Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"Darling, another one on the tab!"

"Comin' right up, babe!"

The words escaped her mouth, paired with a rehearsed smile, both of which nearly dissolved into the cacophony of drunken voices, discordant piano tunes, and clinking glass. Smoke coiled amongst the din, permeating the cramped room with a pallid fog that obscured her vision and made dodging the occasional unidentified projectiles sailing through the air a considerable challenge

Following an erratic aerial trajectory, of which she happened to be in the path, the sole of a shoe grazed past her cheek before colliding with an empty stool and clattering to the floor. For a fleeting moment, she contemplated hurling it back toward its sender; they surely deserved it, whoever it was. And yet she remained passive, a synthetic smile plastered across her lips as she wove around a table and slipped behind the counter.

Perhaps unconsciously, she bit the inside of her cheek, barely able to restrain her mind from indulging in the fantasy of driving her fist into someone's nose. Sure, it was her job to serve; to keep her mouth shut and look pretty. But that did not mean she wasn’t seething at being compelled to endure such abuse without so much as a word of protest.

Sometimes it was outright insults; most of the time, it was degrading compliments. And it was always fucking insufferable. Straining to extract keywords from slurred, unintelligible speech just to decipher an order was the least of her concerns, yet she had no choice but to wage war against every instinct in her body not to roll her eyes. And that was when she wasn’t dodging hurled glasses or fending off wandering hands. Why were the most accessible ways to make money invariably the most demeaning? 

She was barely conscious of her fingers closing around a jug; only registering how rigidly she had been gripping the glass once a hand settled on her shoulder and drew her out of her trance.

Her head pivoted towards Sophie, her colleague for the night. “All good?” she asked, her thin lips twisted upward; if her smiles were fake, she was none the wiser about it. 

“Yeah,” she responded with a scoff. “Just spaced out is all.”

She was smiling as well; she had been all evening. In truth, you weren’t really permitted to stop smiling. Not if you wanted to make money, that is; drunkards were far more inclined to part with their coin for another drink when treated like royalty. The only way to scrape together a decent wage in this dump was to smile, feign interest in their wretched problems as though you gave a damn. So that’s what she did. She smiled, biting her tongue every time she was tempted to slam a man’s head into the table.

Sophie giggled, twisting open a bottle of liquor in her hands. “At least it’s not too rowdy.” 

Her colleague deadpanned back at her. You’re on bar duty, she thought. It’s considerably easier when you’re not doing table service.

But she said nothing, shutting off the tap before pulling the keg from beneath the barrel. She turned on her heel and was back on the battlefield, sidestepping a groping hand that lunged for the glass she was carrying. She eventually reached the patron's table, setting down the jug on the wooden surface as delicately as someone who’d spent an entire minute fantasizing about slamming it down ever could. 

A boisterous laugh greeted her arrival; she turned her gaze toward the middle-aged man beside her, whose head was thrown back in a fit of snickering. "My thanks, darling." His words were punctuated by hiccups as his hand surfaced from beneath the table to press a bill between her fingers. "What would I do without you?" 

I don't know, maybe reconcile with your wife? Be a decent father to your children? Stop flirting with a woman twenty years younger than you are?

She grinned broadly. "Ah, but what would I do without you, Henry!" Her voice was so unnaturally bright that she was nearly giving herself a headache. "You're, like, my best customer tonight!" 

Henry tilted his head, finally tearing his gaze from his jug to fix the bartender before him; his half-lidded eyes were accompanied by a sly smirk she all knew too well. "Am I your favourite too?" His hand was now tracing idle circles on her forearm.

There was another table behind her, alongside an empty chair; how swift would it be to seize that wooden furniture and bring it down on his skull, she wondered. "Well, shall we see after a few more drinks?" she replied instead, spinning backwards to slip free his grasp while keeping the gesture playful; she even threw in a wink for good measure. Figures. 

"Yes, ma'am!" Henry nearly shouted, tossing back his glass; beer dribbled down his chin, and she seized the opportunity to walk away. 

In a way, Sophie had been right; they had endured far worse nights. The tavern was often packed to the rafters, with people barely having enough room to breathe. Whether it was locals or travellers (she had yet to determine which of the two was more insufferable), they would congregate, bellowing unrecognizable tunes under the cover of darkness and hurling themselves at one another like children in a playground. Such was the nature of Skullpeak, an obligatory waypoint for all those crossing the Savabridge Mountains through the Brisroy Canyon. Most would argue that this was the only viable route. Some might have disagreed, but those people were no longer particularly alive; at least not alive enough to protest. 

Compared to what she had witnessed in the past, the night had been reasonably peaceful so far. Irritating, but peaceful. She could weather a shoe sailing past her face and Henry's insufferable drunken advances over the sheer mayhem that accompanied a convoy of bandits. Or soldiers. Again, difficult to say which was worse.

Sophie's voice cut through her reverie, calling out her name from across the room. The youngest bartender quickly made her way back to the counter, joining the smiling redhead who was occupying herself wiping glasses clean with a rag. 

"What's up?" she asked, leaning her elbow against the wooden surface, her brow furrowed. "Everything alright?"

Sophie nodded blissfully, her apricot curls bouncing over her shoulders. Gosh, she was so pretty... "Oh yeah! I'm good," she laughed softly. "Well, actually, I have a favour to ask you."

"Shoot." 

Following her approval, Sophie's gaze went around her, reaching the wall further behind; this prompted her to pivot as well. "See that man, alone near the back wall?"

It took her a few seconds to find the target; after all, there were so many tables, most of which had two or three occupants sharing heated conversations. "The one with the green hat?"

"No, no, on his right. Red coat, blonde hair."

Her eyes finally landed on the man Sophie was describing; his tall frame, conspicuous even as he sat, was nearly swallowed by an enormous crimson jacket, the swathe of red broken only by a flash of aquamarine that appeared to be a prosthetic arm. His blonde hair was swept into jagged spikes above an undercut of a noticeably darker shade, and his eyes were concealed behind a pair of amber-tinted glasses.

His gaze appeared submerged in the void before himm almost perfectly still. "What about him?" she eventually asked, her eyes drifting back to Sophie, who set her newly polished glass down on the counter.

"He paid for a room upstairs, earlier this afternoon," the redhead explained quietly. "Just came down a few minutes ago." 

It was worth noting that they weren't merely serving the cheapest drinks in the Savabridge region. They also offered low-cost rooms, which, though affordable, were largely occupied by battered drunks who couldn't stagger back from the tavern to their caravans; by that point, they wouldn't so much as flinch when she inflated the price to pocket a little extra.

She was renting one of the rooms herself. After all, securing permanent lodging anywhere was a near impossibility around here. Renting a room every night, even after negotiating an arrangement that obliged her to work the night shifts, was hardly what anyone could call cheap.

Her gaze shifted back to Sophie, mostly confused if anything. "Yeah?" she shrugged. "What's the issue?"

"Actually, I was thinking of getting him a drink."

She nearly choked on her incoming breath. "For free?!"

The redhead pouted, her eyebrows drawing a frown over her lovely emerald gaze. "Oh come on, don't be stingy," she grumbled, her hand gripping another jug to wipe.

"But why would you do that?" her coworker inquired, eventually earning herself an elated giggle.

Sophie's smile was often infectious, but this time, her friend was far too bewildered to reciprocate. "Ah, because he was remarkably kind to me earlier!" she beamed, her gaze drifting to some private reverie. "He was very gracious. Said hello, and thank you, and all that."

In response, her friend held a blink for a beat too long. "Sophie, that is like… the bare minimum." 

"He offered me a ring!" the redhead retorted, abandoning her cleaning duty to thrust a hand in front of her colleague's face. "Look!"

With Sophie's finger shoved practically in her eyes, the younger bartender had no choice but to look. Indeed, Sophie wore a piece of jewelry around her finger that hadn't been there before. It was fashioned from a greenish metal; the left side bore unmistakable signs of rust, several fragments having already flaked from its surface.

There was little point in scrutinizing it further; the ring was utterly without value. Sure, Sophie was a boundless optimist, but even she could not soar on so thin a cloud for long. "You know, Soph, this is worthless," she eventually murmured, earning a slow tilt from her friend. "This isn't even worth a beer."

For once, Sophie seemed perplexed; lost in thought even. Her eyes slowly traced the shape of the ring around her finger before meeting her again, a wave of newfound conviction settling over her expression. "Well, you know…" she paused. "I guess it's the thought that counts."

Unbelievable. Honestly, she loved Sophie with every fractured corner of her small, battered heart, but the girl was far too kind for her own good. One day, this world would undoubtedly grind her to dust. 

"So why don't you get him a drink yourself, if you're so keen to thank him?" she replied instead. "He was taken with you, wasn't he?"

Her friend laughed at her insinuation. "Oh, come on," she scoffed, her mouth curling upward. "I wouldn't stoop so low as to flirt with him." Harsh. "I just want to thank him for his kindness, that's all." 

Unbeknownst to her, Sophie's words had cut deeper than she had intended. Despite being a few years older, the redhead had never known anything beyond the confines of the canyon. By virtue of her father owning both the tavern and the inn, it was common knowledge even among travellers that she was beyond their reach if they wished to depart with all their limbs intact. She was sheltered and insulated from harm, spared the particular anxieties of a woman in such a trade. Untouched by the fear of being insulted, degraded, or worse. 

After all, she wasn't doing this for the money; why would she ever deign to flirt mindlessly with a handful of drunkards? Why would she manufacture those nauseating performances of affection to the point of nausea, if not out of financial desperation? Why would she allow her pride to be trampled and her dignity stripped bare, then be reduced to weeping herself to sleep in the dead of night, haunted by choices she had no power to refuse?

Sophie's smile was genuine, unsullied by the horrors of this world. Unspoiled by pain, corruption and death. How fortunate.

She came to the realization that this wasn't even about bartending anymore.

Sophie must have noticed her spacing out, because she slipped a freshly filled jug of beer in between her fingers. "Think of it as a welcome gift, maybe?" she beamed, as if that would make any of this any better. "For renting a room." 

After a moment of hesitation, her coworker eventually sighed, unable to suppress a grin. "Fine," she breathed, her grip tightening around the glass. "But only because you asked."

"Thank you so much!"

She nodded softly before turning away, drink in hand, her gaze sweeping the room in search of her target. It turned out that even after her exchange with Sophie, the man had barely stirred; he was still staring at the wall, not unlike some unsettling effigy from one of those archeology volumes she’d once leafed through. Most people came to the tavern to unwind, drinking their gruelling days and life problems into oblivion as they commiserated with fellow travellers sharing the same wretched lot. Yet somehow, this man seemed to be there for none of these reasons. 

Not that it mattered in any way; she didn't care about his motivations. 

He eventually seemed to register her presence as she drew closer, his pale eyes tracking her through his tinted lenses; apart from a single raised brow, the man remained perfectly still and silent. Nothing she couldn’t manage; reticent patrons were as much a fixture of the job as tiresome ones. Her only task was to deliver a complimentary drink, quietly hoping he would order more for the sake of her own purse.

As such, it was inevitable that she would have to go beyond the bare minimum, which is why her hand closed one of the chairs across from the man, drawing it back once she had set the beer jug before him. He was now decidedly more astonished than confused, she noted as she settled herself against the chair back. 

Her gaze lingered on the drink for a moment before drifting back to his eyes. Were they green? Certainly too murky to be blue. “On the house,” she announced, offering no further explanation.

She watched with quiet amusement as his eyes ping-ponged between the glass and her face; once, twice, a third time for good measure. His mouth made a valiant attempt at opening before thinking better of it, and it took another few seconds of apparent internal debate before his gaze finally committed to landing on her.

"What?" Truly the pinnacle of eloquence.

Her lips curved as she offered an innocent shrug. "A welcome gift." God bless Sophie and her inexhaustible goodwill. Though if she were honest with herself, this was turning out to be mildly entertaining.

The blonde blinked, gears visibly turning, before the penny finally dropped. "Oh." He dipped his head with solemn gravity, his hands clasping together. “Much obliged, fair maiden. I am forever in your debt.”

Ah, there it was. Never mind, he was insufferable, just like the rest of them. Ugh.

Nevertheless, she managed to coax a laugh out of somewhere deep within herself. "Oh, it's really not a big deal," she said, waving a dismissive hand through the air. "To be honest, we don't get many guests renting the rooms upstairs." As rehearsed as ever. She punctuated with a smile sharp enough to cut glass. "Consider it a token of our appreciation. For your patronage."

If he had been reluctant to so much as address her at the outset, that hesitation had apparently dissolved entirely, and whatever remained of his self-awareness along with it. He had doubtless mistaken her civility for attraction, as every single one of them before him, and now sat so thoroughly pleased with himself that it was almost impressive. He let out a self-satisfied scoff. "Ah, this is nothing," he assured her, sliding his right hand across the table to claim the beer. "Anything to be of service. You're offering me a warm bed and a complimentary drink, delivered by the finest woman in the room." He gestured vaguely at the tavern around them, which was perhaps the biggest insult to Sophie. "What more could a man ask for, truly?"

More drinks before I lose whatever patience I have left. “I suppose it mustn’t be such a terrible day for you, then,” she answered instead, propping her chin between her palms with practiced ease. 

"Well, it's true that I've weathered far worse weeks," he smirked, taking a long sip of his drink, long enough for her to roll her eyes and compose herself before he resurfaced.

She tilted her head, lifting a brow. "Care to elaborate?" The words came out warmer than intended. Occupational hazard.

In truth, sitting down to endure a patron's ramblings wasn't the worst thing in the world. It often got her off her feet, and a captive audience had a funny way of turning into a generous one by the time the night was out. Low effort, reasonable returns: she could live with that. Didn't make it any less tedious, but one couldn't have everything.

At least, this one wasn't too difficult to look at. Quite the contrary, in fact, if she were being generous, he was objectively rather striking. The crimson jacket, as absurd as it was, sat well on his broad shoulders; his jaw was sharp enough to be interesting, and there was something disarming about the way the amber lenses caught the light, softening whatever expression lay beneath them. The prosthetic arm was a curiosity too, now that she was close enough to notice: aquamarine against the red, gleaming faintly in a way that was more elegant than it had any right to be. And he appeared to be roughly her age, too, for once, which, given the usual clientele, felt nothing short of miraculous.

Small mercies. One had to catalogue the victories wherever one could find them, however shallow. 

"So he emptied his entire clip at me before driving off. The nerve of the guy!"

Her answer was a smile. 

This had been going on for a full hour and a half. The man, who had yet to give his name, by the way, had been monopolizing her attention for the better part of her night shift. Luckily, he was on his fifth drink, so this wasn't a complete waste of her time, but her patience was wearing thin.

She'd gotten up a few times to refill his glass, using the opportunity to tend to other customers scattered around the room, but the rest of her time had been spent at his table, nodding and occasionally tossing in a word or two of commentary on whatever travel anecdote he happened to be rambling about. By that point in the evening, she couldn't even tell if he was making them up.

Sophie had thrown her a questioning look more than once, no doubt wondering whether she was still over there. The tavern was slowly emptying, most of the drunkards shuffling off with arms slung around each other just to stay upright. And still, she sat there, listening. 

"Even as he drove off, he was still shooting at me!" his words were getting garbled, barely recognizable under the weight of the alcohol. "Through the window!"

She blinked at the emphasis. "No way. Really?" She wasn't really listening. 

"I swear!" He let out a sharp breath, apparently satisfied with her response. He dropped his head into his palm and closed his eyes. "Like I said. Long week."

"I can see that." What a loser. 

One eye cracked open, half-lidded, and drifted toward her. "Not easy, being on the run," he mumbled, more to the ceiling than to her.

Her mind stalled on his confession. Of course: another criminal. Not that it was uncommon in the Savabridge region: it sat dead center of the Badlands, the part of Gunsmoke that most people with any sense steered well clear of. The land out here was harsh and unforgiving, and the few towns that had taken root around the Brisroy Canyon clung to existence more out of stubbornness than anything else: people who settled in them weren't generally the kind who had a lot of other options. Police presence was thin at best: the terrain made regular patrols near impossible, and the bandits running the trade routes had powerful ties. Most lawmen had quietly decided that the area wasn't worth the trouble. 

Anyone looking to disappear usually did just fine around here. Still, most fugitives knew to keep their heads down when passing through Skullpeak. It was the largest settlement in the mountain chain: more eyes, more loose tongues, and more desperate people who wouldn't think twice about turning someone in for the right price. You were never truly safe from someone looking to collect a bounty.

Speaking of bounties, the thought of claiming the one on his head didn't take long to surface. She didn't know his name, didn't know what he'd done or what he'd crossed to end up here half-drunk and running his mouth to a barmaid in the middle of nowhere, but she knew the bulletin board nailed to the post a few blocks away from the tavern. Odds were decent, there was a mugshot on one of those posters that matched the one currently face-down in his palm. Could be worth something; perhaps a lot.

