parched, and Nicolas moves slowly for the glass of water on his nightstand. Bright blue tracks the movement, sees his intention, and the grip on his wrist loosens fractionally.

“Water? It’s clean. Watch.” Nicolas takes a healthy sip and swallows before handing it over. Spikey accepts it with a smile. It’s a nice smile. Something about it doesn't feel right.

“Thank you,” he finally releases Nicolas' wrist, “And sorry. You must’ve carried me inside, huh? I just need a place to rest for the night, then I’ll leave you in peace come morning. I swear it, Father—”

“Woah, okay, none of that Father business,” he interrupts none too gently. Although suspicion itches at the back of his brain, he still sticks out his hand. “The name’s Wolfwood. Nicolas D. Wolfwood.”

Spikey blinks and slowly extends his own hand. “Oh, my bad, you just… you called this your chapel.”

“I did, and it is. My point still stands,” Nicolas huffs and drops the shake. He daringly prods at a bloody leather strap. “I also think you need more than ‘a night of rest.’ If you can get this off, then I can at least dress your wounds.”

Spikey winces at the jostling. Still, he opens his mouth in protest.

“I’m alright with just rest, really I am Mr. Wolfwood sir. I can just—”

Nicolas scowls, getting genuinely irritated. “Just rest my ass. Those are bullet wounds. It’s a miracle you’re even conscious!”

“What can I say, I’m pretty sturdy,” Spikey laughs but Nicolas can’t help but think it sounds… sad? He scowls harder, if that’s possible.

“Help me take off this leather contraption or by God, I’ll knock you out and do it myself.”

His voice is dead serious. Spikey sits there for a moment, eyeing him skeptically. Trying to call his bluff? Well good luck, because Nicolas isn't bluffing. Normally Nicolas wasn’t this aggressive either way, but something about this guy just got under his skin. Nicolas tenses, ready to prove his sincerity, and Spikey folds.

“Okay, okay! No need for violence! I’m taking it off…” Trembling hands make quick work of the main strap and tug at a hidden zipper. Much more efficient than Nicolas would’ve been. He glances up teasingly. “Jeez, you’re one scary priest.”

“Wait ‘til you meet the nuns,” he bites back sarcastically.

Satisfied that Spikey’s complying, Nicolas wanders over to his attached washroom. He fills a small basin with warm water and grabs his rather comprehensive first-aid kit. Back in the room, he’s pleased to note that the leather top is fully dismantled. The silver revolver is also placed neutrally on the bedside table.

He’s now greeted with the lovely sight of torn flesh and gore instead. Spikey sways in his seat, breathing labored, obviously fighting to remain awake. He must’ve used the last bit of his energy to get undressed.

“Relax, I was serious when I said you’re safe.” Nicolas focuses on gentling his voice (you catch more flies with honey and all that), but not before letting loose a warning: “So long as you’re not causing the trouble yourself.”

“No sir, cross my heart Mr. Wolfwood.”

“Drop the mister already, I’m not much older than you,” Nicolas mutters, wetting his rag and preparing the alcohol.

Spikey chuckles and murmurs something like “no, surely not” but it’s lost in a choked gasp as Nicolas begins cleaning the mess of a torso before him. He focuses first on just clearing away the blood. And there’s a lot of that, more than is probably healthy for a normal person. But Nicolas already guessed this guy was far from normal the minute he’d stumbled in lifting him.

Clearing away the blood doesn’t make the sight much prettier. Forget the current open wounds tearing up the guy’s waist (all missing vital organs, somehow), Spikey is covered in all sorts of other scars. From fine lines to raised marks to entire chunks of flesh missing, this body tells a story and Nicolas isn't sure he wants to hear it. He shakes his head and gets back to business.

“Weird,” Nicolas glances up as he starts disinfecting the wounds. “All these wounds are pretty clean. No bullet fragments or shrapnel at all… but it doesn't look like they went all the way through?”

Spikey avoids his gaze. “Ahaha, yeah, I was able to get all that out myself.”

Nicolas hums skeptically but keeps cleaning with no further questions. Some of the deeper wounds require stitches, but the smaller ones… Nicolas swears they were already closing up on their own. A trick of the light? Maybe. But Nicolas is no stranger to rapid healing and hard to kill bodies. Another mental note filed away.

Had Spikey been a little more lucid, he may have questioned Nicolas' lack of questions. As it stands, he seems one blink away from blacking out. Nicolas finishes the last set of stitches and is onto wrapping bandages before he feels it. Spikey finally relaxes.

His guard is down. Nicolas sees his chance and takes it.

“Hey. Hey kid,” he coaxes him to remain conscious, “What’s your name?”

“Huh?” The guy’s slurring now. Not a good sign.

“Your name,” Nicolas repeats. “I keep calling you Spikey in my head.”

It takes a minute to sink in, but then Spikey erupts into giggles. Honest to God giggles. Nicolas pinks at the sound, from indignation and something… no, no, just indignation.

“You’re a funny priest.

Spikey’s got this dopey look on his face as Nicolas helps him lay back comfortably. Something tells Nicolas that this guy probably always looks a bit dopey, but this was a bit extreme. Yeah, he isn't gonna get any reliable answers in this state.

“Oh boy, okay, never mind. I’ll ask tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

Nicolas gets him tucked in and is halfway through cleaning his mess when a drowsy murmur cuts through the silence.

“…ash...”

Nicolas kneels next to the bed and peers curiously at the sleeping figure. “What was that?”

“My... my name…” Spikey’s lips move, even as his eyes stay closed. “Call me Vash.”

Vash. Now that’s an interesting name. Nicolas is certain he’s never heard it before, and yet… there's something familiar… Nicolas shakes his head with a sigh. He reaches up and tucks the blanket tighter, a habit from tucking in his kids.

“Well then, rest well, Vash.”

Spikey—Vash—sleeps solidly the whole night. Nicolas hesitates to leave his side, lest he wake up and cause trouble. He does manage to slip away after a few hours, just long enough to get some leftovers for dinner and inform Miss Melanie of the situation. Then, it’s back to playing bedside vigil.

Nicolas dozes on and off in his ratty arm chair. He’s always been a light sleeper, body attuned to the smallest disturbance. So it isn’t a surprise when he wakes right at dawn, the rustle and creak of his bed rousing him instantly. He makes a show of blinking awake slowly, stretching and groaning as his back cracks; that, at least, isn't just for show

“Morning, Vash. Feeling more solid today?”

The blonde startles at the use of his name and gently palms his bandaged torso. Nicolas can feel the gears turning in his head, working hard to recall his pain-hazed memories. Finally, he smiles at Nicolas beatifically and nods.

“I’m feeling much better, thanks Wolfwood.”

Nicolas frowns.

“There’s no need to lie.” Vash looks at him in surprise. Nicolas scoffs. “I noticed it yesterday. You smile, but you don’t really mean it. If you’re in pain just say so.”

Vash chuckles and rubs his neck bashfully. “Well, guess I’m still sort of sore.”

Nicolas hums, crossing the room to the little table he has by the window. The porridge he’d requested from Miss Melanie has long since gone cold, but it’s still good. He brings it over to the bed with a fresh glass of water and holds it out. Vash blinks stupidly up at him and doesn’t move. Nicolas raises his brows.

“You damn well better take this yourself. I draw the line at spoon feeding.”

Vash startles and promptly takes the proffered dishes. He takes a careful drink of water before setting it aside and staring at the porridge. His brow furrows, eyes glistening as he enters a staring match with the bowl. He’s got this weird look on his face; it makes Nicolas fidget, itching for a cigarette.

The seconds tick by in tense, awkward silence. Vash doesn’t move. Nicolas caves first, fishing out his pack with a huff of frustration.

“What? What now?” He demands, annoyed as all hell. “You think I’m poisoning you? You don’t like that it’s cold? You—oh my God, are you crying?”

Nicolas almost drops his lighter as Vash sniffs. He rubs his eyes harshly and, yep, those are tears. Holy shit, this man is seriously crying.

“Sorry, I’ll eat. It’s just… you’re so nice.”

Now that shocks a laugh out of Nicolas. People call him many things, but nice? Not that, and especially not with that sort of bashful, sincere look. It makes something sticky crawl up his throat. He clears it away with a cough and waves a cigarette when Vash looks his way.

“You mind?”

The blonde shakes his head and makes good on his word, eating the cold porridge. Nicolas lights up and takes a long drag. He has enough courtesy to turn away when blowing smoke. The two sit in amicable silence for the length it takes Nicolas to finish his first smoke of the day. Crushing the butt with his shoe, he locks onto those baby blues and smirks.

“So, Vash. What sort of trouble chased a nice guy like you all the way to my altar?”

Vash lets out an awkward chuckle. “People always seem to have it out for me, if you can believe it.”

“Oh, I can,” Nicolas drawls, only half joking.

Vash gives him a crooked grin, one that almost hides his grimace. Oh yeah, Nicolas clocks that avoidance a mile away. Lingering suspicion itches at the back of his mind; the knowledge that Vash is no ordinary person, that he’s dangerous, that Nicolas has no reason to keep him around longer than necessary—

“I swear I don’t mean you any harm.”

Vash’s voice is low and serious, his doleful eyes set in a determined way. Nicolas holds his gaze for several bated breaths. The guy’s being truthful. If he knows anything about who Nicolas really is, he gives no indication. Nicolas sighs something heavy and braces for the oncoming headache.

“Y’know, I believe you,” Vash perks up before Nicolas continues, “but what about the people that ‘have it out’ for you? What’s stopping them from showing up and shaking down my congregation to get to you?

Vash sits back and pastes on another pleasant smile. Another empty smile.

“Those guys didn’t follow me here, believe me,” and did he almost sound regretful? “But I get it. Don’t worry, I’ll be gone before you know it.” With that, Vash makes to stand up, probably intending to leave right then and there. Idiot can’t even hide his wince of pain at the effort. What a drama queen.

“Hey now, enough of that, sit down.” Nicolas pushes him back down. Vash blinks at him like a lost puppy. Nicolas groans and pinches his nose. “Honestly, I don’t think anyone followed you either. But I can’t just trust you that easily. Sue me for being cautious. I’ve just got a lot to protect.”

Vash nods along readily. “No need to justify it. You’re right to be suspicious, Wolfwood. You’re in charge of a holy place. I’m sure you feel responsible for all the other workers and congregation and whatnot.”

Nicolas stares him down hard before sighing. “You really don’t know the difference between a chapel and a church, huh? Don’t got much of a congregation out here.”

“Oh… I guess it is kind of rural…”

And wow, if Vash’s sincerity were any more palpable, Nicolas would choke with it. He’s likely just as clueless as he looks. It just serves to irk him even more, for whatever reason

“That’s intentional, needle-noggin. Helps keep them hidden.”

“Them?” He cocks his head, bringing back those puppy comparisons, and Nicolas deflates. Yeah, Vash doesn’t know anything. Now the question is: how is Nicolas going to answer?

And like a message from God Himself, there comes a light knock at the door. Nicolas recognizes that knock. He only hesitates a second before thinking ‘fuck it.’ He opens the door quickly and crouches down just in time to receive a teary-eyed child into his arms. He lifts the boy easily and chuckles when he immediately buries his face in Nicolas’ chest.

“Ain’t it a little too early for you to be up? Another bad dream?”

Nicolas keeps his voice the right balance of soft and teasing. The small boy nods, tiny fists curling into Nicolas’ jacket. Ah, one of those dreams then. He plops back into his arm chair and meets Vash’s curious gaze. He cradles the boy, uncaring of the snot and tears, and raises his brows.

“We have a chapel out front, sure, but this place is actually an orphanage,” Nicolas explains with a light tone. This is what's at stake.

Vash’s eyes soften and he sets down the empty bowl. The kid whips around, eyes wide, just now realizing he has an audience. His teary face flushes with embarrassment before hiding himself in Nicolas’ chest once more. Nicolas can't help but chuckle.

“Hey now, don’t feel bad. This guy’s a crybaby too and he’s all grown up.” Nicolas’ teasing has the boy peeking around curiously.

“It’s true little guy! See?” Vash quickly chimes in, pointing to residual tear tracks. “I just can’t help myself, nothing to be ashamed of.”

Nicolas laughs when the kid shoots Vash a skeptical look. “What a pair you’d be. Come on, say hi to your comrade, crybaby Livio.”

Vash’s stay at the orphanage is brief but… interesting, to say the least.

He spends his time there mostly bedridden, primarily under surveillance. Although Nicolas is 99% sure the man is harmless (to them), he’s still reluctant to leave Vash unsupervised. Miss Melanie comes in to check once, while Vash is sleeping, and even then Nicolas hesitated to leave him alone.

But there’d been nothing to worry about. Vash mainly naps during the day, only waking long enough to inhale the meals Melanie brings them and annoy Nicolas—the only two things he seems to be good for. Well, that and Livio seems to like him.

When the boy had barged in after his nightmare, Nicolas would’ve never guessed he’d become fast friends with the mysterious gunslinger. But Livio really warmed up to Vash, much quicker than he usually did. Vash had actually gotten Livio to laugh.

So, he really shouldn’t be surprised when, later that evening, a familiar knock interrupts their dinner. Well, their attempt at dinner, which had quickly devolved into a strange fork-fight over spaghetti. Maybe an interruption is just what they need. Nicolas shoves the plate into Vash’s hand with a look that screams ‘behave’ and opens the door.

Livio’s big golden eyes stare up at him. Nicolas opens the door a bit wider.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Livio looks down, a blush tinting his ears. “Is the big crybaby man still here?”

“Is that my comrade?” At the sound of Vash’s voice, Livio peeks around Nicolas’ legs. Vash sits up in bed and waves. “Hello crybaby Livio!”

Livio practically lights up, returning a shy wave of his own. And, well, Nicolas doesn’t have the heart to turn him away after that. (Nicolas never has the heart to turn Livio away). He opens the door all the way and steps aside, an obvious invitation. Still, Livio hesitates.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he groans. “The food’s getting cold.”

The kid finally scurries inside, beelining for the bed where Vash sits, smiling curiously. Livio loses his courage about halfway there, instead waiting for Nicolas to sit down before clambering onto his lap. Clingy little twerp.

Then, the dance begins: Livio looks at Vash. Vash looks back and smiles. Livio blushes and looks away. Oh boy. Intervention needed immediately.

“Go ahead, speak. He ain’t gonna bite.” Nicolas teases, then tilts head at Vash consideringly. “Well, maybe…”

“Hey,” Vash whines, but his smile is the most genuine Nicolas has seen yet.

“Mr. Big Crybaby—”

Vash laughs at the address and flails. “Hey now, my name’s Vash. At least call me that.”

“Okay. Mr. Crybaby Vash,” this time it’s Nicolas that laughs, but Livio ignores him, “are you feeling better?”

“Oh yeah, much better! Your, uh, Wolfwood here’s taken good care of me.”

Livio nods sagely. “Nico-nii is good at bandaging things. The kids get hurt a lot.”

“Little twerp,” Nicolas laughs, pinching his cheek. “Don’t go talking like half the injuries aren’t your clumsy ass.”

Livio giggles but his attention is still fixed on Vash. Specifically, on Vash’s bandaged midsection. Nicolas changed the bandages a few hours ago, so they’re clean, but he knows Livio remembers what they looked like earlier this morning, spotted with fresh blood. Vash seems to notice his stare and sits up straighter.

“Are you worried about this? Never fear! My stomach is stronger than ever!” Vash announces in a bombastic voice that makes Nicolas snort.