Then again, whatever heat came with turning him in wouldn't stay on him alone. And so she'd rather keep her head down. Even if it meant another night in this dump.

Forcing herself back into the conversation, she let out a quiet laugh. "I can imagine," she answered. "Must be exhausting, going from place to place like that."

I know all about it remained unsaid. 

He gave a faint nod, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Then, as if the weight of what he’d just said finally caught up to him, his eyes went wide. “Wait,” he blurted out, “you're not going to rat me out, are you?”

“Of course not.” She raised both hands in a placating gesture. "Don't worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

That seemed to settle him. “Much obliged,” he breathed, the tension leaving his shoulders as he smiled at her again. “I knew I could trust you.”

She had to bite her tongue to keep from pointing out that he didn't know a single thing about her, since he'd never bothered to ask. But she let it go; she was just doing her job and was making good money off of him. 

As if he'd somehow heard her thoughts, he circled the conversation back to her. More or less. "You must get a lot of rough types around here," he mumbled, tilting his head. 

Being addressed, probably for the first time in their entire conversation, left her momentarily at a loss. "Sometimes," she replied. "They tend to keep to themselves, though. Hard to make a fuss when there are only two roads out of the city."

"Fair enough." He nodded, and she was genuinely surprised to still find any coherence in his eyes, given how much he'd had to drink. "I mean, you could cut across the mountains if you're bold enough. But it's a whole ordeal. Ain't worth the hassle."

She raised a brow, surprisingly attentive for once. “Speaking from experience?” The corner of her mouth curled upward, an expression he mirrored after a beat of delay.

“Well, believe it or not, but-”

“There you are!”

A hand came down hard on her shoulder, spinning around, and there was Sophie, a frown etched across her face. Of course, she was annoyed; she'd been holding down the bar for the better part of the night. 

She flashed her a smile, hoping it might cut through the tension. “Hey, Soph.” 

The redhead wasn't buying it. Her brows pulled together as she glanced past her at the man, briefly, as if she didn't want to give him the satisfaction. "I'm sure it's a lovely conversation. I still need you back at the bar." She paused. "Please."

She turned back to him with a small shrug. "You heard the lady." She snorted. "Sorry."

The man waved her off. "No, my fault entirely," he said, the interruption seeming to sober him up a notch. "Kept you long enough. I was about to turn in anyway."

His chair scraped against the battered wooden floor as he hauled himself to his feet, swaying slightly while he found his balance.

Eventually, his pale eyes found hers. “See you around…” He trailed off, letting the silence stretch. She was starting to wonder if he'd nodded off while standing up. "Uh..."

And that’s when it hit her. Of course. 

He still didn’t know her name.

She grinned, which surprised her a little, given how tired she was. She told him her name, and something shifted in his smile.

“Pleasure to meet you.” He dipped his head, just slightly. “I’m Vash.”

“Good night, Vash.”

It took him a moment, but he eventually managed to navigate away from the tavern floor and up the stairs to the second floor, where the rooms were. She wasn't entirely sure he'd make it to his own door, but she had no time to go up and check. If he ended up locked out or asleep in the hallway, she'd find out soon enough when her shift ended.

Walking back to the bar, she fell into step beside Sophie. "For the record," she started in defence of her pride, "you're the one who told me to go talk to him."

Sophie was too good-natured to stay angry at anyone for too long. Even now, a laugh escaped before she could stop it. "And you're the one who accused me of having a crush on him," she shot back, nudging her with an elbow. "So, I guess we're both idiots."

"He tipped well, at least."

Sophie stared at her. "How much?"

"Enough that I might actually let him ramble at me again tomorrow."

Chapter Text

Vash came back the following evening. And the next one. And the few after that.

She had no real sense of how long he intended to keep the room; what she did know was that he slipped out before the dust had settled on the morning, and was always back once the suns had bled below the horizon, drifting in for a drink or two. He'd ask for her every time, despite her not yet being on the clock; even Sophie had started raising an eyebrow at the routine.

She set the foamy glass down into the empty sink with more care than the situation warranted, then lifted her eyes to scan the room for orders. Her thoughts were elsewhere entirely, grasping for something plausible to offer Vash. A manufactured sob story was an option, but those had a way of making everyone uncomfortable; people didn't want to hold the weight of your suffering, they just wanted to feel like they knew you. Although he seemed genuinely kind and would likely extend the grace of believing whatever she said, she wasn't prepared to gamble on it. Or rather, wasn't prepared to gamble on the tip money.

There was always the alternative of a story so unremarkably boring that it would barely be worth the ensuing questions. Not everyone had a past worth dissecting, after all. It wasn't difficult to sketch something bland, a wholesome upbringing with two devoted parents, the kind of childhood that ended with a fond farewell and a blessing to go discover herself. Painfully generic, perhaps especially so on Gunsmoke, where nobody's story was this ordinary, but most people didn't scrutinize the mundane.

But what if he pressed and asked for details? You couldn't embroider a story that thin without the seams showing. Build too high on a foundation of nothing, and the whole structure folds. 

Come on, think. This wasn't her first time constructing a version of herself from scratch; surely she could come up with something. 

The door slammed open against the tavern wall and tore her out of her own head. Her eyes snapped up, braced for the usual belligerent drunk arriving ahead of his manners, already halfway to being a problem.

Reality, as it turned out, was considerably worse: three officers stood in the doorway, firearms at their hips and expressions carved into matching frowns. 

And her very own wanted poster in their grip. 

The likeness was working in her favour, at least: the illustration barely resembled her now that her hair was shorter and a different colour entirely. She doubted even the regulars would make the connection. But the officers' presence meant someone had already made it, and they had traced her to a specific point on the map. And they were right. 

Fuck. Not good.

Her first instinct was to drop, folding herself to the floor and using the counter as cover before she'd even decided to move. The absence of any commotion meant only Sophie had caught the motion; the redhead was already throwing her a bewildered look from across the bar.

She genuinely adored Sophie, much more than she'd allowed herself to acknowledge until this moment. But like everyone else she'd encountered until then, she'd been kept carefully in the dark: no history, no context, and certainly nothing about the bounty. Asking her to provide cover without a word of explanation was reckless; yet there were no other alternatives, and survival had a way of overriding courtesy.

She looked up at Sophie and pressed a single finger to her lips, then busied her hands by pulling open one of the lower cupboards, making a show of searching for something that didn't exist. Keeping herself moving was the only thing standing between her and the overwhelming urge to scream. 

She didn't know if Sophie understood. She wasn't brave enough to look and find out now that her guilt was already swallowing her whole. There was, after all, a reason she didn't let herself have friends. People tended to object to being made complicit in someone else's catastrophe without so much as a warning. 

A man's voice drifted over the counter. "Good evening, ma'am." A brief, formal clearing of the throat. 

"Oh, hello there!" Sophie's voice rang out above her, bright and entirely unruffled, as though there wasn't someone crouched behind the counter at her feet. "What can I do for you?"

"My men and I have been in pursuit of a fugitive for several months now," he explained calmly. "We've tracked her movements to the Savabridge region." The dry rasp of paper sliding across the counter. "Does this face mean anything to you?"

"See, my men and I are November police. We've been pursuing a criminal for the last few months, and we tracked her movements to the Savabridge region." She could hear the noise of crinkling paper, which was most likely the man sliding her wanted poster over the counter. "Does this image appear familiar to you?" 

The silence felt like a lifetime. "Hmm." Sophie clicked her tongue as if giving it genuine thought. "No, I don't think so. Sorry."

"No trouble at all, ma'am." The paper retreated from the counter. "If you or anyone on the premises notices anything out of the ordinary, we'd appreciate it if you let us know. We'll be in Skullpeak for the next few days."

She looked up at Sophie, who simply nodded at her interlocutor with her usual bright smile. "Of course!"

"Thank you. Have a good evening."  

Footsteps receded across the floorboards, moving away from the bar before fading entirely. The tavern's atmosphere, fractured by the intrusion, slowly knit itself back together, the low hum of conversation resuming around her as she exhaled a breath she'd been holding since the door swung open. 

When she finally looked up, she found Sophie already watching her. The warmth that usually lived in her eyes had gone very quiet.

She rose to her feet and angled herself toward the counter, putting her back to the room. Just in case, given that half the tavern had just spent a minute staring at her admittedly outdated wanted poster. 

"I can explain." The words left her mouth on instinct, followed almost immediately by the hollow realization that she couldn't. There was nothing to offer, and even if there had been, no explanation would have changed anything. 

Sophie was frowning, her gaze carrying something that sat between accusation and bewilderment. "You never told me any of this." The words came out on a sharp exhale. Not quite a reproach and more like the sound of something giving way. But they landed the same regardless. They always did.

She held her gaze, even though it cost her something. "I'm so sorry, Soph." She knew perfectly well those words repaired nothing: she'd known it every time she said them. And yet here she was, saying them again. "It's not what it looks like, but-"

She stopped herself. She couldn't go down that road, no matter how much she wanted to. Nothing was holding her here now anyway; nothing except the lingering weight of something she'd let herself value. Now that it was slipping away, she had no excuse left to stall. She still had somewhere to be.

"I have to leave," she declared. "Tonight."

She couldn't claim it was a surprise. Everything always ended with her leaving. No matter the people or the places, she never stayed long enough to let any of it become hers. The goodbyes weren't always this rushed. But they were always goodbyes. 

What a shame. She was actually starting to enjoy this. 

She turned instinctively, eyes moving to the back table where she'd been sitting with Vash minutes before. Yet he was gone, his glass sitting where he'd left it, still half-full. Come to think of it, it made sense: he would have seen the officers the moment they walked in. She couldn't fault him for running: she of all people understood that impulse. 

She brought her attention back to Sophie, who was watching her with the careful stillness of someone waiting to understand something. Her eyes were full of unasked questions, but she didn't voice any of them; she just exhaled slowly, her gaze drifting between her face and the floor. 

"You could have trusted me." Sophie's voice was barely above a whisper, yet the sincerity in it was enough to make her chest tighten with shame. "Whatever it is you're running from, I'm sure there's an explanation."

It was so thoroughly Sophie to assume the best, to offer grace before it was asked for. She thought that the world would be a kinder place if more people built their lives the way Sophie did. "There is." She said with a sad smile. "But I don't want to entangle you in all this. I can't outrun my past forever."

"Will you please tell me what happened?" Sophie asked. "Please?"

She thought about it; Sophie had earned that much honesty after everything she'd done over the past few weeks. But every additional moment spent in this building was a risk: who knew how long it would take before one of the regulars would make the connection between her face and the poster they'd just been handed. 

Every second she remained in this town was a risk she could no longer afford. 

"I'm sorry." That was all she had. She watched the disappointment move across Sophie's face like a shadow.

She forgot, sometimes, that not everyone lived the way she did; braced at all times for the moment everything would have to be left behind. Some people had lives that stayed in one place, relationships that deepened and became something worth grieving. They allowed themselves to be known, letting love, friendship, and genuine tenderness take root in them. 

People like Sophie were not built for this kind of loss. She owed her the dignity of letting her sit with her grief for a moment rather than moving straight through it. All while she folded up her own at the bottom of her chest, where it would remain unattended, the way it always did. 

"I'll be packing upstairs." She pulled her gaze away, unable to look at Sophie any longer. Unable to bear what she might still find there. 

Chapter Text

She would've driven her fist clean through the wall if not for two things: first, she was still desperately clinging to the illusion of being inconspicious, which staging a full-blown breakdown directly above the tavern would have been quite counterproductive; and second, she had already caused Sophie enough grief without adding a hole in her father's establishment to the list. Especially now that they would be scrambling to fill her vacancy. And according to Sophie, Skullpeak was not exactly celebrated for the integrity of its workforce.

Yet another weight to her ledger of regrets. 

She rounded the final step of the staircase, fingers worrying the metal room key, ice-cold against her trembling hands.  But as her eyes rose toward the lock, a slash of red blazed at the edge of her vision. She recoiled instantly, her body dropping into a defensive crouch, hand already reaching for the weapon strapped against her shin beneath the flowing skirt that came with the job. 

Of course, she'd been armed all along. Being a fugitive on Gunsmoke had a way of rewiring a person, stripping away the luxury of complacency until vigilance became less of a choice and more of a reflex. She had learned that lesson early and had not forgotten it since. 

After a few suspended seconds, the adrenaline receded enough for her mind to reassemble itself. The slash of red was a coat. A coat she recognized all too well.

"Hey." Vash gave a small wave, wearing that same disarming smile he'd had downstairs. As though it had never left and the world hadn't just nearly ended. 

After a few seconds spent on the defensive, her mind cleared and analyzed the predicament. It turned out that the spot of red she’d witnessed had been a coat all along, a coat she recognized all too well. "Hey." Vash waved at her, bearing his usual soft grin like it hadn't left his face since they'd been talking downstairs.

Now, what the fuck was he doing there? Her shift was over. She was no longer paid to smile and make conversation; so what exactly did he think he was entitled to?

When she didn't move, he filled the silence with a brand of nonchalance she was already beginning to find insufferable.

"I saw the police coming in, so I slipped out," he explained, as though the reason for his disappearance wasn't literally the least of her worries now. "Sorry for leaving like that."

"Sure," she said, her voice stripped of warmth. "Don't worry about it." She crossed to the door, shoved the key into the lock, twisting it with more force than necessary before shouldering the door open. Maybe if she simply disappeared into the room, her room, he would take the hint and let her be. 

He didn't. 

"Are you done with your shift?" he asked, propping himself against the doorframe as she stepped inside.

She dropped to her knees beside the bed and wrenched her backpack out from beneath it with a sharp tug.

"Yes." The world came out glacial, nearly swallowed by the scrape of leather dragging across the wooden floor.  

A strained silence settled between them, broken only by the rustling and snapping of her bag. Her strategy was simple: outlast the discomfort, let the quiet do the talking and wait for him to take the hint. She had no desire to be explicit about it, but his continued presence would only invite questions she had no intention of answering. She had far more urgent things to attend to than whatever this was. 

And yet, predictably, the message sailed clean over his head. "Ah. So you're leaving then." At least he'd managed to piece that together himself; she'd give him that. "You seem to be in quite a rush."

She tightened her fists until her nails bit into her palms.

She had been on her own long enough to know herself in the way that only solitude and despair could teach. That meant knowing, too, the precise location of her limits. She could feel exactly where they were right now, and she was standing right at the edge. 

And she was actually aware that tonight, after the sudden appearance of the November police and the wretched ritual of leaving everything behind, after the suffocating guilt of having nearly lied to Sophie, who had shown her nothing but genuine kindness over the past month, her limits had not merely been tested: they were ground down to dust. All it would take now was a single word, a careless one; one ill-timed breath. And everything she was keeping together would detonate. 

Vash spoke again.

"Was it the cops?" The faint smirk at the corner of his mouth made clear he already knew the answer. "Do you have something to hide?"

And so she snapped.

She abandoned the bag, pushed herself to her feet and turned to face him. Vash was still leaning against the doorframe with that infuriating air of ease.

"Let me be very clear about something," she said, each word sharpened to a point. At the sound of her voice, he straightened against the frame. "We are not friends. I was nice to you because it was my job. That's it. I don't-" she exhaled sharply through her nose. "I don't know you, and you don't know me. We're both running from something, and I don't think it's a great thing to bond over. So, you're going to let me pack and go, and we never have to see each other again. Okay?"

Alright, perhaps she had been a bit harsh. But if the message had landed, she would consider it a victory regardless. She turned back to the bag and dropped to her knees, resuming where she'd left off.

Vash parted his lips as if to respond, then closed them again. The easy looseness in his posture had dissolved, and his eyes became shadowed with what appeared to be concern, of all things. And yet he didn't look particularly shocked either. Perhaps he was sharper than he'd been letting on and had seen all of this coming long before the police had walked through that door. 

In which case, good for him. It didn't change anything: she wasn't going to soften just because he'd read the room correctly. If anything, it made it worse, knowing he understood exactly what was happening and had chosen to stay anyway. Standing there, quietly, like he had all the time in the world and none of her urgency. 

"I can help." The words dropped into the silence. "If you want," he added, hands lighting slightly; not quite a surrender, more like an offering. "There are ways out of this city that most people don't know about."

She finally looked up from the bag. "How would you even know that?"

Something shifted behind his eyes. "It's... a long story."

With Vash, it was always a long story. She didn't push; not that she wasn't curious, but she didn't have the time, and he knew it. 

"Why?" Her voice came out quieter than intended. Less hostile, more genuinely baffled. "I just told you to leave me alone. So why do you even care?"