Livio watches him with amused, bright eyes as Vash grabs the giant plate of spaghetti and begins inhaling it at a rapid rate. It’s pretty impressive, in all honesty, until Nicolas realizes—

“Hey you idiot! That's my dinner too!”

Vash stares up at him, cheeks bulging. He swallows. “Oops?”

“You piss me off!” Nicolas takes a swing at him but Vash dodges.

“My bad!”

The sound of Livio’s laughter is a welcome backtrack to their now almost commonplace bickering. Honestly, Nicolas knows he has a bit of a temper issue, but no one gets under his skin quite like this guy does. It's gonna be a long, long night.

Like a whirlwind, Vash is there one day and gone the next.

In the end, the only ones who truly interacted with the strange man were Nicolas and little Livio. There’s nothing left to remember him by except for some blood spots, and a hastily written thank you note.

Nicolas pats his breast pocket and feels the paper crinkle within. He’s not sure why he kept the note. Vash left weeks ago. Chances are, he’ll never see the man again. And good riddance! For a whole day and two nights, he did nothing but take up space and resources and give Nicolas at least seven migraines.

As he sucks the last bit of life from his fifth smoke, Nicolas pulls out the note.

Wolfwood,

Thanks again for all your help. I’ll never forget it. You have a really good heart, no matter how much you try to act otherwise! I knew it from the moment we met. I could see it in your eyes.

Sorry about eating all the spaghetti! Have a long and happy life.

Vash

His name is scratched out and replaced with a ridiculous doodle. A self-portrait of sorts, complete with that stupid smile and a wonky peace sign. What a joke. Nicolas carefully folds the note along its creases, and pockets it again. Yeah, yeah. Clowns are running the circus, or however that saying goes.

The sound of laughter marks the end of his smoke break. He crushes the butt underfoot and clears the air just in time for a gaggle of kids to come barreling around the corner. Nicolas bites back a smile

“Woah, easy there, where’s the fire?” He holds his hands up for the kids to stop and they quickly circle around him, calling out all at once.

“Nico-nii! Take me with you! I finished all my chores already!”

“No, I wanna go! Nico, I helped Miss Melanie hang all the laundry.”

“No fair, I asked first!”

“I asked yesterday!”

Nicolas laughs as the kids bicker. This is a simple type of joy, one he never tires of. He lets their debates go on for the length it takes to double-check his bike for safety and whatnot. Then, he straightens up and claps twice. The kids fall silent. Nicolas smirks.

“I don’t know why you do this every time. There’s a schedule for a reason.”

On cue, all the kids whine. Nicolas shakes his head, just this side of fond.

“Jasmine, Livio. Jump in the sidecar and strap in. We gotta get going.”

The rest of the group groans and gripes as two small bodies scurry forward. Well, more like Jasmine scurries forward with her gap-toothed grin, dragging a sullen Livio behind her. Poor kid always gets like this when it’s his turn to head into town. Acting as if he’s stealing a spot from someone more deserving. As if the orphanage staff didn’t write and publish a fair schedule for these trips weeks in advance.

Well, Jasmine’s spunky enough for the both of them; that’s why they’re often paired together.

“Alright you hoodlums. You be good for Melanie and Jerome, y’hear?”

Tiny voices cry out their last ditch pleas.

“Uh-uh. None of that. You know we don’t switch kids around for good behavior,” Nicolas pauses and lets his eyes scan the crowd, “But we do remove kids for bad behavior.”

A hush falls over the group. Nicolas fights the twitch in his lip and maintains his serious look. Rina, a scrawny little thing who can never keep still for long, is the first to snap.

“I’ll be good! I need to mop the halls today! Bye Nico, please bring me a snack!” She sprints away, messy curls bouncing around her.

Her eagerness lights a match under the other kids, each hellbent on proving how “good” they can be. As if Nicolas didn’t just say that goodness wouldn’t earn them more favors. Well, whatever helps the staff out most in the end. Blessings come in all sorts of forms, or whatever.

He shakes his head and turns back to his bike. Jasmine and Livio are already strapped into the sidecar. Nicolas slides his sunglasses on and straddles the worn leather seat.

“Ready kiddos?”

Two affirmatives reply, one an enthusiastic cheer, the other subdued. Good enough. Nicolas kickstarts the engine and sets off. He isn’t too worried; Jasmine is great at dragging Livio out of his moods, and the kid will cheer up once they’re in town and away from the other children.

He takes a right, descending into the canyon-like-cliffs and begins to weave his way through. The rock formations, the steep inclines and sudden declines, it all makes the area confusing and treacherous; only a well-versed traveler could navigate with any accuracy. When he’d first stumbled upon it years ago, he knew he’d found the perfect place for their new home.

The closest “big city” was New Nevada, and even that place was humble by certain standards. There were other small settlements scattered here and there, in all directions with the orphanage at the center. Once you knew how to navigate the canyons, some towns were just a stone’s throw away.

Nicolas always makes the longer trips, but sometimes Melanie or Jerome or even Jian will make a quick trip into the smaller towns. It took Nicolas months to let anyone else make a trip away from the orphanage, even longer to let the children tag along. But after a firm sit-down with Melanie he was forced to unclench and let live.

He’d already relocated the orphanage and eliminated their worst threat, but still… still…

A chorus of laughter brings him back to the present. He glances over and grins. Jasmine leans over the edge of the sidecar, not far enough to be dangerous, but just enough for the wind to whip her hair even more furiously. Livio clings to her overalls with a white-knuckled grip, but he’s giggling too. Nicolas revs the engine and dares to speed up just a bit more. Anything for more of that laughter.

Simple joys.

“Okay, what are the rules again?”

“Be polite.” “Don’t leave with strangers!” “Stay together.” “No begging!” “Only shop on the mainstreet.” “Ummm… don’t, uh-”

Nicolas ruffles Jasmine’s hair with a laugh. “You got them all, you don’t gotta go making up new ones.”

Nicolas directs their attention to the giant clock in the town’s square. Livio dutifully looks up even as Jasmine squirms in his grip; she doesn't try to break away, fingers snuggly intertwined, she's just impatient. Nicolas fights a sigh.

“It’s just past one o’clock now. I want you back here at half-past and not a minute later, got it?”

Livio nods gravely and Jasmine gives an enthusiastic cheer. Nicolas keeps eye-contact with Livio a moment longer. You’re in charge, okay? He conveys. I’ll take care of her. Those golden-eyes answer. Nicolas waves his hand and off they go.

This was a tradition that sort of started by accident. Almost a year after relocating the orphanage, Miss Melanie insisted on celebrating by taking the children into town. Back in December, the orphanage had been separate from the town, but never completely isolated. It was good for the children, she argued, to get out and socialize. She pleaded enough that Nicolas finally caved, loading up their rickety bus and heading to one of the closer towns.

Nicolas then proceeded to have a heart attack when Melanie gave all the kids some spending money and let them loose in the town square.

All the kids came back, perfectly fine save for some ice cream induced nausea. Miss Melanie quietly told him that night that while she deeply appreciated how Nicolas kept them safe, he also needed to learn to trust again. Not everything or everyone meant them harm; to many of the towns, they were just a quiet little orphanage, hardly worth mentioning.

Or rather, the towns learned that they’d rather not mention it.

He isn’t sure how that all started, but he wasn’t gonna stop it. If the towns figured on their own that the orphanage wanted to remain hidden, then by God let them help. Two years into their exodus and Nicolas is finally growing comfortable. He dares say he trusts the people in these towns.

“Afternoon Mr. Priest! Errand day?”

Nicolas smiles and walks towards the newsstand. Manning the stand, as usual, is Marge, an elderly woman that prides herself as the town gossip. Gossip and news go hand in hand on NoMan’s Land, after all.

“Afternoon Marge, just got done. It was time to pick up new threads for the kids. Can’t have them running around in patched up rags forever.”

Marge looks over at his bike and whistles. A giant cargo bag is strapped to the seat with some other, smaller bags in the sidecar for the kids to hold.

“Made some good money off that last bounty, did’ya?”

Her croaky laugh brings a more genuine smile to his face. Perhaps the towns also treated them all so well because Nicolas was good at cleaning up the riff raff. The bounty hunting started off as a way to make sure no one was hunting their trail. One thing led to another and now Nicolas was fed all the latest gossip about shady figures passing through, causing trouble.

He isn’t too torn up about it. The orphanage has to bring in money somehow.

“Got any new scoops for me Marge?”

“Oh do I. Nick, you’re not gonna believe this one.”

He chuckles and leans in for a story. Marge likes to exaggerate, but her sources are reliable. If she raved on about a big name outlaw, it usually turned out to be true. Tanned, wrinkled hands slide over a stack of bounty posters as she starts talking about some real commotion that stirred up the town just last night.

“There we were, enjoying our night in the saloon with this jolly stranger, when in barged the Turpin brothers, guns blazing!”

He’s just started studying a new bounty poster with a strangely familiar character when something runs into his leg. He looks down. Jasmine clings to his pants with wide eyes. Livio isn’t with her. Nicolas immediately goes on high alert.

“Jasmine. Where’s Livio?”

He fights to keep the panic out of his voice, but his mind’s already leaping to worst case scenarios. Livio wouldn’t leave Jasmine. Unless it was to protect her, or unless he was taken, and what if they got Livio again—

“He told me to get you. Come quick. Quick!”

She tugs on his pant leg then grabs at his hand and drags with all her might. That kicks him into motion. Nicolas’ heart races as they run down the street, passing shops and faces filled with concern. The only thing grounding him is the small hand in his and the cold press of the pistol in his belt. Jasmine slows down as they near an alley towards the edge of the main street, the absolute border of where the kids are allowed to wander.

Nicolas could’ve cried with relief when he sees Livio there, peeking out curiously. Upon seeing them, he steps out of the alley with a wave. A cursory glance shows he’s whole and unharmed. Nicolas’ panic and adrenaline quickly turn to fury.

“Livio! The hell were you thinking, letting Jasmine go alone like that?”

Golden eyes blink, taken aback. Sure, Nicolas often groaned and griped at the kids, but he rarely ever expresses genuine anger.

“But Nico—”

Nicolas drops to the ground and drags him into a crushing hug. He isn’t sure who’s shaking more, him or Livio. Nicolas doesn’t let the hug drag, though. He’s still, rightfully, pretty pissed. He pulls back and grips Livio’s shoulders. Small, still so small even at ten years old. Small and fragile and vulnerable.

“No buts! Livio, you know the rules. You know why we have them.”

Livio blinks away tears. “I know. I’m sorry Nico-nii. But…”

Before he can begin to explain, someone interrupts.

“Aw, don’t get mad at the poor kid. It was my fault.”

Nicolas’ eyes snap up. Limping closer to the mouth of the alley is a familiar red-clad silhouette. Even obscured by shadow, those blue eyes shine bright, sparkling with mirth

“Hello there, Mr. Wolfwood priest sir. Fancy meeting you here!” Vash’s distinct voice calls out in good humor.

Nicolas releases his hold on Livio and pushes him towards Jasmine, then pushes both kids behind him. The girl immediately clings to Livio with glossy eyes; sympathy tears. Livio returns the embrace, looking distinctly guilty. Nicolas sighs.

“I don’t believe in fancies. What’re you doing here?” Nicolas can’t hide the accusation in his voice. His mind spins with possibilities: Did he seek them out? For what purpose? Was Nicolas mistaken, and this guy is actually working for them?

Vash scratches his head with a laugh, but the movement is stiff. Uncomfortable. Pained, even. Nicolas narrows his eyes.

“I mean, I wasn’t trying to find you or anything. Just passing through this lovely town. Honest!” Vash is clearly avoiding his suspicious gaze. “Plus, Livio’s the one that found me first. I wasn’t gonna say anything…”

Vash seems to run out of energy mid-spiel, leaning heavily against the alley wall. The pain in his eyes is clear as day, even behind those stupid yellow glasses. If Vash was an actor, he was a pretty damn good one. Nicolas sighs something heavy and moves closer.

“First you tell me not to get mad at the kid, then you go and blame the kid anyway?”

“Uhhh…” he utters dumbly, caught in his hypocrisy. Nicolas tsks.

“And what’s wrong with your leg?” He asks brusquely, stepping fully into the alley. Vash’s eyes widen.

“Nothing! I’m totally—” here he shifts his weight and lets out a wheeze, “fine. Totally fine.”

Nicolas sneers and grabs onto Vash’s limp arm. He lets out a pained yelp. “And your arm is totally fine too? How about your ribs? Or is it your back that’s got you breathing all weird?”

Vash stares at him, all confusion and surprise. “Anyone ever tell you you’re way too observant, Wolfwood?”

“Don’t get smart with me, needle-noggin. Do you want help or not?”

It takes a moment for the offer to register, what with hostility still coating his voice.

“I, uh, wait what—”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

Vash averts his gaze, playful smile dimming some. “I… I don’t wanna cause you any trouble…”

Nicolas curses under his breath; why’d this guy have to make everything so difficult? “Listen, I’m heading back to the orphanage now. You can come with me, or continue to creep in the alleys. I’m guessing there’s a good reason why you’re not at the doctor’s?”

“Ahaha, well, see funny story—”

“I don’t care.” Nicolas refused to get off topic. “I’m getting my bike. When I drive by, get on. Or don’t. See if I care.”

Nicolas turns around in a huff and almost startles at the two pairs of eyes trained on him. He’d, somehow, forgotten about the kids in the midst of his annoyance. He works to gentle his expression as he walks out of the alley, herding the kids down the street. The kids stay quiet, sensing his sour mood, but Jasmine takes his hand in a show of comfort. That goes a long way to mellowing him out.

Nicolas breathes out the last of his tension and squeezes Jasmine’s hand. With the other he reaches out for Livio, ruffling his pale locks playfully. Big eyes peer up at him. Nicolas smiles.

“Sorry for snapping earlier. I was worried.”

“It’s okay, Nico-nii. I’m sorry again. I know I shouldn’t be alone, but I thought… since it was Mr. Vash…” Livio trails off, losing his courage.

Nicolas hums. “I see. Since you were talking with Mr. Vash, you technically weren’t alone, right?”

Livio nods slowly.

“Okay. Well, what about Jasmine? You let her run off alone.”

Livio frowns, hanging his head in shame. Nicolas waits a beat then bops his head gently.

“Don’t stay silent. Explain your reasoning to me.”

“I thought…” Livio starts nervously. “Mr. Vash looked hurt so I stayed… but I needed to get you… and I could see Jasmine all the way until she got to you…”

Nicolas hums in understanding. “Like how I let you wander on your own, as long as I can still see you?”

Livio nods again, hunching his shoulders. Making himself smaller. They’re almost back to the newsstand now.

“I’m not knocking your logic, that makes sense Livio. But consider this,” Nicolas stops and gets on eye level with the kid, “I’m a lot bigger than you. I’m faster than you and I’m stronger than you. So if I see something happen to you, I can do something about it from a distance. You can’t. Not yet. Understand?”

Livio meets his gaze and processes the words. Nicolas then has the pleasure of witnessing his remorse turn to determination, his nod much stronger this time. He smiles and ruffles his hair again.

“Good. Alright, now get settled back into the sidecar. We’re done here.”

“What about Mr. Vash?” Jasmine pipes up at last, looking much too concerned.

“Honey, you don’t even know him,” Nicolas laughs. Jasmine pouts up at him, but he can see the real concern reflected in Livio’s eyes. Nicolas sighs.

“I don’t know if he wants to come with us. We’ll drive by to pick him up, but if he’s not there or says no, then we need to leave him alone, okay?”

The kids take a moment to think about it but agree soon enough. He watches as they begin piling into the sidecar before remembering his interrupted conversation. Nicolas trots back over to Marge with a quick apology. The old woman waves him off.

“No worries Nick. Just glad the kiddos are okay. Heading back now?”

“Yeah, enough excitement for one day,” he chuckles.

“Maybe you can make another trip soon,” Marge suggests, sliding over another wanted poster. “Like I said, got some interesting stories for you.”

Nicolas pockets the poster with a smirk. “You always do Marge. Take care.”

When he turns back, the kids are strapped in and ready to go. Nicolas takes his seat, kicks the bike into action, and putters down the main street. He slows as he reaches the alley but a quick glance lets him know Vash is long gone.

He refuses to call the twist in his gut disappointment.

Nicolas speeds up and takes the main street all the way out of town. As they pass the last of the buildings, Livio makes a startled sound; Nicolas doesn’t need to ask. He can see the red figure in the distance, waiting for them.

At their speed, the distance closes in no time. Vash waves as they stop and he limps over to the bike. How Vash made it this far out of town that quickly on a bum leg was a mystery for another time. The mystery of how to transport an extra grown man on his packed bike takes precedence.

There’s really only one place to put him. Nicolas grits his teeth. “You got one good arm, yeah?”

“Yeah…” Vash answers nervously.

Nicolas nods. “‘Kay, hop on behind me.”

Vash purses his lips but says nothing. It’s an awkward mess of hops and scoots but eventually they’re both situated on the seat. The seat is definitely not designed for two and Nicolas resigns himself for a rather long, uncomfortable drive home.

“Hang on as much as you can, Spikey.”

That’s the only warning he gets before Nicolas kicks the bike into high gear. We’ll, the highest gear he would risk with three passengers and a mountain of bags. Vash clenches one hand onto his jacket, which switches to a single arm looped around his waist. Nicolas can feel the other arm braced against his back.

Even in the quiet, empty desert the roar of the engine is loud enough to drown out their voices. That’s why Nicolas has no qualms about leaning back and attempting to speak to Vash privately; the kids have no chance of overhearing.

“Are your bones broken?”

“Not sure,” he chuckles in that nervous way of his. “I don’t think my leg is. My arm…”

He trails off. That doesn’t sound promising. Nicolas can feel the heat of his arm, even through all their layers of clothes. Heat like that was almost surely a bad sign. Nicolas sighs for the umpteenth time that day.

“And your ribs?”

“Bruised for sure. Maybe fractured? Nothing too serious.”

“Nothing too serious, he says,” Nicolas mimics in a nasally tone, “Just some broken and bruised bones, that’s all.”

“Hey now…”

“Bet all you need is a solid nap or something.”

“It’s not nice to harass the injured,” Vash whines.

“I never said I was nice. That was all you, blondie.”

They fall silent after that. Nicolas thinks about pushing, about asking where those injuries came from. He doubts he’ll get a straight answer. He has a sneaking suspicion he would probably get a better answer from Marge. So, he keeps his eyes forward and trucks on, navigating the endless stretch of red sand with ease.

Time passes in a haze, between keeping an eye on the children, the road, and taking stock of Vash behind him. He’s tuned in to every minute shift, every strained breath. So he feels the exact moment Vash starts losing consciousness. Again. Sure, this is only the second time they’d met, but something tells Nicolas that fainting spells are just a thing with this guy.

Once Nicolas makes it back to the safety of the cliffs, he slows down some. The high stone walls provide more than just protection from curious eyes; they also block out most of the harsh sun at this time of day. For both reasons he huffs a breath of relief.

It isn’t long before the endless twists and turns give way to their little white chapel. Upon seeing them, someone rings the iron bell to welcome them home. At the sound, Livio and Jasmine perk up from where they’d been dozing off. Miss Melanie opens the chapel doors and releases the kids to run amok in the courtyard. The two in his sidecar sit up, waving and hollering at the crowd, who all wave and holler back. Nicolas rolls his eyes fondly at the sight. Kids. Always so dramatic.

“Wow, nice welcome party,” Vash chuckles sleepily, breath warm on Nicolas’ neck.

“Yeah, welcome back to the land of the living. Have a nice nap back there?” Nicolas breathes easier as Vash sits up, putting some space between them again.

“Oops, you caught me.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t fall off.”

“Devil’s luck they say.”

Nicolas bites back a retort in favor of finally pulling his bike to a stop. The kids swarm around him, barely leaving him space to get the kickstand down. Livio hops out of the sidecar as soon as they stop and helps Jasmine out. Good boy. Guess Nicolas has to follow his example.

He gets off the bike first, catching the way Vash wobbles in his seat, off balance. He extends a hand and grabs Vash’s good arm, helping him anchor his weight. Vash smiles crookedly in thanks and uses the leverage to slide off the bike.

Vash’s presence yields at least one positive side-effect: all the kids seem too interested about their strange visitor to harp at him about snacks and gifts and whatever else. Nicolas keeps a hold on Vash’s arm as he addresses the crowd.

“Kids, this is Vash. He got hurt in town so he’s going to be staying with us for a bit. Mind your manners. Got it?”

The kids shout their agreements but Nicolas can see the burning curiosity in their eyes. Even Miss Melanie looks ready to bombard him with questions. They have to get going or they may never escape; Vash is lilting to the side, probably lightheaded from the pain. Shooing off the kids, Nicolas loops Vash’s good arm over his shoulder to carry more of his weight.

“Alright princess, let’s get you inside,” he grumbles, making their way to the building.

“P-princess?” Vash sputters. He stumbles as they move, either from the nickname or the pain. Nicolas catches him easily and smirks.

“Sorry, is it too hard to walk? Need this humble servant to carry you inside?”

Nicolas gets the pleasure of watching Vash blush, all the way to his spikey, blonde roots. His face crumples in embarrassment.

“You’re the worst.”

Nicolas laughs. They fall silent after that, hobbling slowly but steadily into the building. As they trek down the halls, Vash takes the chance to glance around. Nicolas lets him. It isn’t a crime to be familiar with your surroundings.

Finally, they reach the infirmary. Nicolas pushes open the door and leads Vash to the nearest cot. It isn’t the most impressive layout, just a few sickbeds and basic equipment, but it serves them well. Vash looks around the room curiously.

“This is different.”

“Yeah, well, since the kids’ve already seen you and you’re not bleeding all over the place, I don’t gotta hole you up in my room.”

He lowers Vash onto one of the beds, mindful of his leg. Vash nods absently.

“Makes sense—wait, that was your room?”

Nicolas grunts an affirmative as he riffles through a few different cabinets. Vash goes suspiciously quiet. Nicolas turns back to him and is met with a scandalized look.

“What’s that face for needle-noggin?”

“I was here for two nights.”

Nicolas walks back with his arms full of supplies. He lifts a brow, unimpressed.

“That you were. Not long enough, given the depth of some of those wounds.”

“Where—but—I…” Vash stutters as Nicolas pulls up a chair and starts inspecting the wounded leg first.

“I’m sorry, d’ya got a concussion too?”

“No! No, I just—” he winces as his leg is jostled. Tough luck, it’s impossible not to jostle when he’s wearing knee-high leather-strap boots. Vash leans down to help unbuckle them. His cheeks pink as he continues, “I mean, that means I stole your bed. And… I was bleeding. A lot?”

Nicolas snorts. “Is that what's got your panties in a twist?”

Once the boot is off, the bruising on his shin makes clear where the damage is at. Thankfully, Vash was right; the bones don't seem broken, but he’ll brace it to be safe.

“Don’t worry about it,” Nicolas continues as he works. “I wouldn’t have put you there if I cared about a little blood. Those definitely weren’t the first stains, and they probably won’t be the last.”

Done with that, he motions at Vash to take off his coat. When it becomes obvious that it’s not a one-armed job, Nicolas helps out. And how could he forget the leather monstrosity Vash wore underneath? Luckily, his arm is only covered by a single leather glove that ends at his bicep. Unluckily, his arm is in significantly worse shape than his leg.

Vash is more than capable of getting the glove off himself with his uninjured arm. Nicolas winces once it’s totally removed. The skin is mottled with black bruising and internal bleeding; his arm looks less broken and more crushed.

“Yeah, okay, I don’t care what you say. This is definitely not healing in a day.”

Nicolas isn’t sure where to start. The skin is hot to the touch, way more than it should’ve been. Does this need surgery? Nicolas is good at patching up wounds, but not that good.

“It’s not as bad as it looks…” Vash murmurs ruefully.

“I hope not, 'cuz this looks pretty damn bad.” Nicolas gingerly turns Vash’s arm around by the wrist. “I don’t even know if bracing it will help. You need a real doctor, bounty be damned.”

“I just bruise easily!” Vash protests. “Just a brace and sling will work—wait, bounty? What…” Vash’s bright blue eyes dim as he registers the information.

“Oh, yeah, picked this up in town.” Nicolas makes a show of pulling the wanted poster out of his jacket and studying it. “Gotta say, I’m pretty darn humbled to have the Stampede in my presence. Twice now!”

Vash grabs the poster and studies it with a nervous laugh. His eyes immediately turn skittish, darting around the room. It's eerily reminiscent of that first night, that energy of a scared animal.

“What’s that look for?” Nicolas breaks the silence, taking back the poster. Vash meets his eyes dead-on. It sends a weird shiver down his spine. When he speaks, Vash’s voice is oddly quiet.

“Is this a trap?”

Nicolas blinks. “Excuse me?”

Vash proceeds to put on the fakest smile Nicolas has seen yet.

“I understand, the bounty is pretty enticing! And I’m sure it takes money to run an orphanage. It’s a good cause and everything.” His smile falters. “But you see, I can’t afford to be caught right now, and I’d really rather not make a mess of this place if you try.”

“Was that a threat?” Nicolas whispers. Vash’s eyes get all big again.

“No!” He exclaims, waving his good arm. “The opposite really. Just honest to God asking to be… left alone.”

“Uh-huh. Well, lucky for you I am a bounty hunter, but I ain’t stupid or suicidal.” Nicolas grabs Vash’s arm again; Vash meets his eyes in bafflement. Nicolas elaborates. “60 billion double dollars? Nothing worth that much is actually worth going for.”

“I… yeah, not worth it…” Vash trails off, the fight leaving him as quickly as it appeared. Nicolas takes that as the go ahead to continue and begins the ugly process of bracing Vash’s arm. They sit in silence for the length it takes Nicolas to brace and wrap his forearm. When Vash speaks again, there’s an edge of desperation.

“But then, I really don’t understand why you’re helping me again.”

“Yeah I wonder that too,” Nicolas grumbles under his breath. He glances up into Vash’s big ol’ eyes and sucks his teeth. “If I didn’t take you, someone else was bound to find you. And the way people were whispering, they would’ve tried to capture you for the money.”

That shuts him up again. Nicolas starts feeling up Vash’s upper arm, placing a brace, and keeps talking.

“New Nevada is the only big town around here. I’d hate for it to get destroyed just cuz they decided to take a shot at the humanoid typhoon.”

“I wouldn’t have hurt anybody…” Vash’s voice is pitiful. It pisses Nicolas off. So, he maybe tightens the second brace a touch too harshly. Give the guy something to actually cry about.

“Anyway, let’s call it disaster prevention,” Nicolas finally wraps Vash’s braced arm into a sling. He sits back and fishes out a cigarette; after a day like today, he deserves it. “You’ll stay here until those bones are all the way healed. And then, you’re gonna go away, as far away from here as possible. Understand?”

Vash looks pained, emotionally that is, by his declaration. “Wolfwood, I—”

“Understand?”

Nicolas won’t budge on this. Vash might be a nice guy and all, but a name like that attracts trouble, and trouble is the last thing he wants. Vash seems to realize this and visibly wilts, resigned. Nicolas pretends that it doesn't hurt his heart a little.

“Yes.”

“Good. Now…” Nicolas turns, picks up a pre-filled syringe and taps it twice. “Say goodnight.”

“Wait, what’s in that?” Vash’s eyes are wide and fixed on the needle, but he doesn’t resist as Nicolas stabs his arm. Too damn trusting.

“Painkiller, fever reducer, antibiotics and,” Vash slumps over into Nicolas’ waiting arms, “A mild sedative.”

Nicolas shifts Vash’s body with a grunt. Why is this guy so heavy? He lays him back on the cot, arranging his braced arm and leg, then pulls a blanket over top. Even with an insane metabolism or whatever else Vash might have, that sedative should keep him knocked out for a few hours. Just enough time for Nicolas to get everything in order with the orphanage.

Something tells him this is gonna be an extended stay.

Chapter Text

Knowing who Vash is actually does a lot to put his mind at ease about the guy.

For one, no way would an outlaw like that be working under anybody. With the title and reputation of a human natural disaster, Vash would be the one to command a horde of henchmen, not be a henchman. For another, Nicolas is seriously doubting the credibility of their government.

This guy? Responsible for wiping out July? Countless atrocities and crimes? Sure.

There’s definitely something different about Vash, no doubt about it. Nicolas is sure the guy is dangerous in his own right, but 60 billion double dollars? It’s suspicious to say the least.

It would take a rightful message from above for Nicolas to believe that the guy currently weeping into his morning oatmeal was responsible for even half of what rumor said.

Nicolas finishes his morning smoke right as Vash finishes his breakfast. Enough early morning musings. He grabs a bag off the floor and tosses it onto the bed.

“There’s some clean clothes and toiletries in there. There’s a washroom attached to the infirmary, right through that door.”

Vash hands Nicolas his empty bowl and picks up the bag. Seems he’s done getting overly emotional about every little thing. Nicolas helps him stand from the bed and isn’t surprised to see his limp already improved. Nicolas watches him walk away with a frown.

“If you’re gonna shower, don’t get that arm wet. ”

Vash chuckles. “Trust me, this ain’t my first rodeo.”

The door to the bathroom clicks shut. Nicolas sticks around for another smoke. Y’know, just in case the invalid slipped and fell or something. The spray from the shower echoes in the empty infirmary, barely muffled by the closed door. Nicolas sits and listens to it, up until some God-awful singing joins in and shatters the peace.

“Yeah, okay, I’m taking a walk.”

Nicolas takes two laps around the halls, just to be safe. He knocks before reentering the infirmary; a suspicious clattering follows before Vash’s voice calls out.

“Uh, come in?”

Vash stands by his bed, donning a pair of worn jeans and half a button up shirt. Nicolas doesn’t hesitate to approach and help get his slinged arm through the second sleeve. Vash smiles in thanks, and maybe it’s the outfit change or the way his hair flops in his eyes, but he seems softer. Nicolas clears his throat and steps back.

“I’m glad the clothes fit.”

“Yeah! A little baggy, but comfy.”

“Not my fault you’re so twiggy. At least we’re basically the same height.” Nicolas shrugs and begins walking away.

“Wait, are these your clothes?” Nicolas keeps walking. “Wolfwood! Wait up!”

“What? I’m not your babysitter this time. I have work to do.” He calls out over his shoulder. He can hear Vash scrambling to follow him.

“Well what should I do?”

“Uh, rest?” Nicolas replies incredulously.

“I can’t just sit around all day,” the man whines. Nicolas stops in the middle of the hall and waves a hand over Vash’s… everything.

“Spikey, what can you expect to do like that?”

“I still have one good arm!”

“Yeah, your left arm.”

“I’m ambidextrous?”

Nicolas stares him down. Vash stares back. Crap, this guy is serious, huh?

“Whatever. Come with me then, needle-noggin.”