The question seemed to genuinely unsteady him, more than her tirade had. He just looked at her, like the concept of someone not wanting help was something he'd never encountered. 

Why was she feeling remorseful about berating him now? She had no reason to. They didn't know each other. If he'd known a single real thing about her, he'd have turned and walked out that door long before she had asked him to.

"We don't have to be friends to help each other." He told her, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You're running. I'm running. It just-" he gestured vaguely. "It wouldn't feel right, leaving you to figure this out alone." He paused, glancing away briefly. "And honestly, the police being here isn't great for me either. I was going to leave anyway."

It was pragmatically coherent, she'd grant him that. She could follow the logic: travel together long enough to clear Skullpeak, which was no small undertaking if he intended to navigate the mountains, then part ways once they were safely out of reach. Although it made sense on paper, she couldn't say it sat comfortably with her; yet the alternative was bleaker. She had no viable plan for slipping out of the city undetected, particularly if the November police intended to dig in for the next few days. Staying underground wasn't a great solution either; remaining in a city already on high alert was a gamble she couldn't afford 

Her options were narrowing to a pinhole. Perhaps, infuriatingly, Vash was right. Perhaps this was the only way. And she hated that. 

In front of her silence, Vash offered a mild shrug. "Two fugitives helping each other out seems perfectly reasonable to me."

The corner of his mouth curved upward with the ease of someone who thought they knew exactly what they were doing. 

"And besides," he tilted his head slightly. "I wasn't lying when I said you were the finest woman in the room."

Oh, this fucker. 

She scoffed loudly, not even bothering to conceal it, and let her eyes roll with full theatrical commitment. Somehow, against all reason, this disaster of an exchange was beginning to amuse her. It was genuinely, almost magnificently absurd. 

"You don't even know what I've done." She paused. "For all you know, I could be a serial killer."

The threat didn't so much as ripple across his expression.

"So could I," he replied, far too quickly. 

She genuinely considered homicide for a brief moment. 

He glanced at the door, then back at her. "But you haven't told me to leave yet."

She looked at him for a long moment, and every instinct she had yelled at her to refuse. Because she didn't know him, and people who seemed kind often were the ones you had to watch the closest.

But all things considered, her instincts had also left her stranded in a motel room with no plan, no exit, and a town full of police straight from November looking for her. Maybe, just this once, her instincts didn't get a vote.

In the end, she let out a sharp breath and surrendered.

"Fine." She met his gaze without flinching. "But if so much as think about stabbing me in the back, I will kill you."

His smile was quiet and, she reluctantly noted, entirely sincere. 

"Deal," he clicked his tongue. 

"I mean it," she added. "Every word."

"I know." He didn't blink.

Chapter Text

As much as she would’ve wished to press him about his plan and its finer specifics the moment the deal was struck, her racing train of thought was abruptly severed by three knocks reverberating against the now-closed door. Startled, both newfound allies exchanged a fleeting glance before snapping their eyes toward the entrance. 

Vash turned his head back toward her, question written all over his face. She shrugged: she had no fucking idea either. She hadn't exactly made friends around town, and even fewer people knew where she was staying. The room number, too; that was precise enough to be worrying. 

Neither of them so much as breathed, bracing for the inevitable. It came sooner than they anticipated: two more knocks followed, and then a voice drifted from the wood that she recognized at once. 

"It's me," Sophie breathed, her voice barely more than a ghost on the other side of the door. 

She would've normally been more careful. But if Sophie had wanted to turn her in, she would've done it at the bar, when the November police were already there. This was far less dangerous than what she was used to. Probably. 

She hesitated under Vash's stare, then reached for the doorknob and eased it open.

Sophie. Just Sophie. The hallway was empty, the only sound a distant murmur of voices from downstairs. "Come in," she said, pulling the door open just enough before quietly pressing it shut behind her. 

Turning around, she found Sophie frozen mid-step, staring at Vash like he was the last person she'd expected to see. He seemed quietly amused by it, yet tactful enough not to make it worse by upstaging the two women. He gave her a small wave. 

She was glad Sophie was still speaking to her: less glad about what she might be about to ask. "Is there anything I-" She stopped herself. If Sophie had come to beg her to stay, she had nothing to give her. "...can do for you?" she finished, though it came out more like a question than an offer.

Yet Sophie hadn't even heard her. Her eyes were still fixed on Vash. "What are you doing here?" she asked him, barely

Vash had come up between them more than once over the past week: it was hard to avoid, given how much time they'd spent together. Sophie had noticed and hadn't been shy about asking questions. So she'd complied to the interrogation, providing her with whatever scraps of gossip she could offer: places Vash had been, things he'd mentioned in passing. Sophie always loved hearing about life outside Skullpeak. 

But the part about him being a wanted fugitive had never come up naturally. So she hadn't brought it up. 

"He's on the run, too." She was quietly praying Sophie wouldn't push for more than that. 

Instead of letting it go, the redhead turned to face her fully, skepticism etched into every line of her expression. "So you two already knew each other?" She blinked slowly; her face was so transparent that one could practically watch the pieces clicking into place behind her eyes. 

"No!" The denial came out fiercer than she'd intended. She wasn't even sure why it mattered. "It just... came up in conversation. He offered to get me out of Skullpeak, that's all."

Sophie's gaze moved between them as though she had a dozen questions and couldn't decide which one hurt least to ask. Watching her confusion unfurl in silence was its own quiet torment, especially since she had no words to offer in return.

Eventually, Sophie's gaze stilled, settling on her friend in a quiet resolve; her brows were drawn in earnestness she rarely wore openly. "Alright." She gave a single nod, visibly tucking the unanswered questions away. "If you two need to get out quickly, maybe I can help. " 

This earned her two identical looks of bewilderment. 

What was this? Was she genuinely offering them a lifeline out of sheer goodwill? Or was this a carefully laid snare designed to draw them into the open? 

Either way, it was impossible to assume anything before hearing her out. "Go on."

Sophie glanced toward the door, then back at them. "I overheard some of the regulars talking about the November police. They're staying at the Willow Inn, by the North gate." She paused. "They came in a car."

Well, god-fucking-damn. If they could steal it, the police would have no way to follow them, and no quick way to call for backup either. On top of that, a police car was guaranteed to be fueled and road-ready for the canyon, allowing them to clear it much faster than they would on foot. Or through the mountains, if she was to believe this was Vash's plan. 

The catch, of course, was that the car wouldn't be unguarded. And they had no way to start it. 

Her gaze cut sharply to Vash. "You know how to hotwire a car?" Her tone was measured yet carried something close to hope. Maybe just once, just this once, something might go in her favour. 

"Uh..." The apologetic grin that spread across his face was answer enough."

Horrible plan. But not the worst she'd ever worked with. 

"Any other ideas?" She quietly hoped 

He thought about it for a moment. Then he shrugged. "I mean... it would save us the trouble of crossing the mountains."

She stared at him. Of course, his own genius plan was going to take them through the mountains on foot.

While they were bickering, Sophie stepped forward. "Actually, I might be able to help." She hesitated for a moment. "Dad used to repair vehicles when he was still living in Augusta. He keeps a starter in his office, for when travellers break down."

Her left hand disappeared into the inner pocket of her apron, resurfacing a moment later with a small wooden box, its lid held shut by a tarnished metal clasp along one side. Sophie gripped it for a while, as if reluctant to let it go, before extending it toward her friend in the open cup of her palm.

"Here. Take it." The ghost of a tear shimmered at the corner of her eye. "But you have to promise me something first."

She hadn't even had time to process the weight of the box in her hands before Sophie was already asking for something in return. After everything, she was still finding ways to surprise her. 

It looked longer than she would have liked, but she eventually reclaimed her voice that had been frozen at the bottom of her throat. "What is it?" she managed to ask. 

"Dad's going to want it back," Sophie said with a sad smile. "So that means you'll have to come back. Eventually." She pulled her into a hug that left no room for her to argue. "I'm not leaving you the choice."

She closed her eyes. God, she was such an ass for this. "I will."

It wasn't a promise she had any right to make. She didn't know if she'd survive the night, let alone find her way back to Skullpeak after everything. But she'd said it anyway. One more lie lay carefully atop the precarious heap of falsehoods she had built her new life upon. 

What a fucking joke. 

Eventually, Sophie drew back, a quiet sniffle escaping her as she pressed the back of her hand to the corner of her eye. 

"Thank you, Soph," She mumbled, quieter than intended. "For everything. I'm really sorry."

Sophie looked at her for a moment. Then she smiled, just barely. "See you soon."

She didn't move for a moment, nor did anyone else. Then Sophie glanced once at Vash, gave a small nod, and slipped out. The door clicked shut behind her. 

All while she stood there, the wooden box still in her hand. 

"Never gets easier, does it?"

It wasn't really a question. He knew he was right; no matter how many times she told herself she didn't care, leaving always felt the same.

She exhaled. They had a plan, and that was quite enough for now. 

Her eyes dropped to the box in her hand; the only physical reminder of Sophie she'd ever have. Her chest went heavy as she pocketed it, pushing everything else down with it. 

Ignoring the crescent-shaped indentations her nails had carved into her palms, she turned to face her new partner. "I'm going to get changed. And then we're leaving through the window. Tavern's too exposed."

"Through the window?!" 

"Five minutes." She was already heading for the bathroom."

Chapter Text

Once she wrenched the bathroom door open some five minutes later, now in a long-sleeved black top and a pair of slightly oversized overalls, she was genuinely started to find Vash sitting cross-legged atop the bed sheets, worrying at the straps of an unfamiliar bag. He'd clearly seized the narrow window of time they had left to gather his things: good thing he appeared to be travelling light. She was almost impressed by how swift he'd been about it. 

Her leather boots dragged against the floorboards as she crossed into the main room. "All good? She asked, finally drawing his attention. He gave a nod, and so she pressed forward toward the window.

His eyes swept over her as she drew closer. "Hm-mh." He made a face she couldn't quite decipher, nodding faintly to himself. "Looking nice, by the way."

For fuck’s sake. She was already regretting this.

Now that she wasn't being paid for enduring him, she was tempted to snatch the unplugged desk lamp to her left and hurl it at his face. Yet, she applauded the remarkable restraint that instead made her frown at him. "You could have just said 'yes,'" she muttered.

She braced her forearm against the ledge and measured the drop. A few feet of sand: nothing she couldn't handle. Her hand tightened around the strap of her backpack, her other arm hooked over the top of the window frame. She hauled herself up and soon found the narrow ledge outside, her whole body caught in the pull of a distant breeze drifting down from the mountain peaks. 

If she broke a leg while jumping, she swore to everything she'd ever known that she would haunt his ass forever.

"I could catch you," Vash offered behind her.

"Don't."

He had no time to protest: she'd already dropped, the impact jarring up through her knees as her boots struck the rocky ground below. Not a pleasant landing, by any measure, but nothing had snapped. She'd live.

A scrape from above told her Vash was preparing to follow. "Are you going to catch me, then?" he called down, his voice threaded with amusement. She tilted her head back and was forced to endure the full, insufferable width of his smirk. 

"Jump on top of me, and I will leave you in the desert."

The thud of his landing came a second later, safely to her left. When she turned to check he hadn't done himself any damage, he greeted her with a wave and that infuriating smile of his. 

"The Willow Inn should be half a mile north," She clarified, tilting her chin in that direction. "If we stick to the back streets, we can make it in ten minutes. But after that, we're improvising: I have no idea where they stashed the car."

The logic was sound, even if the execution was still pending: steal the car, and they'd be stranded. All the way out here, vehicles weren't the kind of thing you replaced overnight: by the time the November police sourced another one, she and Vash would be long gone. 

She was already moving as she spoke, slipping behind the nearest building to keep herself in the shadow, out of reach of the road's shallow streetlights. The main streets were beginning to fill: dusk brought people inward, toward the city centre and whatever warmth Skullpeak had to offer before the desert swallowed the light entirely. Yet the further north they moved, the quieter it got: fewer voices, fewer footsteps, just the low moan of wind off the mountain and the occasional flicker of a lamp in a window. 

The last dregs of sunlight hadn't quite bled from the sky, and the temperature was already dropping, the air taking a sharpness that crept in fast once the suns lost their grip.

Her caution was probably excessive, but she would take unnecessary vigilance over the catastrophic alternative of being caught. 

"You know your way around town pretty well," Vash remarked as they threaded through a narrow alleyway. "You know, for someone who never stays anywhere." 

By this point, she genuinely couldn't tell whether he pricked at her purely for sport or whether there was something genuine underneath. "I was here for a few weeks. I wasn't going to spend two months staring at the tavern walls." She paused, faintly surprised by her own instinct to answer him. "Why do you ask?"

"Just making conversation."

She huffed. "Then don't."

He scoffed as they turned another corner, disappearing in the void between two buildings. A beat passed before he spoke again. "Would you have stayed here?" he asked, quieter now. "If things had been different."

The question was simple enough on its surface. Yet the answer was anything but.

Setting aside the minor complication of being a wanted criminal, could she have put down roots in Skullpeak? Her guts obviously told her no, because she'd never had a place that felt like home to begin with. Her hometown had been dying long before her father decided they were leaving; he'd wanted better for her, and she couldn't help but agree. There was no future for her in Redfort: that, she'd always known.

Then, November had been welcoming. For a while, she'd almost convinced herself it could be something. That she could sink roots into its streets and call it hers. But the city had disabused her of that notion. She was a stranger there, and it had known it long before she did. 

Gunsmoke ran on a single, ironclad law: the ones who held the money, the power and the Plants held everything else. The rules, the people, the truth. She had made the mistake of believing she was any different: the price of that naivety had been everything. 

A home wasn't given: it was bought. The kind of place where you could exhale, where the walls knew your name and the ground held you steady enough to stop running. The ones who could afford that kind of stillness claimed it without a second thought, while the rest were left to run at the mercy of whatever the desert would offer them next. She had always been among the rest.

And yet, she couldn't stop the thought from surfacing: what would it have felt like to have somewhere like that? Somewhere, she could stop watching the door. Somewhere that was hers in the way that November never had been, in the way Redfort never could have been. Maybe that was all happiness ever really was: just a place steady enough to hold you. Maybe she'd simply never been given one long enough to find out. 

But that thought curdled quickly into something uglier. Did she even deserve it? After everything: what gave her the right to want something so ordinary as a home?

Nothing. That was the answer, and she knew it. Whatever claim she might have had to that kind of life had been surrendered that day, when she'd pulled that gun. There was nothing left to mourn: it was already gone.

Her boot caught the corner of a building and dragged her back to the present, where Vash was still waiting. 

"I was never planning to stay," She said, fully aware it answered nothing.

He was quiet for a moment. "It's still hard, though," He replied carefully. "Leaving all the time."

She didn't look at him. "I figure you'd know too."

He didn't answer right away. She could feel him watching her, and it was irritating in a way she couldn't quite justify. Not hostile or suspicious; just attentive. Like she was worth paying attention to. It really got on her nerves.

"That's not what I meant," he said quietly. 

"I know what you meant." She kept her eyes forward. "It doesn't change the answer."

Another silence. "Okay."

She wasn't sure what she'd expected: an argument maybe, or another question she'd have to dodge. But "okay" wasn't the answer she'd been bracing for. The exchange sat weirdly in her chest, something she didn't have a name for. 

She brushed it off as if it had never been there. "We're almost there," she declared, picking up the pace.

They rounded a corner, and the northern gate came into view to their left. Not far beyond it stood a squat, weathered structure: two floors of old timber, a balcony wrapping the full length of the upper level like a crooked arm. Painted across the roof in broad, faded strokes were the words WILLOW INN, and beneath them, a smaller board advertised room availability in hand-lettered chalk. A spotlight mounted above kept both signs visible well past dusk, cutting through the dying light. The message was clear: 'we're open, the rooms are dirt cheap, and you don't really have a lot of options around here'. It didn't need to be subtle to do its job. 

To the left of the motel, a handful of vehicles sat parked in the dust. A water truck, broad and rust-streaked, as well as a civilian bus that ferried passengers between the larger cities. Neither was it what she was looking for. 

But there, half-tucked between the bus and the outer fence, was a four-seater off-road vehicle, built low and heavy with a police siren bolted somewhat haphazardly to its roof. Standard issue, yet designed to be stripped back down just as easily. The markings, the siren, the livery: all of it removable within minutes, because a cop car with its branding was both an authority and a target. You didn't always want the whole desert knowing who you were. 

And they'd just left it there. Out in the open. What a bunch of idiots.

She turned to Vash, who was surveying the scene with the same poorly concealed disbelief she felt. "So do we just... take it or-"

"Wait." 