He takes off down the hall, listening to Vash’s uneven footsteps following behind. He subtly slows his pace and hopes in vain that Vash won’t notice. Nicolas only takes a moment to decide where to dump Vash for the day; if he lasts that long. Well, he’s confident Vash can find his way back to the infirmary when he eventually tires out.

The kitchens are as good a place as any to dump him. Miss Melanie always needs extra hands; if not with the cooking and cleaning, then with keeping the clingier children distracted. So, even one-handed, Vash should be able to help with something.

Melanie welcomes them curiously but doesn’t seem nervous about being left with Vash. If anything, Vash looks more nervous, as if he’s desperate to leave a good impression. Good. Let him sweat a little. Miss Melanie is clearly the one in control here, immediately assigning Vash a series of tasks he’s able to complete.

Nicolas nods a goodbye at Melanie who winks in return and goes about his own business.

His morning is spent making repairs to the roof with Jerome. NoMan’s Land doesn’t have seasons per se, but it does have bouts of high winds and sandstorms. The stormy season won’t hit for another few weeks, but it’s always better to be prepared. They’d learned that the hard way.

For the next few hours, Nicolas lets the heat and hard labor finally clear his mind.

Nicolas doesn’t necessarily forget about who Vash is, but as the days go on the threat he poses gets smaller and smaller, so Nicolas at least stops worrying. The journey of Vash proving himself to be harmless goes something like this:

When Nicolas comes back to the kitchen at the end of that first day, he finds Vash covered in flour, baking cookies with some of the younger kids. They’re all laughing, cutting out different shapes and making a damn mess. Even Miss Melanie is watching them fondly as she finishes preparing dinner.

He lingers in the doorway for a long time. Enough time for them to finish arranging the cookies on a sheet and for little Rina to run them over for Melanie to place in the stove. Vash starts cleaning up, telling the kids he’s tired and needs to rest now. Right. That’s why Nicolas is here, to check on Vash, get him back to the infirmary, make sure he’s not causing trouble… Not to stand here mooning.

Nicolas must make a noise or something because suddenly, Vash is looking right at him. The genuinely pure and joyful expression on the man’s face hits like a punch to the gut.

“Look at that, you can smile.”

The words are out his mouth before he can stop them. Vash tilts his head curiously and Nicolas needs to stop with the puppy comparisons.

“What do you mean?” His smile is losing some of its light, but he’s still relaxed as he takes off the apron (apron!) and hobbles over to Nicolas.

“You always smile all cheerfully, but it’s always so empty,” Nicolas answers dumbly, honestly. He adds another nail to the coffin.“Sometimes it hurts to look at you.”

Vash doesn’t reply. Nicolas fidgets, tries to add less seriously, “Well, but that’s just how it looks to me.”

They start down the hall in silence. Vash isn’t smiling anymore. He looks contemplative. If Nicolas thought he felt awkward before, he’s feeling dreadful now. He scowls and scratches at his hair in frustration.

“Sorry, that was kinda harsh. Don’t think about it too hard, needle-noggin. I just like to see you smiling.”

This time, the honesty is intentional, but still just as embarrassing. He just wants to wipe that look off Vash’s face. And he succeeds. Vash is looking at him with a new expression, still contemplative, but his lips are twitching with amusement. Nicolas, absolutely not flustered, hurries down the hall, ignoring Vash’s clumsy steps as he scrambles to follow.

The next day, he’s more at ease leaving Vash alone. Nicolas brings him breakfast and has his morning smoke. They walk together to the kitchens, where Melanie greets him with a smile. Nicolas lingers long enough to see Vash don the same apron from yesterday. He feels heat crawl up his neck and decides, yup, time to go. Roof ain’t gonna fix itself.

Nicolas finds him in the evening playing tag with the kids, his limp basically non-existent. His shin wasn’t broken, sure, but Nicolas bet it was at least a hairline fracture. Basically healed in two days.

Vash’s arm does take longer to heal, but it does heal. By the third day, they take the sling off Vash’s arm, but keep it braced. Vash continues helping with light kitchen duty and keeping kids occupied.

On the fourth morning, Nicolas inspects Vash’s arm after breakfast. The bruising has faded and nothing feels ultra tender to the touch. Vash seems to have a good range of motion as well.

“Well I’ll be damned, it’s looking good.” Nicolas sits back and shakes out a cigarette. “I honestly wasn’t very optimistic about that arm.”

“Don’t say that,” Vash chuckles, rolling his wrist. “This is the only arm I’ve got.”

“It…” Nicolas frowns. “What?”

Vash blinks. “What?”

“Needle-noggin, you’ve got another arm right there.”

“Oh… oh,” Vash gets this constipated look about him. “I, uh, I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?” Nicolas hisses, lighting his smoke a touch aggressively. He hated these little back and forths sometimes.

“Well…” Vash holds up his left arm and removes the leather glove he insists on always wearing. “I thought for sure you’d caught on after patching me up a few times.”

Metal. It’s metal under the glove. Vash doesn’t have a left arm, he has a prosthetic.

“Is that why you’re so heavy?” Nicolas blurts out before shaking his head. “No, no way does a prosthetic weigh that much. It’s something else…” his mumbling trails off as his mind whirls. Vash pouts.

“Uh, are you calling me fat?”

Nicolas chokes on smoke. Ridiculous.

“Uh, are you out of your mind?”

Vash chuckles sheepishly. Nicolas studies him for a long moment as he refills his lungs with that sweet, sweet nicotine. Vash tilts his head under the scrutiny. Nicolas shakes his head and exhales. It’s not worth it. Time for a topic change.

“You know anything about vehicles?”

If Vash minds the sudden shift, he doesn’t say so. He thinks about the question and shrugs.

“Yeah, a thing or two.”

Good enough for him. Nicolas nods, mind made up. He stands and motions for Vash to follow.

“Ours need some repair. Help me out today.”

Back behind the orphanage is a detached shed. It houses Nicolas’ bike, their rickety bus, and a smaller jeep-type vehicle. Nicolas is pretty thorough with their vehicle maintenance; reliable transportation is vital for their rural location. He leads Vash into the work shed and begins explaining what needs work.

Yeah, Vash knows “a thing or two” about mechanics. The guy is a little too well-versed in mechanics for someone who can’t actually drive (don’t ask how Nicolas figures that out).

Vash helps him with tune ups for the next couple days, starting mainly as someone to pass the tools and then eventually fixing things himself as he heals. Their conversations are… interesting. Nicolas somehow ends up learning a lot about the guy, yet nothing at all.

He pisses Nicolas off like you can’t imagine; he’s got this weird pacifistic savior complex going on that Nicolas despises. Sometimes it feels like they bicker more than have actual conversations. But sometimes… sometimes they talk.

He tells Vash a little bit more about the orphanage. How they get money, how things are run. The obvious fact that they like to stay hidden, but not the why. How someone is always in the bell tower, keeping watch. How that's probably the source of their rumors.

In return, he learns Vash loves kids, which is kinda obvious. He’s good with them, devastatingly so. He’s goofy and good-hearted, and kinda dumb. Very dumb. Endearingly dumb.

And he’s got something after him. Or he’s after something. It’s hard to tell at times, just that there's something bigger out there, and Vash is part of it. Nicolas convinces himself he wants nothing to do with it.

Vash spends just over a week with them. Nicolas is not counting down the days, waiting for the gunslinger to finally leave him them. Nicolas knows Vash will leave; Nicolas was the one to tell Vash to leave. As far away from here as possible.

Sometimes, Nicolas is an idiot.

The day Vash leaves, the children cry.

Kids weep at everything, of course, and they’ll be over it in a few days, but it’s still hard to watch. Vash bids them all farewell with that same sad smile he so often wears. The one that makes Nicolas want to slap him across the face. Instead, he bumps Vash’s shoulder and grumbles, “Let me give you a ride.”

Vash takes it for the peace offering it is. The ride is silent through the canyon. At Vash’s request, he stops the bike as soon as they hit the endless stretch of red sand. The horizon is devouring the suns, same as the first time they met. Nicolas wonders if he should take that as an omen or not.

Vash lingers by the bike, gazing out at the bleeding sky. Nicolas pops a cigarette in his mouth but doesn’t light it. He just needs something to distract him from the nerves roiling in his gut. He walks up right next to Vash and bumps his shoulder.

“Stay outta trouble this time, why don’t you.”

“Hey, it’s not like I go looking for trouble,” Vash jokes.

“Of course not,” he snipes back sarcastically.

Vash smiles and turns back to the horizon. His shoulders slump with a sigh and Nicolas knows he’s going to leave, going to walk away. Nicolas hesitates. Vash takes a step forward. His hand reaches out, almost of its own volition, and grabs onto a red sleeve.

Vash stops, looks back at him and Nicolas hates how his blue eyes glow in the dying sunlight. Nicolas is still holding his arm. He snatches his hand back and scowls at himself. Refuses to feel shy. He’s not a damn schoolgirl.

“I know I said to get lost before…”

Nicolas trails off, losing confidence. Vash is good, he knows this. He wants to tell him that, that he doesn’t hate him, that he can come back if he wants to, if he needs to. But that’s a selfish desire, isn’t it? Sure, the kids also love him. He’s been nothing but kind and helpful.

But it would be irresponsible to invite another calamity to pass through. Wouldn’t it?

“Wolfwood.” Vash’s gentle voice breaks through his mental spiral. Vash waits until they lock eyes, over top of yellow and black tinted glass, and smiles. “Thank you, I mean it.”

His heart stutters. That smile had to be the most heartbreaking one yet. Nicolas never did find out how old Vash is, but in this moment, the weight of sadness and understanding and longing in his eyes… It feels ancient.

Nicolas clicks his tongue.

“Yeah, whatever, just… Well, you know how to find me now. Don’t abuse that knowledge.”

It’s the best offer he can make. More of an offer than he should make, but something in him so desperately wants to lighten the weight in those eyes.

“Never.” Vash promises and something conflicted yet hopeful flashes in his face. “And, if I happen to be passing through again…”

“It’s not like I can stop a force of nature.” Nicolas shrugs and looks away. Then, he adds quietly, “The kids always love storms, for some reason.”

Vash seems to understand the intent in those words, just how Nicolas understood the intent in his.

This time, when Vash smiles and waves, it’s warm and gentle. Real. Nicolas can tell his own smile is the same. As he watches Vash’s silhouette blend into the red horizon, he gets the vague thought that he hopes Vash does pass through again. Goddamnit.

They always say be careful what you wish for. It seems like after that, Vash seems to be passing through rather regularly.

It doesn’t happen suddenly or all at once; rather, Vash seems to worm his way in like an especially benign parasite. Seemingly harmless, annoying at most, but by the time you realizes the dangers, it’s too late.

Three weeks after Vash leaves the orphanage, Nicolas is out in one of the smaller towns. It has nowhere near as much shopping variety as New Nevada, but the town of Sloan did have the best diner in a 100 mile radius.

Nicolas walks into said diner after his daily errands, hoping for a peaceful lunch before heading back to the orphanage. That hope is quickly shattered.

“Please! There’s gotta be something I can do!”

“Yeah, you can pay up or get lost!”

Who else could it be but Vash the Stampede, the humanoid typhoon himself, on his knees in the middle of a backwater diner. Nicolas is tempted to walk right back out that door. Instead, his feet carry him inexplicably forward.

“Please ma’am, I’ll do anything! I swear—ow!”

Nicolas cuts off his ridiculous begging with a fist to the skull.

“The hell did you do this time, needle noggin?”

“Wolfwood!”

Ariella, the owner of the diner, looks at him in exasperation.

“Nick, you know this idiot?”

“Unfortunately.” He ignores Vash’s indignant cry. “What’s he bugging about?”

Vash leaps to his feet and clutches onto his jacket. Nicolas sputters at the proximity and familiarity.

“Wolfwood, my friend, my pal, mi amigo—”

“Woah there, who said we were friends—”

Vash ignores him, clutching his shoulders and staring deep into his eyes. Nicolas swallows his protests at the serious look in his eyes.

“I’ve chased rumors across this desolate wasteland,” he begins gravely, “searching for the one thing that can only be found in this town, this diner.”

Nicolas chances a glance at Ariella. The woman looks about as lost as he feels. Vash tightens the grip on his shoulders. Nicolas locks eyes with him and nods, ready for whatever Vash may say.

“The best donuts on NoMan’s Land.”

There’s a beat of silence. You could hear a pin drop, probably, but you can definitely hear Ariella’s groan and the grinding of Nicolas’ teeth. That’s the only warning Vash gets before there’s a fist in his face.

“You piss me off!”

The diner is a lively place that afternoon.

Nicolas buys his donuts. In exchange, Vash comes back with him to the orphanage and does all the laundry, by hand, for the rest of the afternoon. And there’s a lot of laundry.

And if, by the time he finishes, it’s too dark to navigate the canyons and leave, well. That’s just how life goes. Vash is gone by dawn anyways.

They don’t miss him for long.

One day, Vash pops up as Nicolas is driving home from Mesa Pueblo. As in, literally pops up, half sunk as he is in a sand dune. Nicolas is tempted to drive past, but Jerome is with him, all bug-eyed panic.

“Wow, you guys are life savers! Oh, me? Well you see, I got turned around when heading to New Miami… really turned around…”

Another time, when Nicolas is on bell duty, he almost knocks himself out while tolling when he sees the companion Melanie and Jian picked up on their grocery run. He, of course, helps put all the groceries away. And then, for being such a big help, Melanie insists he stay for dinner.

On and on it goes.

Then, there’s the incident at Little Esmeralda.

Nicolas is on the hunt today, wanted posters tucked into his pocket, equipped with the steadfast word of Marge. It’s the Buffalo Bandits he’s after, their combined bounty enough to fund the orphanage for another few months. They’ve been running low as of late so Nicolas feels pretty lucky to have gotten such a lucrative tip.

The residents of Little Esmeralda have done well, boarding themselves inside while the bandits terrorize the saloon. Nicolas can hear their crude and raucous laughter from the street. He puts a cigarette between his lips but doesn’t light it. That’s for after.

The situation is typical. He’ll walk in, confirm the targets, and take them down before they can even think to draw. What’s not typical is walking in and being met with a horribly familiar face.

“Vash?” Nicolas can’t help but blurt in surprise, eyes trained on the tied up man currently surrounded by all six Buffalo Bandits. To his credit, Vash looks genuinely abashed about it.

“Wolfwood, what a coincidence…” He replies with a strained chuckle.

“This guy your friend, pretty boy?”

Nicolas looks now at the bandits, all sitting casually at a round table teeming with alcohol. They’re not on guard yet. This can still go according to plan. It’s the bandit closest to Vash that spoke, who now prods Vash with a dirty boot when he doesn’t answer.

“Oh now, I wouldn’t say that—eep!”

Vash gets cut off with the barrel of a gun pressed against his temple. Nicolas consciously keeps his body relaxed. It just takes one wrong move. The bandit chuckles and looks up.

“So?” He’s addressing Nicolas now. “Are you this freak’s friend or not?”

Nicolas puts on a cheesy smile and holds out his hands. “I’m a friend to every lost soul, for we’re all children of God.”

This has the desired effect: it confuses the hell out of the brutes. They mumble and exchange half-drunk glances. One sits up curiously.

“You a clergyman? There’s no church here,” he points out astutely.

“I’m a traveling priest,” Nicolas answers easily, “making sure to spread the good news far and wide.”

Everyone stares at him quizzically (even Vash, that idiot). But no one moves to shoot. Nicolas keeps his posture relaxed and unassuming.

“Would you like to see my Bible?”

He asks that question at the same time he reaches into his blazer. It distracts them enough that Nicolas is able to draw his gun before they can blink.

He shoots three times in succession: first, at the hand holding a gun to Vash’s head; second, at the rope keeping Vash restrained; third, at the magic spot between two eyes that’ll put a man down for good.

Or at least, he’d been aiming for the headshot. Instead, his bullet grazes the man’s mullet, as his chair is kicked out from under him by a flailing Vash.

The clatter is what finally kicks the men into action. Nicolas can’t even take proper aim before Vash is barreling into him, pushing them both to the ground behind the bar as glass shatters around them.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Nicolas screams over the ringing gunshots. “I had a clear shot!”

Vash looks distinctly scandalized. Nicolas’ blood boils. He quickly pops over the bar to return fire. Well, at least he tries. Vash grips his jacket and pulls him back down with a shout.

“Don’t kill them! What kind of priest are you?”

Is this guy serious? Nicolas laughs.

“Easy! I’m not a damn priest!”

He breaks out of Vash’s hold and stands, uncaring of the enemy fire. It was sloppy; they can’t hit him with that. Nicolas returns with some precise shooting, taking out two of the six men. Not fatal, because this bounty isn’t a ‘dead or alive’ kind of deal. He barely flinches at the bullet graze to his cheek, taking down a third man.

“What the hell are you?” Screams another bandit. And ain’t that just the question?

No matter how far he runs or how much time goes by, Nicolas will always be an Eye of Michael.

Nicolas eventually has to duck again to reload and in that time he can hear the distinct sound of fleeing. Seems like this gang has no qualms on abandoning their injured. Nicolas is ready to pursue but Vash runs out first. He runs to the injured.

Nicolas grits his teeth and lowers his gun. He watches, exasperated, as Vash checks each of their injuries. At least Vash also has the sense to tie them up as he goes.

Vash stands and walks back to him when he’s done. He’s looking much too sullen for the situation.

“Well, what’s your plan now, needle-noggin?”

“You’re really not a priest?” Is what Vash asks instead. Nicolas sees red.

“Since when have I been a priest?!”

“You own a church and orphanage!”

“It’s an orphanage with a chapel! Not the same thing at all!”

Nicolas takes a deep breath and calms himself. He can’t fight with Vash right now. He has three more men to hunt down. He pulls the wanted poster out of his pocket and slaps it to Vash’s chest.

“I told you before, I’m a bounty hunter. I’m hunting their bounty.”

Vash glances at the poster, then to the men, then back to Nicolas.

“For the orphanage?”

“Yup,” he pops the ’p’ just to be annoying. “So, Mr. Vash the Stampede. You let half our funding for the year get away. Mind helping me get them back?”

Vash frowns and studies the poster. “We’re catching them alive?”

“That’s the plan.” Nicolas finally lights his cigarette. “They pay less for dead men.”

Vash frowns harder; he doesn’t like that phrasing, and that’s exactly why Nicolas said it. But, Vash nods and, for the first time, Nicolas sees him draw his silver revolver.

“Alright, I owe you. But absolutely no killing.”

“Yeah yeah. Thou shalt not kill or whatever.”

Together, they walk out of the saloon and begin the chase.

This is the first time he sees Vash in action. He figured a while back that Vash is something of a pacifist. It’s in the way he talks, in how he carries himself. Nicolas could never quite picture what a gunslinging pacifist actually looks like; well, he no longer has to wonder.

Vash is absolutely insane.

“Are you actually insane?!”

It’s almost laughable how easily they were able to take down the remaining bandits. Almost, because nothing is ever clean-cut with Vash.

“Goddamnit needle-noggin, I know we gotta catch them alive. I didn’t think that meant you wouldn’t shoot—”

“But I did shoot,” Vash interrupts hotly. “I shot, and we stopped them, and now you’ve got money for the orphanage.”

Nicolas scoffs. “It’s your money now too, don’t give me that. And you changed your aim at the last minute, I saw you.”

Vash walks away, towards the fallen gunmen, and Nicolas follows. When Vash tries to start tying them up, Nicolas shoves him out of the way to do it himself. Vash sighs and kneels down anyway.

“The first shot was too risky,” he explains softly. “I was too close to an artery.”

“Yeah, and this is the cost of hesitation,” he prods Vash’s bleeding arm. Vash smiles.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” he soothes. “Bullet went straight through. I’ll be fine come morning.”

Nicolas finishes tying a knot and rolls his eyes. “I know you will be. That’s not the damn point!”

Silence spreads between them after that. This is different from their usual bickering. This is an argument. And not over something benign either. It’s still barely scratching the surface, but just a little deeper and we’re talking core life philosophies.

Maybe that’s why they resort to the silent treatment for a while. Someone might cross a line they’re not ready for yet. It’s not until they’ve gathered all six bandits and are waiting for a police transport that Vash speaks again.

“I just think everyone deserves a chance to change. When you die, that’s it. There’s no more chances. I can’t rob someone of that.”

Nicolas lets those words linger, really taking them to heart before answering. Because although that’s a nice sentiment and all, he just can’t agree.

“Some people are way beyond deserving of second chances.”

Vash watches him blow smoke from the corner of his eye. His smile is sad again.

“I don’t think that’s for us to decide.”

The transport arrives amidst their next stretch of silence. The bandits are collected and the money is paid out. Vash staunchly refuses any of it, until Nicolas physically forces it into one of his leather buckles.

Nicolas wanders back to his bike. Vash stops following a few feet away, hesitating like he hasn’t in months. The air is clearly still tense from their argument. But it’s not like Nick’s just gonna leave him with a bleeding arm.

“Get on the damn bike. If the kids know I left you here I’ll never hear the end of it.”

That puts a smile, a real smile on his face, however brief it might be. Not expecting company, Nicolas didn’t attach the sidecar this morning. Vash climbs onto the seat behind him.

It’s familiar, in a way, this tense silence, the single arm around his waist, a bleeding arm against his back. After a few miles, Vash gives in and scoots closer, gets more comfortable. The arm around his waist tightens. A head presses against his shoulder. Nicolas hates it and what it does to his heart.

Well, at least pressed close like this they can carry on a conversation.

“You’re not exactly normal, are you?” Is Nicolas’ award-winning opener.

Vash tenses up behind him but doesn't respond. Nicolas nods. He keeps talking, because this is important. Vash is too kind sometimes. Too naive for someone so world-weary.

“Yeah, I thought so. Well, neither am I. Normal, that is.”

If that shocks Vash, he doesn’t make it apparent. Nicolas grips the throttle harder.

“But even still, I bleed. I bleed and I hurt, and although I’m resilient, I can die. When I take up a gun, I know what it means to kill. And since I can’t afford to die, I’ll do what I must.”

Silence for several beats, and then: “I can’t afford to die either. But still…”

Nicolas smiles and it’s an ugly thing. He’s glad Vash can’t see him.

“You want to save everyone? Yeah, I clocked that savior complex too. But you’re gonna learn one day: you can’t save a man if you can’t kill a man.”

“I have to disagree,” he replies calmly. His voice is so soft. Sad.Nicolas’ palms sting with how hard he’s gripping the bike handles. This stubborn, foolish, naive, fucking…

“Coward.”

The word is hissed between clenched teeth. Nicolas takes a deep breath. Too much. There was too much venom in that word, too much honesty, and not the right kind. Vash sighs against his neck. Hands dig into Nicolas’ sides.

“You give up too easily, don’t you think?”

Vash’s voice is just barely above a whisper. Maybe he didn’t mean to be heard, but with his lips so close to Nicolas’ neck, he catches it anyway.

“Excuse me?”

But Vash chooses to end the conversation, perhaps for the better. He shakes his head, the motion soft against Nicolas’ shoulder. “Nothing. Nevermind.”

It hits Nicolas later, much later, while he’s wrapping Vash’s arm, that Vash might’ve meant that Nicolas is the coward. And confronted with Vash’s body, all scars and metal and ruin, a story of the way he chooses to live, Nicolas thinks he may be right.

Well, Nicolas never claimed to be brave.

It’s been almost six months now of Vash’s frequent comings and goings. And by frequent, he means frequent. So, it’s clearly noticeable when, one day, he stops.

A week goes by and no one worries. Two weeks pass and kids start whining. Three weeks prompts questions. Four, five, six. Melanie sends him worried looks in private. Nicolas volunteers for bell tolling duty most nights now.

He’s not waiting. That would be foolish, and Nicolas isn’t a fool. All things come to an end, so of course this would too.

It’s on one of these bell duty nights that Livio joins him. For as attached Livio had gotten, the boy hasn’t pestered him with questions like the other kids. Livio understands more than the others the evils of the world, perhaps.

But regardless of what he’s been through, Livio is still a child.

“Is Mr. Vash coming back?”

Livio mumbles the question. Nicolas only hears it because of their proximity: Livio curled on his lap, Nicolas with a cheek pressed to pale, soft hair.

“I don’t know, Livio.” Nicolas replies just as quietly.

It’s maddening, how Vash slipped so easily into all of their lives. Nicolas feels anger bubble in his chest. Orphans deal enough with abandonment issues as is; they’re orphans for God’s sake. Leaving Nicolas without warning is one thing, but leaving the kids? Criminal is what it is.

Nicolas is pulled out of his brooding by Livio’s fidgeting. Nicolas tightens his hold on the boy, a show of comfort, and hums a question. Livio always gets fidgety when he has something to say.

“If Vash were here…” Livio’s voice dies off.

“What was that?”

At his encouragement, Livio speaks again, stronger this time.

“If Vash lived here, he’d help keep us safe.”

He states it like a fact. And, well, isn’t it true? Nicolas doubts Vash would let any harm come to children, no matter his “no kill” rule. Nicolas nods slowly.

“He would…”

Livio isn’t expecting his agreement, it seems. He perks up and squirms until Nicolas loosens his grip. Once free, he twists around in his lap and stares up at him. There’s a steel of determination glowing in those golden eyes.

“If Mr. Vash lived here, he could keep you safe.”

That hits a tender spot. Maybe the other kids don’t question it as much; Nicolas has done everything in his power so they won’t question it. But Livio knows the price Nicolas paid, continues to pay, and what he’s willing to do to keep them safe.

Nicolas sighs and tugs Livio closer.

“Yeah, maybe. Maybe…”

Maybe Nicolas dares to believe that, some nights. Maybe he recalls, with painful clarity, the peace and comfort and safety he sometimes feels in Vash’s presence.

(Maybe he thinks a lot a certain night, not long before Vash disappeared. Livio had woken from a nightmare and couldn’t get comfortable inside. Claustrophobic. There’s really only one thing to do when Livio gets like this.

Nicolas is nearly to the top of their usual stargazing cliff when he spots him. Vash is up there, gazing at the moons with a far away look in his eyes. Nicolas hesitates. But Livio is still shaking in his arms, and it was their hill first, so he presses on.

Soon enough, Vash hears his heavy footsteps and glances over. It’s another one of the man’s many mysteries, how his eyes can always glow so bright no matter the lighting. Those eyes crinkle as he starts to smile; then, noticing the sad state of the boy in his arms, instead frowns in worry.

“Oh, I can leave if you want.” He directs this at Nicolas, though his eyes keep glancing at Livio.

“Nah, company is fine.” Nicolas steps up beside him and starts to sit down, then hesitates. “Unless you don’t want company?”

“No, no. Company is nice.”

Vash pats the ground next to him awkwardly. Nicolas sits down, also awkwardly. This is a new trend for them; seems like a lot of their exchanges recently are kind of awkward and bumbling. Nicolas hates himself for it, for the way it makes his heart stutter and race in turns. Good thing Livio is with him to smooth things over.

“Did you have a bad dream too, Mr. Vash?” Livio’s sleepy drawl breaks the heavy silence of the night.

“Ahah, something like that.” Vash’s smile is quietly thoughtful. “Do you have nightmares a lot?”

“Sometimes.” He answers before glancing at Nicolas. Oh, does he want to talk about it? That’s new. Nicolas nods his encouragement, and Livio looks back at Vash.

“Sometimes I dream about the bad things that happened to me. And sometimes I just remember the bad things, and I can’t sleep.”

Nicolas combs through white hair, the touch one of comfort. Livio keeps things vague in the way only a child can. It still hurts his heart to hear it. He glances at Vash to find him already looking at him

“But your Nico-nii is always here for you, huh?” Vash shoots him a tender smile.

Hearing that nickname from Vash’s mouth does crazy things to Nicolas’ heart. Crazy, unspeakable things that he quickly ignores. He turns his attention back to Livio.

“C’mon kiddo, it’s late. Let’s try getting some sleep.”

Nicolas lies back on the ground, vision swimming with stars and moons. Livio doesn’t waste a moment curling himself into Nicolas’ chest, head placed right over his heart. The steady sound serves as the best lullaby. He can feel Vash’s eyes on them, but before it can get him feeling self-conscious, Vash also reclines onto the ground.

Moments pass in gentle silence. Livio falls asleep quickly. Poor kid hasn’t been sleeping well all week. Nicolas doesn’t know how to help him beyond this. It makes him feel so incredibly helpless.

“You’re really a good guy, Wolfwood.”

Of course Vash decides to speak when Nicolas is at his most vulnerable. He can’t help but reply sullenly.

“I’m really not.”

He hears Vash turn to face him. Nicolas keeps his eyes trained on the sky. Vash continues speaking in that dreadfully gentle voice of his.

“The way you are with the kids, with Livio—”

“It’s my fault Livio’s this way.”

Nicolas clicks his mouth shut. That admittance was accidental. He can feel Vash watching him curiously. But he knows there’s no judgment there. There never is, even when fighting about values and morals, Vash doesn’t judge him; rather it’s Nicolas’ own guilty conscience that condemns.

Livio whimpers a little in his sleep. Nicolas finally turns his head. Lying like this, their faces feel impossibly close even though there’s several feet between them. Maybe the part of Nicolas that is always looking for absolution hopes to find it here, in Vash’s deep blue eyes. It wouldn’t be the worst place to drown.

“A few years ago, I got involved with some really bad people,” Nicolas starts. He remembers Livio’s vague wording earlier and makes the choice to stick with it.

“When I stopped doing what they wanted, they got their hands on Livio. I wasn’t around to stop that. But when I found out… I was able to get him out. We got away, just barely, and because of all that we had to move the orphanage.”

He smiles, an ugly thing full of regret and self-loathing. If only he’d been stronger… a light touch on his cheek brings him back. Nicolas blinks and Vash pulls his hand away, like it was never there.

“We used to live near December, actually. I made them all pack up and haul away in the dead of night. Because if they find us again, I don’t know what might happen…”

“They’re still after you?” Vash, bless his soul, looks genuinely worried by that detail.

“Who knows. Probably. I pissed them off real good when I left.”

Nicolas can still remember Master Chapel’s screams, his curses as he left the man bleeding out on the ground. The wound was fatal, Nicolas is sure of it, but with the Eye of Michael you never know for sure…

“But you left them.” Vash declares, oddly serious.

Nicolas frowns. “Yeah? I just said—”

“You left, even though it was personally dangerous. And you did it to save Livio. And now you’re here, in the middle of nowhere, fighting all on your own to keep everyone safe.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Sounds like something only a good guy would do.”

Nicolas is damn gobsmacked. They stare at each other for countless seconds before Nicolas groans and turns away. He just knows his face is on fire. He can only hope that his tan and the dim light hides most of it.

At some point, miraculously, Nicolas falls asleep. When he wakes up, Vash is still there, smiling softly at him in the pink morning light.

Nicolas gives up trying to control his heart rate. He’s a goner.)