His arm came up across her path before she'd taken a step, then tilted toward something to her right that had been sitting in her blind spot. 

"There," he whispered. "They have someone guarding it."

Sure enough, a policeman was slumped on the inn's porch, a beer bottle dangling loosely from his fingers, his head tipped back against the guardrail in what appeared to be a very committed nap. Dozing or not, his presence was a problem that couldn't be walked around. She was grateful for Vash's sharp eyes, for once. 

"Well." She breathed the word out slowly. "Shit."

She hadn't accounted for that. She pulled back further into the shadow of the building beside her and scanned what she could see of the lot: the dust-pale ground, the gap between the bus and the fence, the porch cutting a rectangle of yellow light in the darkening air. No other officers were visible, as far as she could tell. The street behind them was quiet, the nearest sounds drifting from somewhere deeper in town.

The guard was between them and the car. And she had nothing.

"So." She kept her voice low, eyes still on the porch. Vash was already scanning the perimeter, his gaze moving in methodical sweeps. She waited until he looked at her. "Any ideas?"

He laughed. Luckily, it wasn't loud, but she still turned to look at him and see that he was, predictably, grinning. "I thought this was your plan."

"It is my plan." She kept her voice flat. "The plan has hit a complication. I'm asking if you have a solution, which is a different thing entirely, so if you could stop enjoying yourself for approximately thirty seconds-"

"Okay, okay." He held up a hand, though the smile didn't go anywhere. A second passed, during which he glanced back at the porch, then at her, and his face shifted from amused to serious. "I might have something. But you have to promise me you won't freak out."

Oh, they were so fucked.

She had no better option, though. Which is why she gave a single nod and immediately regretted it.

Because his hand dropped into his coat and came back with a gun. 

She knocked the barrel sideways before he'd even raised it fully. "What the fuck are you doing?"

They were in the middle of town; a gunshot might drown itself in the noise of the street, but a body wouldn't. And what kind of person reached for a gun before they'd even tried anything else?

"Easy." His voice was too gentle for someone about to commit a murder. "I'm not going to shoot him."

"Then what-"

"Just watch."

She held her tongue. Firearms weren't a foreign concept to her; her revolver sat at the top of her pack for a reason, close enough to reach without thinking. But she had rules about using it: she didn't pull the trigger on someone unless they gave her no other choice. A bullet carried the weight of a decision, the right to take something that couldn't be given back. That kind of burden deserved to be carried deliberately, not impulsively. 

Besides, it was always harder once your finger was actually on the trigger. She knew better than most, after it had cost her everything to find out. And she wasn't sure she could trust someone for whom that difficulty didn't seem to exist.

She watched as he raised his weapon, following his line of sight with unease coiling low in her stomach. Then the shot cracked through the air, and her whole body flinched before she could stop it. 

Vash hadn't aimed at the man at all. He'd aimed just above, at the lantern hanging over the entrance, or more precisely at the slender chain suspending it from the beam. From where they were standing, in the dark and without a scope, the shot had no business being possible. Yet the chain snapped, and the lantern dropped on the officer's head directly beneath it.

She watched him fold sideways and slump into the sand in a graceless heap, the lantern rolling to a stop beside him.

What. The actual. Fuck.

She stood there for a moment, unable to move. She'd seen good shots before: people who'd spent years behind a barrel, who could read wind and distance like a second language. But he'd just shot a chain the width of her thumb from the other side of the street at night. 

"Wha-"

He smiled at her. "There. Told you I wasn't going to kill him."

"No, you told me to watch." She held up a finger. "That's not the same thing."

He considered this. "Fair point."

She studied him for a moment. "With that kind of accuracy, you could have shot him straight between the eyes."

She was testing him. She needed to know whether he'd chosen not to kill because it was the right thing to do, or simply because a body was inconvenient. Whether any of this could be trusted. Or whether she'd just handed herself a partner who'd turn that barrel on her the moment it suited him.

But he smiled back at her. "I don't kill people." He said it like a fact, as if it were as obvious as the colour of his hair. "Call it a personal policy."

"Like... in general?"

"Yes." His smile widened slightly. "I guess you could call me a pacifist."

A pacifist with a bounty on his head. With a gun and the accuracy of a sharpshooter. Right. 

"Well," She nodded slowly. "Pacifist or not, that was a nice shot."

"Thank you!" He lit up like a child on his birthday. "I've been putting in the work."

She suspected it was more than practice, but didn't say anything. They didn't have the luxury of standing here long enough to find out.

So she let him have his moment. Without thinking, her fingers found the wooden box in her pocket. She didn't take it out, just pressed her palm flat against it through the fabric, feeling its shape. Sophie's gift. The physical reminder of the time they'd had and the bond they shared.

She exhaled, long and slow, until there was nothing left in her lungs.

This was only the beginning. And she had no idea what it was going to cost her; only that the price would be higher than she wanted to pay. 

Chapter Text

The distance between the pair and their destination had to be crossed carefully and with enough composure to avoid any watchful gazes that might be trailing them. By that point, darkness had long since swallowed Skullpeak whole, its familiar nightlife spilling onto the streets: travellers hunting for amusement, or at least something potent enough to make their troubles dissolve for a few hours. With the motel sitting on the outskirts of town, blending in with the stragglers who had yet to find their way to a bar or a bed seemed manageable enough. The streets were loud and indifferent, enough that even Vash's gunshot had been drowned by the noise of it all. 

Still, it was better not to tempt fate. "Now, we walk up to the car," she murmured, already rising from their hiding spot. "Act natural."

"Naturally," he replied.

She chose to ignore him.

Despite the warning being her own, her heart still hammered against her ribs as they walked. She knew, rationally, it was nothing but paranoia; yet every pair of eyes in that crowd felt like it was boring into her, cataloguing her every move. It wasn't a new sensation, but familiarity had never dulled its edge. It was challenging to control all at once; the rhythm of her steps, the way her gaze snagged a half-second too long in the wrong places, the nervous habits she couldn't quite suppress like twisting a strand of hair or her thumb pressing in and out of her closed fist. 

“You look like you’re about to implode,” Vash whispered beside her. She didn't need to look at him to know he was smirking.

“What the fuck did you just-”

“Relax your shoulders,” he interrupted her, voice low enough to dissolve into the crowd noise. "And breathe. Don't act like you're on your way to rob a bank."

"Oh, don't worry, I'm just stealing a car!" she shot back, louder than intended. 

He shushed her, but she did hear the laugh he was trying to smother.

He had a peculiar way of reading her that she couldn't quite account for. It wasn't as though she were some indecipherable cipher; she knew that better than anyone. Often enough, people had told her that her face was an open book, and so she'd spent the last few years trying to close it. Control her expression, keep her voice even, perform whatever version of herself the situation called for. She'd managed a whole week of it with him, hadn't she? Feigned interest, warmth, and a patience she didn't have. And yet here he was, seeing straight through the version of her she had kept hidden: the rawer one, the one with open wounds and an attitude to cover them. She couldn't explain how he did it. 

Either that, or he was reading minds.  

After a stretch of time that felt simultaneously too brief and interminable, they finally reached the vehicle in the shadow of the Willow Inn. They circled the car in silence, eventually positioning themselves at the driver's side. 

Vash was leaning against the door while she stood a little further off, level with the rearview mirror. He glanced over at her, brow arched. "Well? Let's see it, then."

With a nod, she plunged her hand into her pocket, fingers searching until they closed around the small box Sophie had given her. She drew it out carefully, flicked the clasp, and eased the cover open. Inside sat a compact, rectangular device made of crimson plastic, its surface crowded with colourful, unlabelled buttons; on one side, two slender silver rods protruded from a socket, designated to pivot. It was entirely baffling, and the lack of any labels whatsoever did nothing to help.

But nestled beside the device was something else; an object that had apparently shifted loose during travel, wedging itself between the starter and the inner wall of the box. A small metal ring, sized for slender fingers; its dull, rust-bitten surface said everything about its worth. And yet, that's when it struck her. 

It was the ring Vash had given Sophie, the one she had teased her friend about back when he'd first checked in. She had laughed at how Sophie had cradled such a worthless little thing as if it were precious. And yet Sophie's joy had been so genuine that it had been impossible not to feel the warmth of it even through her own mockery.

It was a quiet, aching reminder that she'd never gotten the chance to ask about the story behind it. And now here it was. Rattling around at the bottom of a box it had no business being in; much like everything else, lately.

How fitting.

"Hey." Vash's voice was quiet. "You with me?"

She snapped the box shut.

"Yeah." The word came out steadier than she felt. She didn't elaborate; didn't want to, especially not with him. She'd already cracked open more than she'd intended to today, and a not-insignificant portion of that was his fault. Whatever this was could stay where it was, buried under the more pressing matter of not getting arrested.

She pinched the starter device between her fingers and pulled it free. "I don't know how this works," she said, which was both true and a perfect way to change the subject.

"Here, let me." He held out his hand, and she dropped the device into his palm.

She observed as he fiddled with the starter, initially staring at it in confusion before pressing a few buttons at random, then waiting to see if it would do anything. Eventually, he bent down to the level of the car lock before sticking the metal rods in the keyhole. 

Her mind drifted again, back to Sophie and the tavern; back to a warmth that was already beginning to blur at the edges despite being so recent. She knew what her mind was doing, because she'd done it enough times to recognize the pattern. Bury it deep, keep moving, and eventually it would stop demanding her attention. It never disappeared, not really; it just went quiet. And sometimes, in the small hours, it came back anyway.

She had gritted her teeth through worse. She would do it again. 

Frustrated, she flung the wooden box shut in her palm and shoved it back in her pocket.

A roar erupted beside her. She flinched before her brain caught up: the engine. It was the engine, turning over on its own, headlights flooding the dark. The doors soon unlocked with a sharp click.

"What in the absolute hell..." she breathed

Sophie's father had owned this. Sophie said he had used it to help stranded travellers. But a device that could unlock and start a car from a distance, without ever touching the engine; that wasn't a roadside courtesy tool. That was something else entirely.

Then again, perhaps she was projecting. Normal people probably didn't immediately assume the worst. She just wasn't one of them. 

She tore her gaze from the car and looked to Vash, who was leaning against the door with a self-satisfied grin stretched wide across his face. 

She was still deciding whether to congratulate him or tell him to hurry up when something moved at the edge of her vision. 

A gun. Pointed straight at her.

"Look out!"

She grabbed him by the collar and yanked, throwing him to the ground face-first. At the exact same instant, something tore through the flesh above her left shoulder, white and searing, and the scream was out before she could stop it. 

Something pulled her down after him. Her back crashed into Vash, and they collided against the front of the car. 

Nothing registered after that except the pain. It swallowed everything: her vision, the cold of the metal at her back, the grit of sand under her fingers. All of it gone. Just the fire. 

Distantly, a voice cut through the ringing. Not Vash's. Surrender, it said, or something like it. Officers, probably convinced that they were stealing the car. Which they were, though she felt that hardly justified the shooting. 

Then Vash's voice, close and urgent. His arm was braced against her back, holding her up. "Are you alright?!"

"What do you think?" she managed through her teeth.

His jaw tightened. Something in his expression had shifted, the confidence stripped for something underneath. Not panic, but close enough to unsettle her. "Passenger side. Both of us. Can you move?

She wasn't sure she could. Yet the options were few, and none of them were good. It would hurt, probably a lot, but adrenaline had a way of carrying a body further than it had any right to go. She'd have to count on that; the alternative was staying put and finding out exactly how many bullets it took to end a conversation.

All while her shoulder was still smouldering. Between gritted teeth, she looked up at Vash and nodded anyway.

He held her gaze for half a second, then dropped low and started moving, hugging the side of the car to stay beneath the line of fire. She followed, while every shift of her left arm sent a fresh wave of heat tearing through her shoulder. She kept her jaw locked and her eyes forward, crawling through the sand one agonizing foot at a time. 

"Surrender with your hands in the air, now!" The voice from before was no longer faint; it sliced through the air like a blade, close enough to make her ears ring. Mercifully, it came from the other side of the car.

Vash was already moving. He wrenched the passenger door open, ducked inside and threw his arm back toward her. "Get in!"

She grabbed his hand.

She was halfway through the door when a gunshot detonated beside her ear, immediately drowned by the shriek of shattering glass. A glance upward confirmed it: the window on Vash's side had exploded inward, scattering fragments across his shoulder and lap like broken ice. He'd ducked just in time.

She didn't remember getting into the seat, nor the door closing. One moment she was outside, the next, she was in the car; and Vash's hands were white-knuckled on the wheel, his foot driving the gas pedal to the floor, sending the engine screaming.

"Hold tight!"

The car swung hard. She slammed into the door, skull cracking against the glass and grabbed blindly for the seat with both hands, fingernails tearing into the leather. Bullets chased them: she heard each punching into the bodywork, felt the impacts shudder through the frame. But the car didn't stop, and neither did Vash. She pressed herself flat and stopped breathing.

Then, nothing. Just the engine, the night and the road stretching out ahead of them. She exhaled slowly and looked back.

Skullpeak was already gone: swallowed by the night, as it had never been there at all. 

Eventually, as the miles rolled past with no sign of their pursuers, it became clear that no one was following them through the desert. They were still in a stolen police car, but that would have to be a problem for later. The siren had been sloppily bolted on, and stripping it of its markings wouldn't take more than a few minutes. Still, they couldn't afford to be careless.

They would have to reckon with all of that eventually, yet now was clearly not the time: because the adrenaline had finally abandoned her, and she was bleeding out in the passenger seat.

Well, at least she was still conscious. She had never been particularly gifted with optimism, though now did not seem like a great moment to start. 

This was not her first injury. She had been cut, bruised, thrown and beaten more times than she cared since this chapter of her life had begun. Someone had even put a knife in her hand once. The story involved a bar brawl she had wandered into without fully understanding the stakes. The blade hadn't gone deep; she'd walked away with a gash and her pride more or less intact. The other men involved had not been so fortunate.

Lesson learned: if you're going to stumble into a gang fight, at least make sure you know which side is the gang. 

But none of that compared to her current predicament; not even close. She forced herself to take stock: the bullet had caught her in the shoulder, as far as she was aware. Whether it had passed clean through or was still buried somewhere inside her flesh was harder to determine, and probably not a question she wanted answered right now. Either way, it didn't matter; the pain didn't care about the specifics. With the adrenaline fully gone, there was nothing left to soften it; just the wound and the heat radiating out from it in slow, nauseating waves. 

Vash's hands gripped the steering wheel with iron-gripped steadiness, but his eyes kept drifting to her instead of the road. She was tempted to snap at him for it: Brisroy Canyon had a reputation, and she'd rather not add a car crash to the list of things that had gone wrong today.

Her mouth was so dry that the words barely formed. She swallowed. "Left shoulder." A pause. "Fuck, that hurts".

“Can you still move your arm?”

The thought of losing movement in her left arm stopped her cold. She willed her fingers to curl, and they did, slowly. She was no doctor, but that felt like a good sign.

She let out a breath, eyes locked to her fingers. "Yeah, I think so. I can move my hand."

It struck her as surreal, watching him shift into this focused, unreadable version of himself, after all the hours they'd spent bickering like it was a competitive sport.

Right. Stop the bleeding. She knew that much; had known it for years, had done it before, though never quite like this. Never for herself. Cover the wound, press down, hold. Simple enough in theory.

Dragging her attention back to the wound, she took stock. Blood had soaked through the entire left side of her shirt and was seeping into the leather seat beneath her: she could feel the warmth of it, which was somehow worse than the pain. The fabric stuck to her skin every time she shifted, pulling at the edges of the wound in a way that made her breath catch. Her backpack had made it out unscathed, tossed at the floor before the worst of it; her shirt had not been so lucky. Jet-black, which should have hidden the damage, and even that wasn't enough.

Stopping the bleeding meant using something, and the most obvious candidate was already half-ruined. She eyed her shirt, one of the few pieces of clothing she now owned. It would be a shame to ruin it. Still, if it came to it, she'd do it; she wasn't going to bleed out over a piece of clothing.

Before she could act on it, Vash's right arm disappeared into the backseat, hand sweeping blindly across the upholstery. She didn't try to turn and look; moving her neck pulled at something in her shoulder that she had no interest in aggravating. A moment later, a bundle of pale cloth dropped onto her knees.

She picked up the shirt, a long-sleeved cotton blouse. Odd thing to find in a patrol car, but she wasn't in a position to question it. "Press it against the wound," Vash ordered. "As hard as you can. And stay still."

Folding the cloth one-handed took longer than it should have. She got there eventually, pressed it to the wound and held it. The pressure made her vision blur at the edges for a moment: she breathed through it, slow and deliberate, until it passed and the world steadied again. Barely.