If Vash stayed with them, maybe Nicolas actually had a chance at peace. The burden wouldn’t be his alone to bear. The weight of a man’s sins is heavy, and sometimes it feels like it’ll break him. He can carry a lot, but he’s still human too. Isn’t he?

Livio falls asleep, listening to his steady heartbeat.

Nicolas has never been one for wishful thinking. After all, it takes bravery to dream. And Nicolas… Nicolas is a coward.

Chapter Text

It’s been at least three months since Nicolas has last seen Vash.

The only reason he knows Vash is even still alive is because of the rumors. Oh yes, The Stampede is alive and well, and he’s off stampeding, that’s for sure. The newest rumor in circulation?

They say Vash the Stampede somehow put a crater in the fifth moon.

Nicolas has a hard time reconciling all these terrific tales with the bumbling fool they all know and love. The type of idiot that genuinely plays with kids, has a terror of a sweet tooth, and leaves behind thank you notes in secret.

Nicolas still carries the first thank you note around in his breast pocket. Along with the second thank you note, and the third. Every subsequent note finds its home in his bedside drawer. All the notes have Vash’s name crossed out, as if he keeps forgetting that maybe an infamous outlaw shouldn’t leave a paper trail, and in place there’s that stupid little doodle.

It’s been three months since Vash has last come around. Yet, when Jerome comes running up to him one afternoon, looking like he’s just seen a ghost, Nicolas just knows.

“What happened?” He asks, already preparing himself.

“It’s…” Jerome bends over panting, “It’s Mr. Vash. He’s hurt bad, real bad Nico.”

“Of course he is,” Nicolas grumbles but immediately takes off to the warehouse. If Jerome came back empty handed, that means Vash can’t walk.

Not minutes later, Nicolas races through the canyon, taking turns as Jerome points them out. He takes a moment to applaud the young man; he’d run quite a distance.

Finally, Nicolas sees him, a sad red stain in the distance. He floors it.

Vash is propped up against a stone wall, looking way too still. The jeep has barely stopped moving before Nicolas is jumping out. Jerome scrambles to follow.

As Nicolas approaches he can make out the subtle movement of breathing. That’s a good sign. That gaudy crimson coat may be hiding bloodstains again, but Nicolas can clearly see the red tinted puddle forming under Vash. That’s not a good sign. He stops in front of the crumpled figure, heart in his throat.

Vash’s breathing is labored, worse than it’s ever been. But he still has a pulse, he’s just unconscious. Again. Nicolas sighs and scratches his hair. Something about that puts him at ease, the absurdity of it all perhaps. Nicolas reaches forward and smacks his face none too gently.

“Wake up princess.”

“Nico!” Jerome admonishes from where he stands nervously.

Oops, Nicolas forgot about him. No matter. Sure enough, Vash stirs at the light manhandling. Nicolas tries to smile, but he’s sure it comes out strained.

“We gotta stop meeting like this, Spikey.”

Vash blinks those preternatural blue eyes at him and cracks a weak grin.

“Wolfwood? What’re you—” a coughing fit cuts him off. Nicolas reaches to keep Vash from toppling over, feeling the wet sounds rack through him. There’s blood on his lips. Nicolas removes one of his hands from Vash’s chest. Blood on his hands.

“Fuck, this is pretty bad—”

“Language. What kind of priest are you?”

“Oh shut up.”

Without asking permission, Nicolas yanks open Vash’s coat, which he just now notices is pretty torn up. He almost wishes he hadn’t.

A litter of lacerations cover his body, some small, like a pocket knife wound, others gaping and dangerous. Something about the wounds doesn't sit right, but Nicolas doesn’t have time to ponder on it.

He gets the most unpleasant sense of deja vu as he piggy-backs Vash’s limp form back to the jeep. Jerome looks on nervously, trying to be helpful by at least opening the backseat. Together, they get Vash laid out across the back. Nicolas speeds back to the orphanage, as fast as he dares to go, which isn’t fast enough.

Something is wrong this time. Really, really wrong. Nicolas can feel it. The tolling bell that welcomes them home doesn’t bring him comfort for once.

Vash is unconscious for three days. Nicolas tries not to anxiously smoke himself to an early grave.

Like he first thought, there is something strange about Vash’s wounds. Unlike the broken bones that mend themselves overnight, or the bullet wounds that seem to close in hours, these lacerations ooze for days. Nicolas lost count of how many times he and Melanie had to replace the bandages after the first day.

When Vash finally does wake up, it’s not all at once either. He has moments of lucidity first, enough for Nicolas to coax him to eat and drink a little, but that’s it. Nicolas can’t breathe easy until almost the end of the week, when Vash is able to stay awake for longer than an hour.

They’re alone, as usual. The kids aren’t allowed to see him, not until they’re sure that Vash is actually okay.

Vash is sitting up in bed, gazing out the window. There’s always something vacant in his gaze now, as if something essential to him’s been snuffed out. Nicolas hates it.

“Vash. What happened to you?”

He’s asked Vash this same question several times since he first started waking up. He’s yet to get an answer. Vash sits in silence, refusing to look at him. Nicolas sighs, resigning himself to more of the silent treatment.

Well, if Vash still isn’t speaking then he can’t chide at Nicolas to stop smoking. He shakes out a stick and lights up. He’s almost through the whole pack and it’s only noon. He blows out the next lungful rather aggressively.

“I have a brother…”

He freezes. Vash’s voice is so soft, Nicolas nearly misses it. He tosses his half finished cigarette into the overflowing ashtray and waits. Another long silence follows, so tense Nicolas could choke on it.

But patience pays off. Vash, for the first time in days, looks his way.

“I have a twin brother. He’s… dangerous.” Vash stops again and the smile that twists his face is just tragic. “He’s better when I’m around. Not as… murderous? Well, usually not.”

Nicolas almost wishes he had his cigarette still, just to keep his mouth from gaping.

“You saying your brother did this to you?”

Vash falls silent again. That silence is louder than any admission. Nicolas lets it settle over them. He can’t make Vash talk, he’s known that since the beginning. But he’s also learned that, given time, Vash will give him something.

“My brother has, um, complicated feelings about humanity. If he had his way, things wouldn’t be looking good for anyone, really.” Vash sighs, somehow looking even more tired and beaten than before. “I’m the only one who can handle him. I need to be with him. I can never leave him alone for long…”

Vash drifts off again and Nicolas waits. And waits. Lights a new cigarette, and waits. When it’s clear that Vash is actually done talking, Nicolas sighs, expelling the nicotine from his lungs, the way he wishes he could expel the turmoil he feels.

It almost works. Still, he manages to keep his expression placid and nods.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Vash’s eyes are on him again, scrutinizing.

“Okay.” Nicolas repeats. Vash just stares at him. Nicolas bristles. “What? What did you expect me to say? You want me to stop you?”

Maybe Vash did, but they both know he can’t. He shouldn’t. So, he won’t.

“You’re Vash the Stampede. If you’re saying a menace like you has a brother that can do this,” he gestures to Vash’s body, “then like hell am I getting in the way of that.”

It’s a callous reply and not at all what he means, but they both know that. Nicolas understands the weight of responsibility when lives are at stake. Vash is many things, but he isn’t a liar. If he says his evil twin wants to end humanity and he’s the only one putting up a fight… well, it must be true.

Nicolas thinks, for one short moment, that maybe he can help.

One look back at Vash’s defeated form convinces him otherwise. Vash is more than just physically hurt; something in his spirit (or his soul, or whatever you believe) feels heavier, more broken, than humanly possible. I wouldn’t stand a chance. I’d just get in the way, wouldn’t I?

This is the “something bigger” that’s after Vash and that Vash is after. And even then, there’s more to the story. Much more. Nicolas can feel the weight of their shared secrets, suffocating him.

He anxiously pulls out another cigarette. Vash tuts, his first real reaction.

“That can’t be good for you.”

Nicolas flicks some ash and scoffs. “Something like this can’t hurt me.”

And there they go, dancing around the truth. For all that Nicolas internally laments Vash’s secrecy, it’s a two-way street, isn’t it?

“I’ve told you before, I know you’re not normal. I’m not normal either. This planet is full of freaky people. I doubt whatever secrets you got would shock me.”

“That’s what you say now…”

Nicolas raises a brow, but Vash just shakes his head. A dismissal. Nicolas contemplates for a moment before deciding. Maybe they can trade. A truth for a truth.

“Have you ever heard of the Eye of Michael?”

Vash regards him with barely there interest. Yeah, Nicolas didn’t think so. He takes a deep breath and starts talking.

He tells the tragic tale of a life interrupted. How they “adopted” him at the age of 12, telling Miss Melanie they were a non-profit that fixed old churches. Tells him about the training, the killing, and finally, the drugs. Experimental, dangerous, painful.

He tells Vash about his defiance. About the arrival of Livio, the threats, the straw that broke the camel’s back. How he risked everything to get them out before they broke Livio too. Why their orphanage needs to be secluded. Why Nicolas is the way he is.

When he’s done, the angle of the light through the window tells Nicolas it’s getting late. Close to dinner now, actually. But neither of them move. The silence hums between them once more. Suddenly, Vash turns to him with a strange expression.

“Wait, hold on, how old are you then?”

Nicolas shrugs. “Not too sure, but definitely younger than I look. Melanie tells me I was only gone a few years, so…maybe,” he does some sketchy finger counting. “Uh, definitely over 17, but I don’t think I’m over 21 yet.”

“Oh my god, you’re a kid.” Vash looks horrified. Nicolas wants to laugh, but this is important.

“Hey.” His serious tone captures Vash’s attention. “Listen, you don’t go through what I’ve been through and remain a child. And truth be told, I wasn’t much of a kid when I left either. I’ve been raising the littles for longer than I can remember.”

“But still…” Vash grimaces.

“But nothing,” Nicolas replies firmly. “That’s life, Vash. That’s my life. Take it or leave it, but it is what it is.”

Vash’s lips twist, like he wants to fight but holds back. He looks deep in thought about something, so Nicolas leaves him be.

He thinks of the time again, how Melanie might need help in the kitchen. How he should get up and leave now, before Vash decides to push issues he shouldn’t. He scoots his chair back to stand the moment Vash speaks up again.

“I’ll take it.”

“What?”

“Take it or leave it, right? I said I’ll take it.” Vash swallows his smile, taking a serious tone. “Nicolas, I want to stay.” When Nicolas doesn’t answer, Vash turns pleading eyes on him. “Let me stay. Please? With you, with the kids.”

His breath leaves in a rush. The way Vash is asking, he can tell this isn’t like one of his usual stays. Vash means he wants to stay. Nicolas can’t calm the race of his heart.

“What about your big bad brother?” The protest sounds weak even to his own ears. But it’s a valid point.

Vash chuckles but it’s void of humor. “Don’t go thinking I was the loser in that fight.”

The implications of that statement make Nicolas shiver. The idea that whatever damage Vash received, he dealt it out even harder… Nicolas sighs shakily.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Spikey.” He tries for joking, but isn’t sure it lands. Still, Vash tries to act more cheerful, more like this isn’t some big mistake.

“Knives won’t be a threat to anyone for a while. So, while I have the chance, I’d really like to… to live here.”

Knives. Now that’s a name for an outlaw. Vash is still watching him, waiting for an answer; as if Nicolas would ever be able to deny him.

“Sure thing, blondie.” Vash lights up at the tender reply. “But you’re gonna be on laundry duty for a long, long time.”

“So mean!” And when he laughs, it almost sounds real.

It’s almost enough.

(“Oh yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask: what’s up with the new hair?”

“Huh?”

Nicolas reaches over and tugs a strand of black.

“Sorry but you’re not beating the dumb blonde allegations if you only dye half your hair.”

The joke falls flat. Vash avoids his eyes and goes distant like he does sometimes now; almost like he’s seeing something that isn’t there.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”)

Vash’s arrival, despite its initial sense of foreboding, ushers in a stretch of peace. Nicolas isn’t sure how else to phrase it. Everything just feels so much brighter, so much nicer with Vash around.

Halcyon days.

Still, it takes a while for Vash to truly smile again. His recovery is slow, but he does recover. After a few weeks, the only trace of injury is the distant look Vash sometimes gets about him. It comes out most at night, when Vash watches the stars with him from the bell tower. He stares into the heavens as if he carries the weight of the world in him.

And, in a way, he does, if his beliefs on his brother are to be trusted. And Nicolas trusts him.

Nicolas isn’t sure what he’s been through, exactly, just that it’s a lot. The burden on that man’s shoulders is tremendous. Nicolas thinks he’d like to help him carry it, if just for a little while.

So Vash heals, slowly but surely, and Nicolas just hopes that, with time, the hurt in those eyes will heal as well.

Then, of course, there are the feelings.

Nasty things they are. They crawl up Nicolas’ throat at odd moments, choking him in warmth whenever Vash so much as laughs in his presence. Inconvenient and inappropriate. Ridiculous how, whenever Nicolas reaches out a consoling touch and Vash readily receives it, his heart races.

At first, Nicolas is sure he’s alone in this. Someone like Vash doesn’t fall for someone like Nicolas. They both got too much baggage between them; it’d be a horrible match.

Nicolas thinks this, day in and day out. Thinks this as Vash becomes his integral right-hand in managing the orphanage. Thinks this as Vash joins him in alleviating the midnight crying of children, not just Livio. Thinks this even as Vash stays up late with him, an unnaturally warm presence in the cold desert night, toeing that line of so close but never close enough.

Then, he realizes something.

As much as Nicolas sees himself as a burden, Vash sees himself as even more of one. He’s thinking the same damn thing, because Vash is a self-sacrificing fool so of course he wouldn’t want to add onto Nicolas’ worries with his own.

So here they sit, alone in a bell tower, two idiots too stubborn and self-deprecating to make a move.

It pisses him off and anger’s always been his greatest motivator, hasn’t it?

So it’s with a frustrated huff that one night, when Vash is looking a little too sad, Nicolas reaches out and pulls him closer. It’s awkward for a moment. Nicolas is essentially smothering Vash, with the way he forcefully pulls his head to his shoulder. But it passes.

Vash stifles a laugh and sighs, rearranges himself to fit more naturally against his side. Nicolas drops his hand momentarily, letting Vash adjust his head to a more comfortable spot in the crook of his neck. If he can feel the thudding of Nicolas’ heart, he makes no mention of it.

When he builds the courage to loop an arm around Vash’s shoulder, pressing them ever closer, he can feel the hummingbird thrum of Vash’s heart. He doesn’t mention it either.

They pass that night together. And the next night. And the next. Sometimes they just sit close, shoulders touching, Vash’s head on his shoulder or vice versa. Taking comfort in one another’s presence.

Nicolas forgets who starts it, but sometimes they’ll hold hands, fingers linked in the pale glow of the fifth moon. Sometimes it doesn’t even have to be nighttime, and they don’t have to be alone, for Nicolas to find their hands suddenly intertwined.

But they don’t talk about it. It’s another one of the many secrets left hanging in the silence between them.

Sometimes, Nicolas feels like that silence is too loud. It yawns at him in the quiet of his mind, a vacuum swallowing him whole.

Sometimes, the silence feels fragile. It shakes and fractures in the lessening space between them. Sometimes, it feels like they’re getting closer to a precipice, closer to total honesty.

Nicolas can almost trick himself into believing that they have time, that this peace will last. It’s easy, when Vash is very warm and very real, leaning into him as they watch the stars.

It’s like a dream, and Nicolas has always been afraid of dreaming. Because dreams end when you wake up, and you always wake up.

It starts with a rumor.

Whispers abound of people going missing. Small towns just seem to disappear overnight. No blood, no bodies, no sign of struggle. All the people just vanish. As if they got up and left.

But rumors come a dime a dozen on NoMan’s Land. You can’t believe everything you hear.

When Nicolas first hears the rumors, they’re small, harmless things. Stories told by vagabonds in midnight saloons. But the rumors grow. When Marge starts to tell him the stories, that’s when Nicolas knows it’s serious.

When Vash first hears the stories, it feels like all their months together vanish in a blink. He gets this distant, hard look in his eyes and Nicolas knows. Their little play at house is over.

Nicolas camps out in the courtyard that night. The moons glow bright in the sky, casting the canyon in a radiant silver. He’s smoked his way through half a pack by the time Vash shows up. He’s got his bag with him and this dreadfully apologetic look. Nicolas sighs.

“Not even gonna say goodbye? Livio will cry for days, y’know.”

Guilt swims in those world-weary eyes Nicolas has come to love so much. But that guilt gives way to resolve.

“Tell him I’m sorry. I really am, but…”

Nicolas blows out a final lungful of smoke and tosses the butt. He takes a step forward, runs light fingers over Vash’s red coat. He hasn’t seen that coat in months.

“Your brother?”

Nicolas grips the red fabric to keep his fingers from trembling. Vash nods and grabs onto Nicolas’ hand, holding it between both of his own. He plays with his fingers absentmindedly, like he’s wont to do nowadays. It makes his heart ache something fierce.

“I’ve left him alone for too long. That’s… I shouldn’t have done that.”

Vash steps closer. His eyes almost glow under the moonlight. Nicolas can’t look away.

“But, I don’t regret staying. These past few months have been… Well, I’ve never felt so at peace before. So thank you. And goodbye, Wolf—”

“C’mon Vash. At least use my name when you dump me.”

Vash has the gall to look genuinely shocked. Because although they never talked about it, that’s what this is, isn’t it? And then a sadness, deeper than Nicolas has ever seen, crashes through those ocean eyes.

“Goodbye, Nicolas.”

Vash’s hand, his flesh hand, warm and soft through calluses, reaches up to stroke his cheekbone. Nicolas’ breath shakes.

“Goddamn, you piss me off.”

He’s not sure who moves first. Maybe it’s Nicolas, or maybe it’s Vash who takes that final step. Maybe it’s both of them, together, one of their oddly in-synch moments.

The gravity of each of their immovable forms finally clash and their orbits collide.

Vash’s lips are chapped and warm, so incredibly warm. Nicolas has never been kissed before, he’s not sure what to do, he’s regretting smoking just minutes earlier, he’s definitely overthinking this. Vash’s hands cup his cheeks and tilt his head, just so, and he opens his mouth, just so.

Nicolas stops thinking.

It’s nothing like what a first kiss should be, and everything like what a last kiss might be.

Nicolas pours all the words he cannot say into the kiss and Vash returns it. It’s sweet and sad and desperate all at once. It aches something fierce; Nicolas never wants it to end.

But all things end.

Vash pulls away first, but Nicolas doesn’t chase him. No, he lets him go. He stands outside for God knows how long. Long after Vash’s blazing form has disappeared from view; long after the lingering warmth has faded from his lips; long after Nicolas has stopped feeling the cold altogether.

He stands outside and he does not cry.

It’s been two weeks since Vash left.

Nicolas does his best to not count the days, but it’s hard when everything reminds him of the man. No place is sacred, no corner left untouched, by the force that is Vash.

The suns don’t hold the same warmth. The nights don’t give the same calm. The childrens’ laughter doesn’t sound as bright. Nicolas hasn’t even tried going into town since Vash left. He doesn’t know how he’ll react if he has to chat with the residents and face their inevitable question: where’s your funny friend?

But Nicolas does his best to go through the motions. He wakes up, has his breakfast smoke, patrols the perimeter, helps Melanie wake and feed the kids. He helps with laundry, fixes the roof when it leaks. Plays with the children. Comforts a weepy Livio.

Tries not to get his hopes up when the bell tolls.

He lives his routine, day after day, trying to find comfort in the monotony of it. He’s lived this way for years before Vash, and he’ll live this way after. He’ll have to.

Amazing, how quickly one forgets that today’s monotony was yesterday’s dream, and how dreams can so quickly be snatched away.

Nicolas wakes one morning to something feeling distinctly off. It’s the way the air hums, way too charged this in the early morning. He sits up in bed and takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes and listens.

Those carefully honed instincts of his burst into screams.

He gets up and dresses quickly. He spares only a moment of hesitation before heading to his closet and opening a hidden compartment. There, wrapped in immaculate white cloth and black straps, rests the Punisher. Nicolas reaches in and lifts its familiar weight.

“Hello old friend. Afraid I might be needing you today.”

He swings the giant cross onto his back and stalks down the hall. Miss Melanie’s room is his first stop. As a fellow early riser, Nicolas only needs to knock once for the door to swing open. Melanie takes one look at him and frowns.

“Nico…”

“We need to get you and the kids into the bunkers.”

Melanie eyes him sadly. Sad and resigned. It hurts more than he cares to admit.

“There you go, trying to do everything yourself again.”

She reaches up to pat his cheek. It’s something she often did with the children; he stopped letting her when she started having to reach up instead of down. But today he allows the comfort, just for a moment, before stepping back and steeling his gaze.

“I won’t let anyone else get hurt. Not again, not ever.”

Melanie nods. “I’ll start waking the children. Go get the others to help.”

It’s a slow but steady process, getting the orphanage cleared out, but it’s necessary. Nicolas just hopes it’ll be enough. As the suns creep higher into the sky, his skin begins to tingle, hairs standing on end. Whatever’s coming is getting close.

Carved into the canyon behind the orphanage are a series of caves and tunnels. Nicolas worked tirelessly for months on end to set up these bunkers, just in case.

When he shot Chapel and left the Eye of Michael, there was always the possibility they’d try to bring him back.

Before long, all the children and staff are inside and accounted for. They’ll be safe down here, no matter what happens to him. Before getting the bunker sealed, Livio runs and clings to him.

“Nico-nii, don’t go. It’s them. I know it is. I can feel it, right here,” the boy cries, clutching at his left eye.

Nicolas bends down and wraps the boy in a tight embrace. He speaks into his crown of soft hair.

“I know. I can feel it too. But that’s why I need to go. I'm the only one that can stop them.”

Livio pulls back desperately. “If Mr. Vash comes back—”

“Vash isn’t coming back. Not now.” Probably not ever. And he wouldn’t ask him to, even if he had a way. Vash has bigger worries.

“Livio, keep the others safe.” Nicolas wipes the boy’s tears. “If you feel like you’re in danger, even for a moment, you know what to do.”

“Yes Nico-nii.” Livio’s voice is still thick with tears, but he’s firm in his reply. Nicolas knows he can trust him.

With one final push and pat, Livio joins the others in the bunker. Nicolas smiles at them and waves before shutting and locking the door. His smile immediately drops. It’s time.

Nicolas walks back through the orphanage, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallways. The scene is somewhat haunting; the absence of laughter, of life, in the only place he ever called home. But home is not this building; home is with the people he’ll die to keep safe.

The Punisher is company and comfort enough for today.

Soon enough, Nicolas is climbing the steps to the bell tower. It provides the best vantage point of the area, after all. Nicolas gets to the top, leans over the railing, and lights a cigarette while he waits. He gets halfway through the stick before he sees them.

The Eye of Michael has arrived.

It’s Master Chapel, half-paralyzed, with an entire entourage of masked soldiers. So, the bullet to the back didn’t kill him like Nicolas hoped. He’d been too young, too naive, to believe anything less than a headshot would suffice.

For a moment, he thinks that’s it, just Chapel and his army of faceless pawns. If that had been all, Nicolas might’ve stood a chance. But there are two other figures flanking Chapel, and they definitely don’t look like foot soldiers.

There’s only one thing to do, the same thing they always do when someone approaches their home: he tolls the iron bell.

The figures slow in their approach at the sound and Nicolas smirks. Good, let them wait. He makes his way back down the spiral staircase, finishing his cigarette as he goes. Best to savor it; it might be his last.

He pauses at the chapel doors. Takes a deep breath. Pats the front of his blazer, feels the crinkle of paper and the clinking of glass. Five vials. He’ll have to use them wisely. He needs to kill these people before all his lives are up.

He can totally do this. Chapel, at least, won’t be at the top of his game.

Nicolas pushes open the doors.

The Eye of Michael, a secret organization of assassins within the Church of Plant Worshippers. They go around picking up abandoned children for their freaky science experiments, keeping them as killers if they succeed, tossing them like trash when they don’t. It’s unknown what their actual goal is or who gives them orders.

Standing in front of him are two Masters, what might be an apprentice, and a shit load of foot soldiers. Nicolas never met Maria the Merciful while in their ranks, but he’d heard enough to know that’s who stands next to Chapel. The third suspicious person is a teenager, just barely past boyhood; Nicolas doesn’t recognize him.

Nicolas walks forward, to the edge of their little courtyard, and stops. The Eye of Michael waits just meters away. Nicolas swings the Punisher off his back and plants it in the sand in front of him; both a shield and a warning.

“Nicolas. It’s been quite some time since we last met.”

The old man’s voice breaks the tense silence. It makes Nicolas’ skin crawl to be addressed so familiarly. He doesn’t bite back his sneer.

“Not long enough. Was kinda banking on only seeing you again in Hell.”

Chapel tuts. “Now, let’s not be rude. We’ve come today to give you a second chance.”

“Excuse me?” He can’t be serious right now.

“Come back to us, Nicolas.” Chapel rolls forward; Nicolas grips the Punisher tighter. “You were one of my best pupils. Strong, vicious, with one of the highest drug compatibilities. Not just anyone can wield a holy weapon like the Punisher.”

This time, it’s Maria that steps forward. “You belong with us, Nicolas. We serve a greater purpose.”

“Greater purpose?” Nicolas laughs, a nasty sound. “Yeah, okay, killing people in their sleep is definitely not my higher calling.”

“If you come back now, I’ll be willing to forgive it all.” Chapel continues babbling, completely ignoring his disdain. “We’ve finally been found again by our angel. Master Knives only deserves the finest, and that’s you Nicolas.”

Hold on. Knives? Isn’t that Vash’s brother? How many guys were walking around this planet with the name Knives? Better yet: how many people on this planet had that damn name and the ability to convince a cult they’re an angel?

Nicolas thinks back to Vash’s skin, untouched by the elements. To his eyes, always a shade too blue, with a strange glow to them in certain lights. To the wounds that closed before his eyes, to the body that survived a self-inflicted hell without the aid of drugs like Nicolas needed.

Fucking hell.

“Oh? What’s that face for, Nicolas? Are you finally done throwing your tantrum?”

Chapel’s delighted voice breaks Nicolas from his mental spiral. There’s no time for crazy theories. He schools his face back into one of placid contempt.

“Absolutely not. Just thinking that maybe you’ve got angels and demons confused over there.”

With that, Nicolas shifts his grip on the Punisher. Enough chit-chat. Chapel gives a labored sigh and shakes his head, the picture of parental disappointment.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” He raises a wrinkled hand, a command. “Retrieve the Punisher. A weapon like that must not remain with heretics.”

As one, the foot soldiers rush forward. Nicolas thumbs a leather strap, releasing the white cloth around his cross. It’s showtime.

It’s almost disgustingly easy to take them down. Even after all these years, his training is drilled into every inch of his body. He’s a terror, ripping through the ranks; he’s Nicolas the Punisher, and these lackeys would do well to remember that.

But, although time has not made him any less dangerous, it has changed him.

“Nicolas! What are you doing?! I taught you better than this!”

Oh, the old man is raving mad. All because Nicolas, maybe for once in his pathetic life, isn’t shooting to kill. He brings down soldier after soldier, shoots through hands and knees and shoulders, but that’s it.

After all, foot soldiers aren’t drug compatible. There’s no getting up again, and again, and again. The other three, however…

It’s Maria that snaps first. A sneer rips across those red lips, hands clenching the rosary strapping the cross gun to her back. A sniper-style rifle, all deadly precision, named the Merciful. Mother Maria full of Mercy.

“Chapel, this has gone far enough. I know how you cherish your pupils, but it’s time to let this one go.”

In a blink, the Merciful is in her hands, finger poised on the trigger.

“We’re under orders to bring him back alive,” Chapel reminds her through clenched teeth. Maria just smiles.

“Oh, I won’t kill him. But he’ll wish I had.”

Nicolas barely dodges her first shot, then her second. The third rips through the skin of his cheek, the fourth piercing his shoulder. He drops the Punisher and takes a defensive position behind it. She’s fast. None of the shots are fatal, but that’s on purpose. She’s going to toy with him. He needs to end this quickly.

That’s easier said than done.

Maria on her own would be enough of a challenge, but the remaining foot soldiers, plus the threat of Chapel and the mystery apprentice… Well, it’s enough to make a man sweat.

Strategize. See the enemy, read the enemy. Move faster, hit harder, stay standing. He can’t afford to lose here.

Blood soaks into the dry earth. Nicolas is relentless. The last of the foot soldiers fall. He gets a shot through the leg. A shot through his waist. Maria’s smile is gleeful as she takes aim.

It’s Chapel that notices first.

“Maria!”

The warning rings through the air a second too late. Nicolas moves, faster than ever, much faster, and takes aim. Maria gets a gut full of lead for her arrogance. The glass of his first vial tinkles innocently as it hits the ground.

“So, you did manage to steal drugs when you left. Clever boy.”

Chapel rolls forward, eyes manic, as Maria coughs up blood. The teen boy, the possible apprentice, finally moves, rushing forward to aid Maria. Nicolas, like a fool, lets him. His attention is fully on Chapel, on the way the old man reaches for his cross gun.

“Always a clever boy, but still so terribly naive.”

Multiple shots echo through the canyon. Nicolas staggers, breathing labored. Blood fills his mouth. Chapel lowers his gun.

“You should know better than anyone: to defeat one of us, you must kill without remorse.”

Maria stands to his left, fully healed and gun smoking. The teen is no longer by her side, but behind Nicolas. It’s him who managed to shoot Nicolas in the back, Nicolas barely dodging in time to avoid a spinal injury. Chapel laughs.

“This is Samuel,” Chapel reaches out a hand and the boy appears at his side. Fast. “Thanks to your little stunt, we had to start recruiting from other orphanages. We went through quite a few failures before finding him.”

Wrinkled hands comb through the teen’s chocolate curls. A grotesque caricature of tenderness; it makes Nicolas sick.

“He’s a work in progress, but already he’s modeled to surpass you. And what better way to forge a weapon than through fire.”

Like a perfect lapdog, the kid launches himself at Nicolas, twin guns blazing. And this, this isn’t fair. Nicolas scowls, blocks the next barrage, takes his own shot and shatters the kid’s kneecaps. It twists his gut, tearing through someone that young. The kid barely staggers for more than a minute before lunging again. What?

They give him no time to think, no time to feel guilt. He can’t afford distraction. Maria is up and shooting again. Although Nicolas is faster and stronger after dying once, so is she. Bullets rip through his body left and right; there’s no way to avoid them all.

He’s fighting on three fronts. Maria with her long range attacks, Samuel with his fast and close strikes, and then Chapel screwing with his mind.

“Kill him Nicolas! You know you can. Only you can! His body is too advanced, he doesn’t need the drugs to heal.”

“You damn lunatic!”

Nicolas roars as he finally slams the boy to the ground. Yeah, he noticed that already. Every shot seems to heal instantaneously. This body can take more damage than he can bear to inflict. Dull black eyes stare up at him; lights are on but no one’s home. Too sad.