"Thanks." The word came out rough, barely audible. The pressure of the cloth made her jaw lock: the pain didn't get worse, just more specific, insistent. She held her breath until the worst of it passed.

"So," she said as soon as she could make up her thoughts that were not curses directed at the pain. "Where are we actually going?"

They'd never gotten around to that conversion: there hadn't been time, not with people shooting at them. She had a destination of her own, which was still halfway across the continent. The plan had been to stay in Skullpeak as long as the good money came in so she wouldn't be broke in the middle of the journey, but that plan was out the window now. She hadn't mapped the rest of her way yet, and it was hardly the sort of thing one would plan while bleeding out in a stolen police car.

She never bothered to ask Vash where he was going. By the conversations they'd had back at the tavern, she'd assumed he was figuring it out as he went, same as her. Their alliance had been for one purpose: leaving Skullpeak. That was done. What came after was something neither of them had discussed.

He was quiet for a moment. "March," he said finally. "I know someone there. Given the state of you, it's probably our best option."

She turned that over, trying to conjure a map of the area from memory. "How far is it?"

"Too far." He briefly glanced at her. "I need to know if the bullet's still in there before I do anything. And for that I need light, a flat surface and something to clean the wound with. None of which we have." He paused. "I suggest we stop in Tantrails first. Edge of the canyon, small place.

She was inclined to agree with him, which she resented. The edges of her vision were already beginning to blur. She was not going to last another hour in this car.

She knew the name. There weren't enough towns in Savabridge to lose track of: most were small, half-forgotten places kept alive by travellers passing through the canyon, populated by families who had stopped questioning why they stayed or by city dreamers who had arrived chasing fortune and never quite managed to leave. Tantrails was one of those. Not charming by any means, but it would do. She wasn't in a position to be selective.

He must have caught the wince that escaped her, because he exhaled sharply. "Don't worry," he assured, the determination in his voice doubtlessly attempting to soothe her. "Once we're somewhere safe, I'll sort it out. You're not going to die. I swear."

He was so earnest about it that she laughed; short, involuntary and immediately painful. She cut it off. "Criminal, sharpshooter, and now medical professional." The smirk made it past her defences before she could stop it. "Is there anything you can't do?"

That got to him, just slightly; his laugh was brief but genuine. "Plenty of things," he said. "I've seen my fair share of wounds. Patching them up just..." He shrugged. "Became a habit, I guess."

She had nothing to say to that. She stared at the dark stain spreading through the cloth and let the words sit. I've seen enough wounds. Said like it was nothing; just a fact, casually dropped. Everything else he'd shared over the past week had been like that: light, easy, made to fill the silence without giving anything away. But this was different, which made her realize something between them had shifted.

Somewhere between the motel room and the bullet in her shoulder, she had begun to trust him. Which, frankly, was the most alarming thing that happened to her all day.

She was turning it over when his voice cut through. "Hey." He called out to her. "Are you still with me?!"

"I'm fine." Her words came out too sharp; a fresh spike ran through her shoulder. "I was just... Not screaming. On purpose."

"Doesn't sound 'fine' to me."

Without bothering to reply, she shifted forward without thinking and immediately regretted it.

His hand was on her arm before she'd registered moving. "Stay still." 

"I know." The words came out through her teeth. "You don't have to keep saying it like I'm doing it on purpose."

A moment passed that neither of them filled. She was aware of him in a way one becomes aware of someone when the noise drops away. The steadiness of his hands on the wheel, the set of his jaw, the focus that looked less like driving and more like determination. He had barely known her for a week. She had been rude to him for the better part of the last two hours. And yet here he was, rerouting his plans, making promises, keeping her alive. 

Why? He hadn't signed up for any of this. Nothing about her or their bond had given him a reason to.

She didn't want to sit such questions and the discomfort it brought her. "How far?" she asked instead. 

He glanced at the road, then at her. "Twenty minutes? Maybe." The slight tilt of his mouth made it sound more like an apology than an estimate.

Twenty minutes. The cloth was already soaked through. The edges of her vision had started to go soft and grey at the periphery, and staying conscious was beginning to feel less like a given and more like something she had to actively choose, moment by moment.

Chapter Text

She couldn't say she remembered the last fifteen minutes with any clarity, save perhaps the moment she had caught her foot on the motel room's doorframe and gone down hard, crumpling across the carpet in a graceless heap, her body in too much agony to appreciate the absurdity of it. Vash had hauled her back upright; probably, the details were murky at bed. He'd steered her toward one of the beds, the first aid kit he'd salvaged from the car trunk clutched in his hands, and told her to keep pressure on the wound. The shirt she'd been using had long since drunk its fill of blood, heavy against her palm.

As she stood swaying beside the mattress, her brain too hollowed out to be offended at the idea of spilling blood all over a motel room, Vash pivoted sharply on his heel. "Lie down," he instructed her as he dropped the red box onto the nightstand and snapped it open. He snatched a pillow from the bed behind him and pressed it firmly against her shoulder. "Hold this. I'll be right back."

With considerable effort, she managed to drag her right arm upward and onto the pillow, though she doubted the feeble pressure in her trembling body could muster would do much to stop the bleeding. It didn't matter: Vash had already wheeled around and bolted for the bathroom, leaving her alone with the laboured rhythm of her own breathing and the thick fog settling over her thoughts.

She couldn't tell if the pain had grown so immense that her body had simply stopped registering it, or if unconsciousness was already creeping in at the edges. Only that, somehow, it had begun to feel almost bearable. 

In any case, the situation was not looking favourable. And though she was in no condition to panic, some distant, lucid part of her understood that, with even a fraction more awareness, she absolutely should have been.

Fortunately, Vash wasn’t gone long; barely thirty seconds before he came rushing back in, a glass of water and two washcloths in hand. He set the cup down on the nightstand, yanked the pillow from her grip and tossed it further onto the mattress, then wrung one of the cloths into the water. But just as he moved to press it against her wound, his hand stalled mid-air.

He was visibly hesitating, working around something he clearly didn't know how to say. "Your shirt," he managed finally. "I… it needs to come off."

… oh. 

Well, it wasn't as though she had a wealth of alternatives. Bleeding out had never featured prominently on her list of preferred endings, and clinging to her dignity while her life drained away through a gunshot wound struck her as a spectacular kind of stupidity, especially after everything that had already gone to hell today.

With a raw groan, she managed to drag the hem of her shirt past her stomach, then stopped abruptly. Pulling it any higher meant that the fabric would have to travel over her arm, directly across the wound. She didn't need to test that hypothesis to know how it would end. 

Another uncomfortable silence stretched between them. "Do you want me to-" 

“Yes.”

The words came out flatter than she intended. She could almost feel his hesitation: perhaps it was embarrassment or simply the knowledge that what he was about to do would feel like torture. Either way, he moved his hands to her torso, the cool metallic surface of his prosthetic arm grazing her skin and drawing an involuntary shiver from her. She released her hold on the fabric to give him room to work, though not without fixing him with a look that could have curdled iron. 

He nodded, mostly to himself, and his fingers skimmed carefully over her stomach as he eased the shirt up over her uninjured shoulder first, ensuring the cloth would slide off her arm with as little drag as possible over the wound. She squeezed her eyes shut, utterly indifferent to the fact that she was about to stand half-naked in front of a man she barely knew. Her shoulder was on fire, a metaphor that nearly wasn't one at that point, searing with the merciless burn of something that had no right to hurt this much. Even the faintest shift of her upper body dragged the fabric across the wound and made it scorch like an ember pressed directly into her flesh.

“Thank God. It's only a graze. "Vash's voice cut through her pain-induced haze and hauled her back to reality. He was studying her arm with intense, clinical focus, his gaze deliberately fixed there; she was in too much agony to spare a thought for gratitude that he wasn't looking at anything else. "Your shirt's dried into the wound, though," he added, his tone dropping into something quieter. "I'll have to peel it away from the skin. This is going to hurt."

She was tempted to snap back something along the lines of 'it already does', but the retort died the moment he drew the collar over her head and began peeling the cloth away from the laceration. Vash was right: it did hurt, savagely so, more than anything thus far. The shriek that tore from her lips was involuntary and humiliating; she couldn't have stopped it if she'd tried, only silence when the last of the fabric finally gave way and the cool air of the room rushed in to meet her raw skin.

"How bad is it?" she managed through gritted teeth as he bent over her arm; the silence that followed did nothing to reassure her. "If you're going to tell me it needs to be cut off, just say it. Don't soften it."

Eventually, he clicked his tongue. "It's not that serious," he asserted. "But the wound is deeper than I'd like. And with what we've got here..." He trailed off, which was somehow worse than finishing the sentence.

Of course. There was never good news without a price. "How deep are we talking about here?" 

He studied the wound for a long moment, brow creasing as he weighed his words. "A fair amount of skin is gone," he said carefully. "But the bullet didn't go through. No risk of it still being lodged in there, which is the one thing going for us right now." He paused. "But you're going to need stitches, I guess."

She blinked at him. "You guess?" 

"Hey-" He raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm not a doctor. But I can do a decent job at stitching. It'll at least hold until we can find someone who actually knows what they're doing."

She dragged her gaze back up to him with that particular brand of warning that had made grown men in her life reconsider their life choices. "You're not doing a great job of reassuring me, just saying."

"Well, to be fair, the alternative isn't looking too nice either."

"Oh yeah?" She huffed through her nose. "What would that be? Bleeding out and dying an agonizing and gruesome death?”

Vash made a face as if he was actually analyzing the question for a second, resulting in a shrug. “Probably, yeah.”

Well, at least he was honest. 

Once again, there were too many variables with the potential to go wrong for her to feel anything resembling ease. But there was no other choice: she had neither the steadiness of hand nor the stomach to stitch herself up.

“Fucking fine,” she exhaled sharply. “Do your thing.”

It wasn't as though she were a stranger to pain. When you're on the run, injury becomes as routine as breathing: bar fights that spill out into the street after one drink too many, desperate sprints in pitch-black alleyways with someone's booth thundering behind you, your body skidding two meters across coarse sand before meeting a brick wall face-first. Pain was simply the cost of staying alive; she had long since made her peace with it. But it had always been sharp and fleeting; a vivid flare that blazed and then faded, leaving nothing but a bruise and a story. 

Now, not only was the pain already unbearable, but it was about to get worse. "Alright then." She drew in a long breath, as though she could inhale courage if she tried hard enough. "Let's get this over with," she said, and was almost proud of how steady it came out. 

Vash's attention snapped back to the wound with surgical focus. "Good news, bleeding's stopped," he murmured, wringing the washcloth through the water, watching it bloom pink. "I'll clean it first. Then we stitch."

A moment later, he pressed the cloth to her shoulder, and she hissed sharply at the contact. The water was warm, which did nothing to cool the fever raging beneath her skin, yet the sensation that lingered in its wake was a faint relief. As he worked over the wound, pain rolled through her in scorching, relentless waves, and she clenched her jaw until her teeth ached, wrestling down the urge to scream. It felt like an eternity, but when he finally lifted the cloth away, the night air rushed in against her glistening skin like a benediction. She knew the reprieve wouldn't last, but held onto it anyway.

A faint rustling at her side drew her eye. Vash was bent over the nightstand, working a pair of metallic forceps he'd clearly pulled from the kit, dousing them in what she could only assume was disinfectant before using them to fish something from a small foil envelope. What emerged was a tiny curved needle trailing a length of dark thread.

She found herself transfixed by the deftness with which he handled such delicate instruments; the precision in those large hands, particularly in the prosthetic one. It was still a striking thing to witness, even now: a fully mechanized limb of that intricacy was a rarity on Gunsmoke, the kind of thing that made people stare and then quickly look away. Watching him work with such fluency, she wondered how long it had been a part of him, and how it had come to be.

She'd never asked, and he'd never offered. Some wounds announced themselves without a word, and she understood instinctively that this was one of them. Either way, she figured it was not the moment for that particular conversation.

She let out a short laugh instead. "What a fucking day," she muttered, more to herself than to him. "God, I hate this life sometimes."

Vash glanced up briefly, something caught between concern and amusement flickering across his face. "Could be worse."

"Could be worse," she repeated flatly. "I could be dead."

Vash let a beat go by. "Yeah. But I won't let that happen."

He said it with such sincerity that she almost laughed again. Almost.

After sterilizing a second pair of forceps, Vash turned back to face her, setting down his tools just long enough to reach for the last clean washcloth. 

"This is going to hurt," he said, holding out the folded cloth toward her. "You might want to bite down on this."

She swallowed her pride and choked back the retort that rose instinctively to her lips. She gave a single nod instead, took the cloth from him and pressed it between her teeth. The dry fabric sat strangely and thick against her tongue, but she reminded herself that it was preferable to biting through her own cheek somewhere in the middle of all this.

She gave a small, reluctant nod and exhaled slowly through her nose. Here goes nothing.

The first sensation was almost tolerable. The cold bite of the needle breaking the surface of her skin was sharp, but then the metal drove deeper and the world came apart. Pain detonated through her body like something feral, ripping upward from her shoulder and flooding every nerve in her arm until there was nothing else: no room, no thought, no breath. The shriek that tore from her was swallowed by the cloth between her teeth, muffled but not silenced.  

At first, she could distinguish each individual sensation: the pull of the thread, the shift of the needle. But those distinctions dissolved quickly, consumed by a single, merciless tide of agony that crashed and receded and crashed again, leaving nothing in its wake but white-hot writhing devastation.

Another cry tore free, muffled by the cloth, and tears she hadn't sanctioned spilled down her cheeks. 

"Hey." Vash's voice came through the roar, low and steady. "Stay with me. Almost there."

Almost there. She held onto those two words like a handhold on a cliff, even as the next wave of pain tried to pry her loose. She was vaguely aware of him saying something else, his voice a constant quiet thread beneath the agony that pulled her back every time she started to drift. She couldn't make out the words, but it didn't matter. Her mind had narrowed to a single, primal task: endure.

Time had ceased to move in any recognizable way, its passage marked only by the moments the pain found new depths and dragged her closer to the dark edge of consciousness. 

She had lost all sense of how long it lasted. But she knew the exact moment it ended; felt it in the way the tension in the needle ceased, replaced by the cool graze of surgical scissors against her skin and the strange, alien awareness of something stitched into her arm that hadn't been there before. The pain remained, dense and insistent, but it was retreating now, pulling back from the unbearable into merely excruciating, and her lungs remembered how to draw a full breath. 

"Sorry." Vash's voice reached her before the rest of the world did. "I'm not exactly used to doing that to someone else. But it's over. You did well." 

She couldn't find a single word to give him. Instead, she simply collapsed onto the mattress, utterly spent, the impact barely registering over the roar of exhaustion that swallowed her whole. Her body and her mind had been wrung in too much in too short a span of time, and now that the adrenaline was abandoning her like a tide going out, there was nothing left beneath it. Nothing but the desperate, bone-deep need for sleep 

Consciousness began to unravel at the edges, the pain reduced now to faint embers smouldering somewhere distant. And then, just as the dark was closing in, something warm and tentative brushed across her hair. A hand. Gentle, unhurried, as though it had all the time in the world. She told herself it was a hallucination, a kindness invented by a mind too exhausted to know better. And then she told herself nothing at all, because the darkness had finally come to collect her. 

Chapter Text

It was not without suffering that the sun rays lanced straight into her eyelids the following morning, wrenching her from the depths of slumber. Pain detonated through her body the instant she stirred, twisting a grimace out of her as her face dragged against the coarse, unforgiving fabric of the pillow. Her skull pounded as though it had been split open against stone, begging her to surrender to unconsciousness for just a few more minutes; yet the searching ache radiating from her arm made it cruelly clear that mercy was not an offer.

So she dragged herself into wakefulness instead, eyes snapping open with a ragged groan, blinking until the blinding light relented into something bearable. The motel room materializing around her was hardly a comforting sight; stale air thick with dust, shadows clinging to corners as though they'd settled in years ago and never found reason to leave. Yet she steadied herself with the grim familiarity of it all; she had woken in worse places. The walls bore a chalky beige paint that surrendered to the ceiling in long, defeated strips; the desk in the corner sagged beneath the weight of furniture that had outlived its usefulness, and the sheets wound around her body scratched like burlap. There was a bleak, almost reassuring consistency to places like this: as though misery had its own universal standard. 

The metallic frame let out a hollow shriek as she moved, forcing her body upright with nothing but the strength of her unarmed arm. The motion dragged a sharp breath through her teeth, and she bit down hard, jaw locked, riding out the wave of pain until it dulled to something manageable. Once upright, she took in the room with clearer eyes: a copper rug lay across the floor, worn threadbare in paths people had walked over the years, its pattern long since bled into something indistinct. The bed to her left drew her attention last; its pale sheets cast aside in a rumpled heap, the imprint of a body still pressed into the mattress. Someone had been sleeping. 

Vash. Obviously. She didn't know why the conclusion required any assembling at all: he'd been the one keeping her alive since the gunshot, so of course he'd been the one in that bed. Of course he'd stayed.

The thought of it sent something quiet and unwelcome moving through her. In less than a day, Vash had done more for her than most people had managed across the entire span of her life. It was undeniable, however much she wished it weren't: she would not have made it out of Skullpeak without him.

That realization sat in her chest like a stone she couldn't dislodge. She had spent years dismantling the architecture of trust so thoroughly that she'd nearly forgotten what it felt like to need someone, and now here she was, owing her life to a man she'd known for less than a week. The debt wasn't the problem, not exactly. The problem was what it had unearthed: feelings she'd buried so deep she'd half-convinced herself they no longer existed. Their resurgence was almost as bad as the wound.

Which brought her, inevitably, to the question she didn't know how to answer: what did you say to someone who had pulled you out of the jaws of the police and dragged you back from the edge of death? A simple "thank you" felt obscenely inadequate.

She turned the rest of it over more carefully. Was he expecting something in return? She wanted to say no; he'd insisted as much, more than once. But she had yet to meet a person on Gunsmoke who gave without eventually collecting: this was just the nature of things. The debt existed whether or not he chose to name it, and she had no idea how to carry it. She didn't want to leave, not after everything he'd done, and with her arm in its current state, she wouldn't have gotten far regardless. But staying meant learning how to exist inside an obligation she hadn't chosen, and that was a skill she'd never had cause to develop. Running had always been her answer to problems she couldn't solve. The fact that it wasn't an option this time felt like something quietly closing around her, and for once, she wasn't sure she minded.

She was still turning it all over in her mind when the click of a door being unlatched snapped her rigid, every muscle coiling on instinct. Her hand moved before her brain did; reaching for nothing, finding nothing, the reflex hollow and embarrassing. The overreaction became apparent a breath later, when the only thing that filtered through the doorway was Vash, already dressed in that red coat of his, looking entirely too composed for the hour. The sole difference was his glasses, folded neatly on the dresser behind him. 

His eyes widened the moment he registered her sitting upright. Good morning!" The words came out bright, the shadows that had haunted his face the night before largely dissolved, replaced by the easy warmth she was already beginning to recognize as his default. "Sleep well?"

"Probably," she muttered, her voice still raw at the edges from sleep. She kept her eyes low, acutely aware that his were already on her. 

"How's the pain?" he asked, after a beat. 

"Fine."

A pause. She could feel him looking at her.

"You're holding your arm like it's made of glass." He eventually retorted.

She made a conscious effort to relax her grip. "I said it's fine."

And now she was nervous. He'd seen straight through her in under a minute, and she had nothing left to hide behind. Her mind had gone completely hollow; every deflection she might have reached for had already been spent, leaving her with nothing but the silence and the fact that he was still looking at her. 

The silence stretched long enough to become its own kind of pressure, building behind the eyes. Then Vash cut through it, mercifully. "Do you mind if I take a look at your shoulder?" he asked, pulling her loose from the tangle of her own thoughts. His voice had lost its brightness, replaced by something measured and careful. "I want to make sure the stitches held through the night."

She nodded approvingly, shifting herself sideways on the mattress so as to give him some space to work with. She heard his muffled steps onto the carpet circling around the bed, right until he sat down on the same wooden chair he’d used for the operation the night before, which remained in the exact same spot.

Her gaze was fixed elsewhere, yet she felt every small movement; the warmth of his breath ghosting against her skin as he leaned in, the careful deliberateness with which he positioned himself. Then his fingers made contact, cool and precise, and the involuntary shiver that moved through her had nothing to do with pain. He was peeling back a bandage she had no memory of, which meant he had dressed the wound after she had already lost consciousness. The thought settled over her quietly, strange and difficult to categorize.

A few seconds passed in concentrated silence before a low, noncommittal sound escaped him. "Hm." He sat back, studying the wound. "Stitches are holding." He reached for the medkit, already deliberate in his movement. "I'll reapply the gauze, but I'd still feel better if a proper medical professional had a look. Just to be certain."

She finally turned to look at him properly, tilting her head a measured arch of her brow. "That the friend you mentioned? The one in March?"

Something in his expression shifted; a flicker of quiet surprise, almost touched. "Yeah." He exhaled wryly. "Well, friend might be generous." He reached for the dressing from the medkit, fingers working with practiced ease. "I'm pretty sure I mostly exhaust her on a good day. But she keeps insisting she owes me because of a thing I did for her, ages ago."

He trailed off into himself, and so she let him. So this wasn't the first time. His generosity wasn't an exception: it was a pattern. He wasn't the kind of man who kept tallies, and something about that loosened a knot she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Which meant there was no reason to keep avoiding it.

She pressed her fists into her lap and said it before she could talk herself out of it.

Her eyes slid away from him, retreating to the neutral ground of the mattress. "Thank you," she murmured, barely above a breath, the words so low she almost hoped they wouldn't reach even her own ears.

“Mh?”

When she looked back up, she found him bent over her shoulder, entirely absorbed, his hands still moving with that same careful precision. He hadn't heard a word of it.

Unbelievable.

Dragging the words back up from that same raw place a second time was its own particular misery. But snapping at him would hollow out whatever the gesture was worth, and she knew it. So she pressed two fingers hard into the inside of her wrist instead, the small sting pulling her back to the surface.

She waited until he glanced up. "Thanks," she said, her voice coming out rougher than intended. "For all of this."

She left it there, offering nothing more and trusted he was perceptive enough to fill in what she hadn't said; and he was. The smile that broke across his face was readable enough, one hand moving to the back of his neck. "Oh, it's nothing," he assured, waving it off. "I wasn't about to just let you bleed out, was I?"

Her answer came without hesitation: a long flat blink, her expression unreadable. "You could have. Most people would have."

"Of course not." The chuckle that followed was soft, but his eyes didn't waver. "I told you already: I'm a pacifist. That also means I don't let people die. Or at least, not if I can help it."

She watched his eyes closely and caught it: a flicker, brief and involuntary, like a flame startled by a sudden draft before it steadied itself. Whatever it was, his body suppressed it almost the instant it surfaced, but it had burned with an intensity that didn't match the lightness of his tone. 

As she debated whether to inquire or not, he trailed off by himself. "I've seen too many people get hurt or die in front of me. Because of me." He said it plainly, which somehow made it worse. "I stopped being able to look away a long time ago." His eyes were still on her, but his gaze had gone somewhere distant; somewhere she suspected was neither this room nor this morning. "Besides, it's because of me that you..."

He caught himself; the sentence died unfinished, and he surfaced from wherever he'd gone with visible effort, smile snapping back into place like a shutter drawn closed. "Actually, never mind."

The grief was gone from his face in an instant, so thoroughly it might never have been there at all. She watched the transition with unsettled attention: it was too fast, too practiced. And for a moment she found herself wondering how much of what he showed the world was genuine, and how much was simply the most convincing version of a man who had learned to keep people from asking.

She knew better than anyone how dangerous it was to pull at that thread; she'd unravelled herself doing it before. And yet she kept noticing things; the way grief had surfaced and disappeared in the same breath, the practiced ease of the smile that replaced it. He was infuriating, nosy, and often incapable of taking things seriously, and she had known him for less than a week. None of that stopped her from wondering what exactly he was so determined to keep out of sight. 

It was possible, likely even, that not all of it was real. That the recklessness and the warmth of generosity were less a nature and more a construction; another way of carrying guilt without letting it show on the surface, just as disappearing was her own particular method of survival. She understood how this world shaped people into strange, illogical and contradictory versions of themselves. And because she understood it, she had no intention of pressing.

You don't know him. Not really.

And he doesn't know you. Not the parts that matter.

She let the thought do its work and then set it down. She remembered his unfinished sentence, the one he'd pulled back before it could become something, and though part of her wanted to reach for it, she didn't. She would have wanted the same.

"Alright." She finally replied. "So, when do you want to leave?"

And just like that, he was himself again; the switch so seamless it was barely perceptible. "As soon as you can stand," he professed, rising to his feet and lifting the chair clear off the ground with his prosthetic arm in one fluid, effortless motion. She clocked it without comment. Damn. "But take your time. Without a car, I don't think they've caught up to us yet."

She arched a brow. "Couldn't they have borrowed another one?" She figured it was unlikely, but perhaps she craved the reassurance that they were safe. 

"Unlikely." He shook his head. "Vehicles are worth more than most people's livelihoods out here; no one parts with theirs willingly. Especially not for badges. If they even had the nerve to ask around, they probably got another lamp to the head."

That pulled a smile out of her despite herself. Vash's shot had been perfect; terrifyingly, absurdly perfect. The image of the policeman folding in one clean thud was one she'd be carrying for a long time, even accounting for the bullet she'd caught roughly five minutes later.

"Where'd you even know to come here?" The question came out clipped, bitten through by a sharp hiss of pain as she twisted her body toward the edge of the mattress. It took three attempts before her legs finally swung over the side, her socks grazing the carpet. "Tantrails isn't exactly the first place you'd think of." 

She glanced down at her feet and realized he'd taken off her boots too. Of course, he had.

Okay, that was kind of embarrassing.

"I've passed through this way before," he explained, oblivious to her sudden preoccupation with her own feet. "Long time ago now. Back when March's Plant underwent a meltdown."

She had a vague memory of someone mentioning it; a traveller in some tavern passing the story along the way people passed bad news, without much investment in the details. She hadn't paid much attention at the time. "How long ago?"

He weighed the question as he counted. "Four, five years ago, maybe."

"What happened to it?" She watched his expression shift just slightly at the question.

"Nothing dramatic." The exhale that followed was quiet. "The Plan just stopped. One day it was running, the next it wasn't. No warning, no explanation. And once it went..." He trailed off briefly. "Everything else followed. People don't stay where there's nothing left to stay for."

That part she knew, more or less. Sophie had mentioned March once, its reputation as a party town, streets packed with bars and gambling houses, the kind of place that ran through the night and slept through the morning. Now, piecing it together with what Vash had just said, the conclusion wasn't hard to reach: a town that lived like that didn't leave much for the Plant to give. And once the Plan was gone, so was everything else.

Skullpeak had inherited the title by default, though it wore it better: the canyon gave it purpose beyond pleasure. March, meanwhile, had become the kind of place people only ended up in when they were trying not to be found.

"That's awful," she said. And she meant it, which surprised her slightly. The words had slipped out before she'd thought to weigh them. Something in Vash's expression shifted at that, brief and almost imperceptible, like he hadn't quite expected it either. Then came the scoff, aimed mostly at the floor.

"Yeah." He shook his head, slowly, like he was setting something down. "You could say that." He paused, and then the smirk was back, snapped into place with the ease of long practice. "Anyway. No use dwelling on it now."

She nodded once. There wasn't much to add to that.

He clapped his hands together lightly, the shift in his posture deliberate; shoulders back, chin up, the particular energy of someone deciding a conversation was over. "Anyway, we should get moving. This is not the time for sulking." 

"Well, we're still wanted for grand theft of a police vehicle," she replied, as though this were a reasonable thing to say in response to optimism.

He took that in with measured gravity. "Fair enough," he grinned, "Then all the more reason to leave before anyone realizes we're here."

She pushed herself off the mattress, scanning the room for her leather backpack, for which she had no memory of making it out of the car, let alone in the room. And yet there it was, propped against the bathroom door. Of course it was; she glanced at Vash briefly. 

At least she wouldn't have to walk the corridors in just her overalls. She could have asked him to get it, technically, but there was a limit to how much she was willing to owe in a single morning, and she suspected she'd already hit it. 

She hauled the backpack open with her good hand and dug through it until her fingers closed around a dark, sleeveless tank top, the only item in her sparse wardrobe that wouldn't drag across her shoulder, and a pair of black jeans she pulled out after it. "Five minutes," she said, already crossing toward the bathroom, not quite an announcement, not quite asking permission. The door swung half-shut behind her.

"Do you need a hand with the shirt?" She heard Vash's voice from the other side of the room; without even seeing him, she could practically hear the grin in his voice.

She turned, and there it was. The curve at the corner of his mouth was barely contained, not even slightly apologetic. 

"Fuck you."

His chuckle was entirely unrepentant. "I'll take that as a no.”

Chapter Text

"How'd your friend even end up in March anyway?" Her voice cut through the stale air as she steered the vehicle through the crumbling arteries of a city that time had long abandoned.

At this juncture, it seems only fitting to explain how she had wound up behind the wheel in the first place.

The moment they'd cleared the inn's threshold, she had bolted for the car. Her reasoning was twofold: not only was Vash an outright menace behind the wheel (she could recall no fewer than three separate occasions on which he'd nearly crashed against the canyon wall, and that was only what her pain-addled mind had managed to retain), but she had been starving for the simple pleasure of driving herself, unencumbered.

Vash had initially protested, insisting she would be far better served resting in the passenger seat. Yet she'd left him with precious little room to argue when she wrenched the driver's door open and practically hurled herself inside, firing up the engine with Sophie's device, which she'd had the foresight to reclaim from him that very morning. Faced with the fait accompli unfolding before him, and no doubt keen to sidestep yet another skirmish, he had simply exhaled through his nose and folded himself into the seat beside her. 

Vash's voice pulled her back from the warmth of that memory. "She was on the run from a criminal organization that had it out for her, back in December," he answered calmly. "Vicious lot, those ones." 

"What'd she do to get them breathing down her neck?"

The question escaped her lips almost before she'd finished thinking it. She wasn't suspicious exactly, or at least that's what she told herself. It was just that sheer convenience of it gnawed at her: a medical expert, practically a stone's throw from Skullpeak, willing to shelter two people with warrants on their heads. Coincidences that tidy rarely were: in her experience, they were traps wearing the mask of good fortune. 

Perhaps Vash caught a flicker of that skepticism, because he arched a brow in mild puzzlement. "No idea." He shrugged, tearing off a bite of the ration bar he'd pulled out of his bag a few minutes ago. "She never said, and I never pushed."

She couldn’t help but snicker at his response. “Did you even ask?”

"Not really. Whatever she was in trouble for, it's none of my business." He took another bite, chewing with infuriating calm. "I don't make a habit of digging into people's lives. Tends to unearth things nobody wanted found."

Decidedly, this man was committed to surprising her at every turn. Where she had long since learned to keep her guard up, cataloguing people, hoarding details, mapping weaknesses before they could be used against her, Vash operated under an entirely different logic, favouring willful ignorance over the burden of knowing. Perhaps that made it easier for him to leave people behind when the time came to vanish, she mused. Perhaps not knowing was his own quiet mercy. To each their own.

"And how did you two meet?" She swept the spiralling thoughts aside, steering the conversation back on course. 

When she glanced sideways at him, she caught the grin already curling at the corner of his mouth, like he'd been waiting for an excuse to deploy it. "Damn," he scoffed, "someone's feeling interrogative today."

“That’s it, I’m crashing the car.”

“Wait, wait, I’m just messin’ with you!” he protested, laughter threading through every word. Clearly, her threat had landed somewhere between amusing and utterly unconvincing. "For real, though, I spent a few months in December a while back, picking up odd jobs, whatever paid. Got roughed up more than I'd care to admit, so I ended up at the clinic more times than I could count." He paused, something flickering briefly behind his eyes. "Rosaline worked the night shifts. Patched me up so many times she probably knew my injuries better than I did."

The time, it was her turn to smirk. "She must've absolutely loathed you."

"Oh yeah, definitely." He nodded slowly to himself, gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the windshield, as if the memory had its own gravity. 

His impressive demonstrations with both firearms and field medicine made considerably more sense now, knowing he'd cut his teeth as a man-for-hire in December of all places. The city was a colossus; the biggest city on Gunsmoke, relentless and rotten to the core beneath its polished civic veneer. 

Vash shoved the last bite of his ration bar between his teeth. "Although I haven't seen her since I helped her out of the city," he admitted, still chewing, unbothered by the contradiction between his words and his manners. "Honestly, I'm not entirely sure where we stand now. Whether she's still-" He stopped. His whole body went rigid. "Wait!" The word came out like a gunshot. "Turn left!"

She wrenched the steering wheel hard with her right arm, and the vehicle lurched, tires screaming against the road as it swung into the narrow street Vash had pinpointed, barely threading the gap. She stamped on the brakes before the momentum could finish the job and send them both crashing into the wall.

"A warning," she said, through her teeth, "would have been nice a few seconds earlier." She was beginning to genuinely suspect that he was trying to get them killed.