“Go to sleep, kid, and don’t wake up too soon.”

He brings the full weight of the Punisher down and pulls the trigger. Straight to the heart, lungs, stomach, all his vitals. Even the most advanced drugs would take a while to regenerate that.

He turns to Chapel, nothing but cold hate in his heart. The man looks absolutely deranged. Nicolas lifts the Punisher and takes aim. This ends now.

“Yes, that’s the look Nicolas. That’s the face of our Punisher.”

The sand is stained a rusty crimson, a color that’ll never leave now. It’s amazing that Nicolas can still move. He needs another vial, screw the time limit. But still, he hesitates.

He realizes, suddenly, that he had hope. He honestly hoped he’d be strong enough. Hoped that a miracle would come through and he could defeat the Eye of Michael and still keep his life. And now, that hope, that dream of a happily ever after, it’s holding him back. Because he knows, the moment he takes that second vial, his lifespan will take a serious hit. And if he has to take a third…

Nicolas digs his Punisher into the earth and braces himself. No more hesitation. It’s time for the counterattack.

“You fool! It’s too soon!”

Chapel’s screams fall on deaf ears as he crushes glass between his teeth and charges.

He feels the hits as Maria shoots, but it hardly slows him down. With this much in his system, he can mimic instantaneous healing for a while. But not indefinitely. Gotta make it count.

Chapel backpedals but he’s slow, sloppy. The Punisher is in his face before he knows it. But, even paralyzed, Chapel is still a master. He avoids the headshot and digs his cross-gun into Nicolas’ gut, firing mercilessly. But Nicolas holds his ground, lifting the Punisher again to take aim. Chapel roars, piercing his gun into flesh and lifting to toss him away. Nicolas lets the momentum take him, flipping over the man to headlock him from behind.

Their cries echo together as Nicolas plants his feet and pulls. Chapel ends up several meters away, sprawled in the dirt. Snapped spine, twisted neck, crushed skull.

He spins on his heel, gun blazing, and takes out Maria’s legs. As she stumbles he closes the distance, pressing the Punisher into her gut and letting loose. Her screams are quickly silenced by a flood of blood.

Nicolas steps back, panting, and gags. A trembling hand covers his midsection, the flesh shredded from Chapel’s cross-gun. He feels the pain radiating from his shoulders, back, chest, every precise shot from the Merciful. Wounds old and new throb.

Nicolas coughs up more blood, too much. His wounds aren’t healing anymore. He needs another vial, just one more and he can do it. He can finish this. But three doses in under an hour…

Chapel is writhing on the ground, face contorted with fury. Still alive, the bastard. Maria is gagging in the dirt as her guts and bones stitch themselves back together. Even Samuel is starting to twitch again. God damn it.

No time to second guess.

Nicolas has the third vial between his teeth when he hears it: the tolling of an iron bell. He looks up in horror.

Livio stands in the bell tower, ringing with all his might. Nicolas wants to scream for him to run, but he chokes on blood. No no no no—

“Help him! Please!”

Livio’s desperate voice reaches up to the skies. Nicolas wants to cry. After all this, do you still cry out for God? God’s not there, not for people like us.

Something blots out the harsh sun. A shadow darts around the canyon, its shape indiscernible. Heart shaking, Nicolas looks up.

At first, he’s not sure what he’s looking at.

Red bleeds into his vision, the red that burns into you from staring straight at the sun. Red, bright crimson red, a color Nicolas is sick of seeing. And maybe that’s why it takes him so long to notice what’s right before his eyes.

A torn crimson coat. Black and blonde hair. Burning blue eyes. And the inexplicable silhouette of a literal angel.

And didn’t he once think he needed a message from above to convince him of this man’s bounty? Be careful what you wish for and all that.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Nicolas stumbles, knees going weak, and only just barely catches himself on the Punisher.

“Wolfwood!”

Vash’s voice is a terrible cry, wrought with terror and desperation. Nicolas wants to call out to him, comfort him, confront him, but he can’t find the air in his lungs. There’s the sound of gunfire, but nothing gets near him. Those bright white feathers stretch wide; bullets fall harmlessly to the red earth.

Then, another miracle: the Eye of Michael members visibly hesitate. There’s enough of a ceasefire for Vash to rush forward. Those feathers, wings, stretch wide behind and around him, cocooning them from the world.

The moment Vash grabs his shoulders, all the strength leaves him and he falls forward. Vash catches him.

“Spikey, what the hell are you doing here?” He gasps into that red coat, familiar, eyes trained on the white feathers, alien.

“I’m here to help you, obviously.”

“But, your brother—”

“I’m sorry,” Vash pulls back, eyes soft and full of remorse. “This is all my fault. I’ll explain later. Let’s get rid of these party crashers first.”

Vash’s attempt at humor tugs a smile out of Nicolas. He takes a deep breath, feels the way his body is struggling to hold itself together; feels how he’s fraying at the seams. He exhales and stands on his own.

“Let’s do this then.”

At least I won’t die alone. Alone or in vain.

The fight doesn’t last long after that, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

In fact, the few minutes after Vash arrives are horrible. Samuel claws his way back to consciousness, rushing to Chapel’s crumpled form with a scream. Maria stands as her legs heal, but she stays put.

Samuel cries over the dying body of his mentor. Chapel must say something to him because immediately the boy stands, lifting Chapel’s cross-gun. Nicolas braces himself.

Samuel points at the bell tower. Nicolas moves before he can think.

Vash won’t let anything happen to Livio. He trusts in that knowledge as he rushes the kid blindly, tackling him to the ground as he lets loose a barrage of bullets. They fall to the ground just in time to avoid another volley of gunfire. Well, in time for the kid to avoid getting shot through the skull. Nicolas catches another blow to the shoulder for his good deed.

Samuel writhes under Nicolas’ weight, twisting until he can see Chapel.

“Master… were you… were you going to kill me too?”

It’s Maria that ends it. She steps up to Chapel and gives him a final shot through the skull. Maria the Merciful indeed. As the light fades out of those putrid eyes, some light bleeds back into Samuel’s. Nicolas releases the kid with a sigh.

Well, he’s always had a soft spot for kids.

He staggers back to Vash’s side, back to where he left the Punisher. He looks up at the bell tower; not a scratch. He leans against his cross and faces Maria. She doesn’t even glance his way, her unwavering gaze trained on Vash. Vash notices this and steps forward, shielding him. How sweet.

“You’re the Second Angel?”

Vash hesitates. He answers with:

“I’m Knives’ brother.”

Maria nods, burgundy eyes glancing around the battlefield. Foot soldiers groan in the dirt, if they’re still conscious. Chapel is a corpse. Samuel hasn’t moved, tears streaking his bloody face. She focuses back on Vash.

“Give me a command and I shall listen. Master Chapel had his own agenda when accepting this mission. I only live to obey the Angels.”

From the tense line of Vash’s shoulders he can tell the man’s uncomfortable. But he’s not stupid. He won’t look this gift horse in the mouth.

“Take your wounded and leave. Never return to this place. Swear yourself to secrecy.” Vash’s voice is deep, unwavering, and Nicolas can imagine how feathers curl around his face even from behind.

Maria bows her head and signals a retreat. The soldiers that can still stand follow her, picking up their fallen comrades. A soldier approaches the prone, weeping form of Samuel. Vash steps forward and they halt.

“Oh, and, leave the kid?”

Maria nods. Samuel shows no reaction. As suddenly as they arrived, the Eye of Michael leaves.

Vash turns to him, feathers sinking into that flawless skin, eyes swimming with emotions greater than he can comprehend. But above all, that gaze is seeking approval. Nicolas laughs. And then coughs; choking, wet things.

Vash rushes to him, hands gentle as he sinks to the ground, the Punisher bracing his weight.

“Nicolas… are you…” Vash’s blue eyes swim with worry and he stutters, as if he’s afraid to ask: “Are you okay?”

Nicolas smiles and reaches into his coat pocket. He pulls out the pouch containing his remaining vials and drops it into Vash’s hands.

“I told you before, didn’t I? Not exactly normal.” He leans more fully against the Punisher, swallows back the blood and bile crawling up his throat. “That being said, I’ve used up all my regeneration juice for the day.”

Vash takes a vial out of the pouch and stares at it curiously. Nicolas lets his eyes flutter shut as he explains.

“If I take one more, well, this might be our last conversation. The human body can only handle so much, after all.”

Vash’s breath shakes that air between them. “Nicolas… how many of these did you take…”

“Two. Probably shaved a good bit off my life span with it, but, well.”

Nicolas cracks an eye open. Vash looks utterly destroyed. He huffs and taps Vash’s cheek.

“None of that now. Smile, Spikey. You look better when you smile.”

His voice is getting weak. Nicolas fights to stay conscious. There are still things to do, important things…

He feels himself lifted up, Vash’s arms strong under his back and legs. Bridal style, huh? There’s a joke in there somewhere, he knows it. Two freaks of nature walk into a chapel…

“Where is everybody?”

Vash’s voice is so soft but it might as well have been a shout for how it jolts him. That’s right. That’s what’s important.

“Underground bunker,” he mumbles, and then he remembers. “Wait, Livio, where’s Livio—”

“Nico! Vash!”

Nicolas jostles in Vash’s hold as a body crashes into them. Livio is crying into Vash’s legs, reaching up and clinging onto whatever he can reach of Nicolas.

“Hey, I’m okay, I’m alive. Just need to get patched up.” Nicolas wills the strength into moving, just enough to pat the boy on the head. “It’s over now, Livio. Vash protected us.”

Livio’s eyes shine up at him, such a brilliant gold, filled as they are with the light of hope. His heart pangs. It’s easy, in that moment, to imagine Livio in Samuel’s place. So young and so empty. Vash will take care of it though. He genuinely believes that.

Speaking of Vash, Nicolas glances up at the man. Oh man, now that’s an expression. So much sadness and conflict and guilt. Nicolas throws a weak punch just to snap him out of it. Then, back at Livio:

“Livio, can you go get Miss Melanie and tell them it’s okay now?”

The boy nods eagerly and hugs Vash’s legs one more time with a “thank you” before rushing off. They watch him disappear down the hall before Nicolas lets himself fall limp again.

“Take me to my room, needle-noggin. I don’t need the other kids seeing me like this.”

He doesn’t know if Vash answers him, but he can feel movement as they walk down the hall. He’s swimming in and out of consciousness now. He’s barely lucid by the time he feels himself lowered onto a bed; he’s no help at all in getting his clothes off so Vash can see the damage.

“Oh Nico…” At Vash’s hushed tone he blinks down at himself.

He’s riddled with bullet wounds, some grazing vital areas, some piercing bone. His midsection is still ripped open and raw. The drugs circulating his system might be the only thing keeping him alive, but it’s not enough to heal him anymore. He’s taken too much damage.

“It looks like your body is trying to push out the bullets.”

Vash’s observation is correct. If he focuses, he can feel the sizzle of energy under his skin, sparking and failing to fully ignite. Nicolas hums and closes his eyes.

“Yeah, don’t think that’s gonna happen. Pushed out too many already.” He tries in vain to measure his breathing. It's getting harder to speak. “I’ve lost a lot of blood. I think my body’s overtaxed, it’s not creating more. Well, not fast enough.”

“Nicolas…”

He opens his eyes at Vash’s broken tone.

“Fix your face, I’m not dead yet.” Dying is not dead. Vash doesn’t need to know that though. He grumbles, “Geez, looking like you’ve been to funeral after funeral.”

“That’s not fair,” Vash whispers.

“Not fair?” Nicolas pinches Vash’s legs, the only part he has the strength to reach. “I’m saying ya’ look like you should be swimming in the river hades. Go to hell, then!”

That outburst costs him. Nicolas can’t control the coughing fit, fresh blood filling his mouth. He can barely hear Vash’s desperate pleas over the ringing in his ears.

“Nicolas… Nico… I’m going to try something, okay? Don’t freak out. I won’t hurt you. It’ll be okay, I promise.”

Nicolas nods weakly; it’s all he can do. Vash scrunches his face in concentration. At first, nothing happens. His vision starts to dim. Then, Vash starts to glow. Those feathers from before curl at his cheeks and hair and ears. When they look at him, those uncanny blue eyes finally make sense.

“Be not afraid, huh?” Nicolas wheezes. “Finally understand that Bible verse.”

There’s a touch to his chest. Vash’s hand is warm. Too warm. Scorching, even. But it doesn’t burn; it courses through him, like the best bowl of hot soup on a winter day, or a shot of the best whiskey at a lonely saloon. So warm and safe. Nicolas lets himself sink into it.

There’s the tinkle of metal hitting the floor. Oh, the bullets are out. His next breath comes easier. He opens his eyes and stares at Vash, even as he feels sleep tug against his eyes. Sleep, not the cold darkness from before.

A black streak slowly bleeding from blonde root to tip is the last thing he sees.

Some time later, Nicolas opens his eyes and knows he’s survived. He does not cry. Vash does enough of that for both of them.

(“So, you gonna tell me what the glowing angel wings are all about? And about what you did to me?”

Vash is silent for a while, but Nicolas can tell: he’s done avoiding the truth.

“First, please know, I’d really never heard of the Eye of Michael. But my brother had. Knives has always had more of a superiority complex.”

“Yeah, kinda gathered that from the whole ‘eliminate humanity’ thing.” Nicolas takes a puff from his single daily allotted smoke. “You’re not human then, are you?”

Vash nods. “We’re something called Independents.” He smiles at Nicolas’ puzzled look. “Plants. We’re Plants. Born on one of the colony ships centuries ago.”

“Centuries…” Nicolas shakes his head. It shouldn’t surprise him. “So, you know about the fall?”

Vash’s face crumples. “We’re the reason for the fall.” Guilt drips in every word. “Knives, for causing it. Me, for not stopping it.”

And so Vash tells him the story, the long and sad epic tale of two brothers. The fall, the journeys, the fights. The separations, the reunions. The decisions. And when he’s done, Nicolas asks sadly:

“But you won’t kill him, will you?”

“No.”

Silence. Vash is nothing but calm resolve, can’t afford to be anything else, so Nicolas feels the anger for him.

“So, what? You’re gonna spend your entire immortal existence being your brother’s keeper?”

“We all have a cross to bear, right?” There’s that tired, ancient smile. Nicolas finally understands it. “Besides, turns out we’re not immortal.”

Vash runs a hand through his hair, soft and free from its usual spikey do.

“This black hair? It’s decay. It spreads the more we use our powers. And it looks like I’m getting closer to death.”

There’s nothing Nicolas can say to that, so he doesn’t. He smokes his cigarette slowly, until the filter burns his fingertips. Only then does he drop it and cling to Vash’s hand instead. Vash clings back.

It’s almost enough.)

Nicolas doesn’t believe in happy endings, because nothing is happy when it ends.

Vash doesn’t stay with them because he can’t. He has a bigger battle, a battle over the fate of humanity itself. Vash won’t kill Knives. From what it sounds like, Knives won’t kill Vash either.

An eternal stalemate. A never ending song.

But songs have structures, don’t they? They loop and they build and they sing different notes and verses. So, if Knives is the chorus, maybe Nicolas can be the refrain.

This time, when Vash leaves, he lets everyone know. The kids throw a party for him. It’s filled with laughter and tears and way too many sweets. As the kids run around, Vash leans into his shoulder and whispers in his ear.

“I don’t say this a lot, but I swear to you: I will return.”

And Nicolas… Nicolas believes him.

When the day comes that Vash can return, they’ll be waiting for him. The tolling of the bells will welcome him home.