"Ah, sorry." The lightness drained from his voice. "It's just been so long." He went quiet, eyes fixed on the window as though the glass might offer him something the scenery couldn't. "It changed," he said finally, quieter now. "A lot more than I expected." 

It was her first time in March, yet some instinct in her understood exactly what he meant. The town was nearly empty: streets that should have hummed with the ordinary noise of living instead lay mute beneath the midday sun. They'd spotted a few inhabitants, shadows at the edges of their vision, watching from doorways and alleyways without drawing closer. The houses sagged under their own neglect, the roads choked with debris and cracked like old skin, but of that was the worst of it. The worst was the atmosphere; something invisible and suffocating that pressed down on the streets like a hand over a mouth, snuffing out every last ember of warmth. 

The thought made something cold move through her. It was eerie, being here. She'd passed through worse places, places that had been outright hellscapes, choking and violent and alive with menace. But March was something else entirely: it felt hollow. Gutted. Like a body left standing after the soul had already departed, as if whatever had once given this place meaning had been quietly siphoned away, leaving behind only the aftertaste of failure and the wreckage of dreams that had never seen morning.

All of it was made worse by the shadow that loomed over everything; the silhouette of a colossal light bulb, dead and dark, rising from the horizon like a monument to something that had once promised brilliance and delivered none. 

"This town is in shambles," she murmured, almost to herself, eyes trailing over the carcass of a collapsed motel on their left.

Vash exhaled wistfully. "Yeah. You tell me." Then his gaze sharpened, something lighting up behind his eyes as he straightened in his seat. "It's here! Yellow house on the right."

She eased onto the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a stop a few metres shy of their destination. Looking up, she found that the house held itself together better than most of what they'd driven past: not pristine, but stubbornly intact. There was even a flower bed beside the door, though it held nothing but dry, cracked earth now. The ghost of an intention.

No light, no movement. She studied the windows for a moment, finding nothing behind them. It was still daytime, she reminded herself: it would make sense for Vash's so-called friend to have something resembling a life and an occupation, unlike the two of them, who had nothing but time and trouble in abundance. What sort of occupation existed in a place like this was harder to imagine, but she wouldn't be stunned if the house turned out to be empty.

She turned to Vash, skepticism written plainly across her face. "So what's the plan? We just pull up and knock?"

"For now, I suppose." He nodded, already reaching for the handle, and pushed the door open with his shoulder before dropping onto the dust below with the easy confidence of someone who hadn't thought much further ahead. 

She followed, mimicking the motion, and immediately paid for it. Pain detonated through her left side, sharp and unforgiving, buckling her knees mid-step. She snatched the edge of the door with her fingers before the ground could claim her, but her weight swung the door shut behind her with a resonant crash that shattered the street's silence like a stone through glass. Of course, because the universe had never once seen fit to let her have a single uncomplicated moment. 

Predictably, Vash materialized at her side before she'd even registered that he'd moved. "Hey-" His voice dropped, the usual lightness in it gone. "You okay?" He reached for her. She swatted his hand away.

"I'm fine." The words came out sharper than she intended, and she let them. She fixed him with a look that could have stripped paint. Though if she was being honest, which she rarely was, even with herself, the fall had done far more damage to her pride than to her shoulder.

To his credit, he read the room immediately, offered a small, careful smile and turned his attention back to the house, granting her the precious few seconds she needed to drag a breath back into her lungs and find her footing. She looked up to find him already moving toward the door in tentative steps, glancing back at her twice to confirm she was still with him. 

She caught up to him just as he reached the wooden door. He turned to her then, wearing an expression that hovered somewhere between apologetic and painfully optimistic. "Well," he said, with the energy of a man bracing for impact, "I hope this works." He was absolutely speaking to himself.

And that was the moment she understood that his plan wasn't one at all. It was an impulse dressed up in optimism; a hopeful idea at best, a disaster at worst. He had absolutely no idea how this was going to unfold, and that was perhaps the most terrifying thing about him, because this man was genuinely unpredictable. 

The likeliest outcomes, as she saw them: they'd find themselves standing at the door of a long-abandoned house, or that same door would be flung shut in their faces the moment Rosaline laid eyes on him and remembered exactly why she'd left December.

Or perhaps, against all reasonable expectations, things were simply going to work out. Personally, she would not have staked a single coin on that outcome, but it wasn't entirely outside the realm of possibility. Probably. Marginally. 

But to everyone's considerable surprise, reality had other ideas, and she would have lost badly. Barely ten seconds after Vash's metallic fist connected with the door, it swung open with an urgency that suggested the woman on the other side had been close. She was tall and dark-skinned, visibly in her forties, with a crown of thick, spiralling curls that framed her face and eyes, hazel and warm, that were perhaps the most striking she'd ever encountered.

Those same eyes moved between them; a flash of mild surprise at first, then something deeper as recognition took hold. "Vash?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, fragile at the edges, as though she half-expected him to dissolve if she spoke too loudly.

"The one and only!" He spread his arms slightly, as if presenting himself as evidence, which earned him a reactive groan from his fellow traveller. Rosaline, for her part, didn't appear to register the theatrics at all: she remained rooted in the doorway, blinking slowly, as though her mind was still working to reconcile the man in front of her with the memory she'd been carrying. 

Nearly half a minute passed. She stood there, quietly calculating the odds of being physically ejected from the city. But the longer she studied Rosaline's face, the less that probably seemed to apply. The expression there was difficult to read, but it wasn't hostile. It was the face of someone who had been ambushed by something they had quietly stopped expecting; stunned, overwhelmed, and not yet certain what to do with either feeling.

Eventually, Rosaline's voice broke the silence. "Vash, I-" She faltered, eyes fixed on him as though looking away might make him disappear. "It's been so long. I was starting to think you were dead."

She watched the exchange with careful attention as Vash pressed a hand to his chest, affronted. "Rosaline! You wound me." His tone was theatrical, extravagant, and yet something underneath it suggested he hadn't entirely been joking. "I thought we knew each other better than that."

She observed the interaction attentively as Vash pouted in response. “Oh, Rosaline, you wound me! I thought we knew each other better than that.” his tone was intentionally dramatic.

This time, the theatrics seemed to finally break through; something in Rosaline's composure gave way, her pressed lips curving upward as she stepped forward and pulled him into a firm embrace. He returned it without hesitation, arms wrapping around her back like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

The embrace lasted only a few seconds, but it was the kind that carried years in it. "I'm really glad to see you," Rosaline said softly, pulling back just enough to look at him. "Old friend." The smile that followed transformed her face entirely.

Mirroring her expression, Vash tucked his hands into the pockets of his crimson coat. "So am I," he replied. And he meant it.

A few more seconds of that warmth passed before Rosaline turned, her gaze landed squarely on her, prompting an involuntary skip in her chest. She'd had time to build a mental portrait of this woman from the fragments Vash had let slip: someone iron-nerved and unsentimental, forged by years of patching up the worst of December's underworld and now living out the quiet sentence of her defiance in exile. She had genuinely expected that door to be slammed shut the moment Vash's face registered.

What she had not expected was any of this: the warmth, the relief, the arms that opened without hesitation. The reality of Rosaline dismantled her assumptions entirely. 

Rosaline had seemingly survived things that left marks, ones that made a person careful, deliberate, slow to extend trust to strangers appearing unannounced on their doorstep. So when those hazel eyes settled on her, they carried none of the warmth they'd held for Vash. She couldn't exactly blame her: when you've been forced to sever every tie, dissolve every affiliation and rebuild yourself from nothing in a town like this, you couldn't exactly be expected to greet an unknown face with open arms. 

"And who are you?" Rosaline asked, her voice measured, neither warm nor cold. 

There was something unsettling about that gaze; as though Rosaline could see straight past the surface and read whatever was churning beneath. "I-"

"She's with me!" Vash cut across her before she'd gotten two syllables out."

The urge to smack him squarely behind the head was nearly overwhelming. Yet she was wise enough to recognize that it would help precisely no one, save for her own satisfaction.

And so she bit down on her lower lip and held her tongue, letting him speak. "She took a bullet in Skullpeak," Vash explained. "We weren't far from here, so I thought, if anyone could help-" He let the implication hang.

Rosaline didn't so much as glance at Vash; whatever he'd said had been received and dismissed in the same breath. Her attention remained fixed on her instead. Yet at the mention of a gunshot wound, something shifted almost imperceptibly at the back of those hazel eyes; perhaps the quiet ignition of professional instinct, the part of her that had never quite learned to look away from someone who was hurt.

It was small, but it was something.

"Skullpeak." She blinked, her head tilting incrementally. "That's a few hours away. What brought you there?"

He opened his mouth immediately. "We-"

"Vash." Rosaline's voice was quiet and absolute. He stopped. "I'm asking her."

She kept her expression carefully neutral, which was, frankly, a feat, given how desperately she wanted to laugh. Watching someone other than herself put Vash in his place was a sight she hadn't anticipated and was not remotely prepared for.

Vash, for his part, was not laughing either. "Yes, ma'am," he shot back. Rosaline received this with an appreciative nod.

The nurse turned back to her. "So. Skullpeak." Her tone was calm, yet firm. "Why?"

She ran through her options quickly: how much did Rosaline already know about Vash? How much could she say without detonating something? Every angle she tried led back to the same wall: she was deemed a criminal, so was he, and the truth was not their friend here. The best she could do was find a thread of it that wouldn't unravel everything else.

"I was working there. As a barmaid, ma'am." She kept her voice even, her posture open, unconsciously borrowing the same honorific Vash had used.

Rosaline, however, appeared to find this considerably more endearing than anticipated. "Just call me Rosaline, sweetheart." The ghost of a smile settled at the corner of her lips. 

She gave Rosaline a short nod, then made the mistake of glancing at Vash. He was grinning, because of course he was. She promised herself that if he did not wipe that smirk off his face in the next two seconds, she was going to erase it herself, with her fist. 

"So." Rosaline's voice cut cleanly through the moment, a firm reminder that there were considerably more pressing matters than gratuitous violence. "Why did you get shot?"

Straight for the throat, then. She cast a sideways glance at Vash, trying to gauge what he'd already given away and how much rope she had left to work with.

"It's uh-"

"A long story." Vash stepped in again. Only this time, she couldn't quite bring herself to resent it: if anything, she was mostly relieved. He knew Rosaline, understood what could and couldn't be said. Letting him steer that particular stretch of conversation gave them considerably better odds of walking away without having some bounty hunters called on their ass. 

Rosaline studied them both in turn, moving her gaze from one to the other as if used to reading people who didn't want to be read. Every time their eyes met, she felt it; that unsettling sensation of being seen past the surface, as though Rosaline's gaze could reach through skin and bone and find whatever she was keeping buried. And yet she didn't look away, choosing to let someone else decide her fate, for once.

Because Sophie had happened. Then Vash. Somewhere, between the two of them, without her noticing, she'd started to believe, perhaps reluctantly, that not everyone was out to take something from her. It wasn't trust exactly; not yet. But it was closer than she'd been in a long time. Maybe that was enough to stand on.

Meanwhile, it seemed Rosaline had reached a conclusion of her own. The tension broke, punctured by a sharp exhale. "Fine," she exhaled, stepping back from the doorway, opening a path into the dim interior of the house. "Come in, you two."

She caught Vash's eye, just briefly. For once, neither of them had anything sardonic to offer; they were simply relieved. It was obvious that Rosaline wasn't done with them, but they were inside. That was something, even if not a victory yet.

Rosaline's gaze found her the moment she moved to step forward. "I'll take a look at that wound first." She declared with the tone of someone who had spent years telling people things they weren't going to argue with. "Then we'll talk."

"Yes, ma'a-" She caught herself. "...Rosaline."

Muffled laughter drifted from somewhere behind her. She didn't need to look. 

Chapter Text

"Sit down," Rosaline ordered, leaving no room for debate as her fingers curled around the back of a chair before wrenching it from the dining table. 

With a curt nod, she obeyed, letting her eyes drift aimlessly around the room. The interior caught her off guard; it was startlingly ordinary compared to the hollow shell of a city surrounding it. Past the door and up the few steps of the vestibule, the dining room unfolded: intimate and lived-in, its walls painted in a buttery yellow that called to mind sunlight filtering through gauze curtains on a cloudless morning. Ornaments and framed photographs crowded every surface, the quiet accumulation of a life stubbornly, defiantly ordinary. 

A pale wooden counter carved a boundary between the main room and the kitchen: same warm shade on the walls, though the floor traded planks for crackled tiling. To the right, a small sitting area had been carved out of necessity rather than indulgence: a coffee table, a portable radio, a bookshelf so aggressively overstuffed it seemed to be holding its breath, and two burgundy couches that had clearly weathered more than a few storms. To the left, a narrow corridor dissolved into shadow with a row of closed doors.

As she lowered herself onto the chair, Rosaline turned toward her, eyes snagging on the thick dressing that swathed her shoulder like a small monument to catastrophe. "That's..." She paused. "Quite the bandage. Was it necessary to mummify the entire shoulder?"

On instinct, she craned her neck sideways to squint at her own shoulder. Sure, the bandaging was excessive, almost theatrically so. But she'd take theatrical over septic without a second thought. "I've had worse." She replied, then paused. "Well, not by much, actually." 

Rosaline answered with a low sound of acknowledgement. "I see." She nodded. "In any case, I'll need to remove the dressing and have a proper look. Give me a moment." 

The woman took a step back, pivoting sharply on her heel before disappearing down the corridor. A few seconds passed, and she had been swallowed entirely by one of the rooms. 

As much as she would have welcomed the silence, her mind refused to grant her that mercy. Because this was possibly the only window she'd get before Rosaline returned, and she was not about to let it close. 

"Hey." Her whisper was barely more than a breath pressed between her teeth. Vash was slumped against the kitchen counter, eyelids drooping and apparently unbothered by the fact that their lives could be unravelling at any point now. "Vash."

The extra sharp edge to her tone seemed to have done the trick: he perked his head up and readjusted himself against the wood so he’d face her attentively.

"How much does she know?" She asked, her voice barely above a breath.

His eyebrows arched above the rim of his orange glasses. "Huh?"

“About you, dumbass,” She hissed, her patience already wearing thin. “Does she know about the bounty on your head?”

On the bright side, comprehension finally dawned across his face.

On the less bright side: that infuriating smile that crept across his mouth like it had every right to be there. "Uh... no," he admitted, fingers scraping an anxious path along the back of his neck. "It just... never really came up."

She couldn't claim she was surprised. A week in his company was enough to establish that Vash didn't volunteer damning information to the people he cared about. Well, apart from his drunken confession to her on day 1 of them meeting, which she figured was an exception more than anything.

She could hardly blame him for it either; no medical professional would be thrilled to patch up a notorious criminal on a recurring basis, let alone go as far as to owe one a personal favour years down the line. Rosaline had already made her suspicions plain, and that was without knowing the full picture: that Vash had arrived with another fugitive who'd been shot by the very police whose car they had stolen. 

Well, fuck. That complicated things. 

She couldn't stop the groan that clawed its way out of her, forehead dropping against the table with a dull thud. "So what now?" The words came out muffled, half-swallowed by the wood. "What exactly do we tell her?"

In the time it took for Vash to locate an acceptable response somewhere inside that head of his, she'd straightened herself back onto the chair and fixed him with a look that dared him to disappoint her. She fully expected an awful plan; but it would have been dishonest to pretend she had a better one. 

"We just tell it how it is," he replied, peering back at her through the amber tint of his glasses. "We met at the inn and decided to travel together. Convenience. Simple enough."

"And how do you explain the bullet wound?"

He left a few seconds trickle by, gaze drifting somewhere unfocused. "Collateral?"

"You're genuinely fucking with me."

"It's not that far-fetched! Skullpeak's a warzone: bandits, law enforcement, things always get messy." He said it with conviction, as if he was used to talking his way out of way worse. She had a feeling he wasn't. "Also, we need to leave out the part where we're both on the run. And the part where law enforcement was actively shooting at us."

"Vash," she deadpanned, her eyes closing and reopening with the tortured patience of someone counting to ten. “We literally stole their car .”

Of all things, this was the detail that alarmed him. "Oh." His voice dropped. "Wait, do you think she noticed?"

The question gave her pause. The car was across the street, close, but not obvious. And apart from the emergency light clumsily bolted to the roof like an afterthought, nothing about it screamed law enforcement to the casual eye. 

She tilted her head slowly. "I don't think so. She would've brought it up already." She paused. "Probably."

“So, what do you want to say?” Vash exhaled, tipping his head back against the cupboard like a man surrendering to gravity. 

No answer surfaced. She'd briefly considered the truth: Rosaline had known Vash long enough that loyalty might outweigh the details. But that ignored the obvious: Rosaline didn't know her. And a stranger with a bounty on her head was a different proposition entirely. 

In the best case, she'd throw them out. In the worst, she'd get the police, or reach out to the Guild, or any one of the nameless clusters of bounty hunters who hadn't yet earned a place on the map but were no less dangerous for it. 

"I don't know." The admission came out clipped, bitten off at the edges. "I've got nothing.

Something shifted behind Vash's expression, telling her the mischief arrived before the grin did. "We could always tell her we're dating."

She fixed him with a scowl, though it would have been a blatant lie to claim that her face hadn't betrayed her in the half-second before she composed herself. "I'd rather die."

"That's a no, then."

"Hard no."

"Aw." He clutched his chest as if she'd wounded him. "Right in the heart."

She turned away before he could see her face.

Their exchange was severed abruptly by the groan of a door swinging on its hinges, followed by the deliberate rhythm of footsteps across the creaking floor. She lifted her head toward the sound just as Rosaline re-entered the room, a wicker basket of medical supplies tucked under her arm. Mercifully, nothing in her expression suggested she'd caught so much as a syllable of their deeply incriminating conversation.

“Sorry for the delay.” She set the basket down on the table with a soft thud. "Supplies are running thin these days."

The wounded traveller waved off her concern. "Don't worry about it.” 

Rosaline nodded, slipping herself onto the nearest chair that she’d brought closer to her injured left shoulder. “Alright, let’s remove the dressing first.”

True to her word, Rosaline set to work. She unwound the bandage with deliberate care, peeling back each layer slowly as though the gauze itself needed to be reasoned with. When the last of it came free, she pressed it into a ball and dropped it to the floor. The wound met the open air, and a dull, insistent sting tightened her jaw, pulling an involuntary sound from behind her teeth. She was still bracing through it when Rosaline's voice cut through. 

“Did you stitch this?” she inquired, an eyebrow raised.

The traveller’s face remained impassive as she exhaled sharply, shaking her head before silently pointing a finger to her left in the direction of her companion. From the corner of her eyes, she noticed Vash waving back proudly.

“Huh.” Rosaline hummed without sparing him a look. “Acceptable.”

This time, it was her turn to scoff. Behind her, Vash let out a wounded gasp, as if he'd instead expected a standing ovation.

The nurse paid them both no mind; her attention had already returned to the wound. "It's a bit swollen, but nothing I'd call alarming just yet," she confided in them, rotating the arm with careful hands. "I'll be honest with you, though, this is one hell of a graze wound. There's tissue missing, and even with the stitches, it's going to take time to heal properly." She paused, still evaluating the wound. "That said, you're luckier than you realize. Two inches lower and your arm would've been nearly useless."

How reassuring. "Any idea how long it'll take?" she asked, her free hand finding the hem of her shirt and twisting it into a knot before hissing sharply as Rosaline's fingers pressed closer to the suture, as if to punctuate the question.

"For the wound to close?" Rosaline tilted her head, earning a small nod. "Difficult to say. The damage is far more extensive than a typical gash." She paused, as though weighing how gently to deliver the verdict. "A few weeks, at minimum. If you stay put and give your body the time it needs."

A few weeks. She could not afford to be out of commission for any significant stretch of time; yet she'd known the answer would be bleak before she asked. How exactly was one supposed to outrun a relentless pack of bounty hunters and the November police force with a useless arm?

"Out of curiosity," Rosaline added, not looking up from the wound, "where were you two planning to go after this?"

This prompted her and Vash to find each other's eyes across the room: a brief exchange that communicated with devastating clarity that neither of them had any fucking idea where they were headed next. 

They hadn't discussed it. Where they were going, how long they intended to travel together, what happened when they didn't; none of it had been settled, and the silence between them said as much.

And obviously, because nothing was ever going her way, Rosaline was perhaps the quickest to catch on to it. “Ah,” she hummed, the ghost of a playful smirk hovering on her face. “Sore subject, I presume.”

"Not really..." She shook her head, carefully navigating around Vash's questioning gaze. "We just... haven't gotten around to it yet."

"Haven't gotten around to it. Rosaline repeated, as though testing the weight of the words. "You're travelling together, but you haven't discussed where you're going."

"That's-" she paused. "Correct."

"Right."

Rosaline's eyes lingered on her for much longer than she was comfortable with. "You do realize how utterly bizarre this whole situation is for me, don't you?" 

Rosaline’s eyes lingered on her for much longer than she was comfortable with. “You are aware of how bizarre this whole situation is for me, right?”

She didn't have an answer for that. Neither, apparently, did Vash, though he was the first to try. “Look, Rose…”

She was quick to turn toward him. "I thought about it while I was gathering my supplies," she admitted carefully. "You can't blame me for being confused. You show up here, years after we last spoke, with some stranger who's been shot, and you expect me to carry on as though nothing has changed. It's more than a little upsetting."

She watched as Vash stood there, mouth open and wordless, as if searching through every room of himself for the right response and coming back empty-handed. After a long moment, he gave up the search entirely and simply lowered his head.

"So, I thought about it." Rosaline pressed on, her voice steady even as the atmosphere in the room shifted. "And as I did, something surfaced. Old memories I hadn't touched in years." She exhaled slowly. "I remembered all those times you'd appear in the middle of the night, bleeding on the doorstep of the clinic, saying nothing, asking for the bare minimum. Today is just like old times.

Vash nodded slowly with a distant smile, as if he was remembering the scenes just as clearly.

Rosaline's gaze settled firmly on him, heavy with something that wasn't quite anger nor grief. "And like back then, I find myself wishing you would be honest with me. Just once."

Something in her eyes caught the light, a glint born of memory, sharp and bittersweet. Yet, she wasn't finished. "But," she exhaled, the word carrying the weight of a concession she had already made before she'd spoken it aloud. "What you did for me is not something I can forget. I still consider myself in your debt, even after all these years." The pause that followed was deliberate, measured. "So I will not be asking any more questions. Out of gratitude, and nothing else."

Then Rosaline's eyes moved to her. 

"As for you." Her voice was even, stripped of warmth but not unkind. "I don't know who you are, and I don't need to." She paused. "But I'll extend you the same courtesy, for his sake, not yours. So don't give me a reason to regret it."

She held the gaze for a moment, nodding slowly before looking away. There was nothing useful to say to that. It was fair. It was more than fair. 

A quiet settled over the room; not the cold silence of unresolved tension, but something warmer. The young traveller shifted her gaze to Vash and noticed something in his eyes she couldn't name; it lived between the territory of grief and sorrow. As though he were holding back a protest, swallowing down the defence of his own choices, restraining himself from things that could never be said aloud.

Eventually, it appeared that he settled for much simpler words. “Thank you,” he whispered with a mournful smile.

Rosaline held his gaze. "But I do have to say," she added, "Vash, I'd appreciate it if you talked to me once in a while. You don't have to carry all of it alone."

Vash looked at her as though the words had landed somewhere unexpected. He held the moment for a breath, then nodded slowly, softness crossing his face for just an instant. "Duly noted."

She hadn't known him long, yet it was already apparent that he had no intention of confiding in Rosaline, whatever his troubles were. And it was equally apparent that Rosaline knew this; had probably always known. But she had said it anyway, had left the door open and the light on, had made it undeniably clear that she was there if he ever chose to walk through; and perhaps, she thought, that was precisely what he needed. Not the confession; just the offer.

She wasn’t envious of their relationship. She absolutely wasn’t.

Ultimately, the melancholy drained from Rosaline's expression and was replaced by something more composed as her eyes returned to the other traveller, as though she'd only just remembered she was in the room. "In any case, I wasn't exactly asking out of suspicion," she clarified, tilting her head with something that read as genuine concern. "There's a sandstorm due to hit the region by evening."

… what?

Her eyes widened. Frankly, this week was beginning to take on the quality of a freakish comedy, in the most unfunny sense of the term. How was it remotely possible for so many catastrophes to stack themselves so neatly within such a short window of time? At this rate, she was one more incident away from achieving a world record. 

Rosaline read through the stunned silence. “I assume by the long faces that you weren’t aware.”

"Well, shit," Vash muttered from behind her. For once, she agreed with him entirely; even if the sentiment was about as constructive as a hole in the floor. 

She couldn't suppress the discontented groan that escaped her. "How far to the next town north?" she asked Rosaline, already resigned to the fact that it was the only viable route out of the Savabridge region that didn't require them to pass through Brisroy Canyon again. 

"On foot?" She lifted a brow.

Vash shook his head. "No, we've got a car."

"Lucky you." She scoffed softly. "Less than a day, then. The nearest settlement north is Aniya Town. But you won't make it before sundown."

"So what are our options?" Vash pushed off the counter.

Rosaline lifted a shoulder. "Not much, honestly. Unless you were planning to head back to Skullpeak," she paused, eyeing the traveller sitting in front of her and her stitched-up gunshot wound. "Which I guess isn't exactly an option."

The mere thought wrested a scoff from her before she could stop it. Return to the place where they'd stolen a car and been shot at by its original owners? Now that would be a contender for the single most catastrophically stupid decision anyone had ever made on this miserable planet.

Vash caught the look Rosaline was giving her and stepped in before it could settle into something worse. "Any chance we could stay the night?"

Rosaline didn't answer right away. Her gaze drifted briefly toward the kitchen, then back. "I was going to offer," she replied. "But you should know, supplies are the thing. The last truck through March was nearly a month ago. We've been managing, but barely."

Of course: everyone on Gunsmoke was managing. Even in the largest cities, beneath the veneer of comfort and the illusion of stability, scarcity lurked just beneath the surface. For a forsaken, half-forgotten place like this one, a city whose very existence had nearly been erased from collective memory, she could picture the struggle without much effort at all.

And so she refused to bother Rosaline for longer than necessary; she was already far too much of one on Vash's back to be comfortable with the idea of adding another name to the list of people propping her up. This new and unwelcome habit of having her life safe on a semi-regular basis was already sitting poorly with her: there was absolutely no way she was extending that arrangement to a second person.

"We'll be gone in the morning." She declared, earning herself a questioning look from her partner, who was most likely already composing a case for extending their stay by several days. 

Rosaline gave a small nod. "That's fine by me." Something close to a smile crossed her lips. "It'll also give me a chance to keep an eye on that wound. Now," she reached into the basket. "Let me get another bandage on it."

They were out of the storm, physically at least, and metaphorically for the moment. Tomorrow would arrive carrying its own freight of complications: she would have to navigate the road with an injury that made itself known at every turn. Her arm was a liability; even the smallest, most careless movement sent pain radiating through her entire body like a current. That was going to be a considerable problem the next time someone decided to collect on her bounty. How was she supposed to cross a continent in this condition?

But there was another matter pressing at the edges of her thoughts: Vash. They would eventually have to discuss their respective plans, sooner rather than later. The man was fundamentally unpredictable, and she had no reliable way of knowing what he might choose to share with her, or when. She knew where she was headed, but what about him? Was he truly just an eccentric wanderer, adrift without a destination? Or was there something larger at work behind those infuriating glasses?

All those unanswered questions were beginning to press on her like a second wound.

Her wound had begun to ache; a low, insistent throb she chose to ignore. But beneath it, something quieter settled in: a reluctant, fragile gratitude for the rare gift of a night's rest. Even if it was only one.

Chapter Text

The rest of the day had bled away with surprising swiftness; at least when measured against the twenty-four hours that had preceded it, which had been nothing short of a relentless torrent of adrenaline, barely granting them a single breath between crises. Now that life had finally decelerated, if only by a merciful fraction, they'd seized that narrow window of calm to shroud the car before the sandstorm and move it around to the back of Rosaline's residence, somewhere tucked away and inconspicuous, where opportunistic hands were less likely to wander. That vehicle had endured enough theft for several lifetimes.

In all fairness, it bore mentioning that it had been Vash alone who'd moved the car, because she had been consigned to bed rest, effectively imprisoned within the four walls of the house for the foreseeable future. 

Had the decree come from Vash alone, she would have defied it purely out of spite, climbed right back into the driver's seat, stuck her tongue out and floored the accelerator without a second thought. But Vash bore no responsibility for her current predicament. It had been Rosaline who'd issued the command to stay put, and the emphasis was decidedly on command, because the illusion of choice had never been extended to her in the first place. She was to rest, to breathe and to be still; at the very least until the morning came. 

In the first hour, she had been thoroughly convinced that boredom alone would finish her off where the desert had failed. Yet somewhere along the way, that conviction softened. She'd been granted the quiet pleasure of watching Rosaline herd Vash around the house like a particularly wayward sheep, dispatching him toward one menial task after another: watching the dishes, filling the bath, fetching this, straightening that. It was, frankly, far more entertaining than anything she might have dared to hope for. 

Eventually, the hours dissolved into one another and the meagre, parched breath of Gunsmoke's air was swallowed whole by the savage gales of the sandstorm: a howling, relentless force that threw itself against the walls of the house as though personally offended by its existence. It was hardly her first encounter with such a tempest; storms of this magnitude were a grim inevitability on this stretch of the continent. And yet, every single time, the primal terror of it never quite dulled. She was profoundly grateful for the solid walls standing between her and that wrath. 

The winds did not relent even as the suns surrendered to the horizon. If anything, the storm grew more treacherous for its silence; swallowed by the darkness of the night, invisible and absolute, its fury no less lethal for being unseen. 

Yet the storm's ferocity was no match for the quiet indifference of time, and soon enough, the hour for sleep had arrived. Rosaline had been generous to offer her the second bedroom at the far end of the corridor; Vash, for his part, had settled cheerfully onto one of the couches, predictably claiming the less battered of the two. Their host had wished them both a good night before retreating behind the door, leaving the two of them marooned in the living room's silence. She had drifted, somewhere between thought and vacancy, while Vash methodically smoothed a thin linen blanket over the cushions. 

"How's your arm?" His voice was the first distinct sound to cut through the room since Rosaline had retreated.

The sound yanked her out of her reverie, though she couldn't say the question itself surprised her in the least. Her tongue clicked before she could stop it. "That's the third time you've asked me since dinner," she clicked her tongue with the weariness of someone who had run out of patience several hours ago. "I'm fine."

"Alright, alright. I'll stop." He chuckled, glancing up from the cushions with that infuriatingly easy grin of his. "Just making sure you're still in one piece."

“Then make sure to mind your own goddamn business.” The words came out sharper than she'd intended, although he still laughed, the sound ricocheting off the walls. 

The man was a perpetual irritant; and yet, against all reasonable expectation, she could actually breathe around him. That alone was remarkable. Most of her waking life now was spent coiled tight, braced for the inevitable moment when the people nearest to her would reveal the rot beneath the surface, the ulterior motive lurking behind every kindness. She'd learned, the hard way, that warmth was currency; doled out with invisible strings attached. But Vash had stitched her arm back together without a single word of expectation; he hadn't leveraged it, hadn't held it over her head, hadn't asked for so much as a thank you. That meant something, even if she wasn't prepared to say so aloud.

None of that meant she trusted him. Trust was a luxury she'd long since stopped affording herself, and she wasn't about to start now. What she had, for the moment, was a measured calm; the tentative relief of believing she might actually sleep tonight without one eye trained on the door, without dreading that she'd wake to find him gone and her belongings with him, or worse. Her anxiety would never grant her the mercy of absolute certainty, but when she weighed it all against herself, the likelihood of her fair-haired companion remained, by all rational measure, vanishingly small.

"So." Vash's voice sliced cleanly through the current of her thoughts. "Can I ask you something else?"

“No.”

Yet she knew perfectly well that listening wasn't among his more distinguished qualities. "How'd you end up in Skullpeak, anyway?" he asked, settling back against the couch.

She didn't register the movement. Her mind had seized entirely, gone cold and still as stone. Here it is, she thought. The question she'd been waiting to ask since the beginning.

She'd considered deflecting, pretending she hadn't heard, or snapping at him until he let go. Both were well-worn options. But this time, something gave way. Without meaning to, he had found the fault line she'd spent years reinforcing, and the memories came flooding back through the breach before she could shore it up again. 

Why Skullpeak? The place was nothing, a dot on a map, as arbitrary as every town that had come before it. Skullpeak had simply been a pretext, a gilded opportunity she'd snatched up because she happened to be standing in front of it. Two full days of grinding through the desert on foot met with a job posting tacked to the board outside the tavern, sun-bleached and curling at the edges. She'd been running the last dregs of her money dry after leaving Februar a few months before, and the pay was decent enough to silence her pride. What little of it she'd had left, anyway.

And before February came November, from which she had been looking to get further away. The place that had once been her haven, her most cherished sanctuary, where knowledge and joy had existed in a kind of rare harmony. Then, one day, the lesson arrived: brutal and irrevocable. There were people in this world who were not simple, not kind, and not even remotely interested in the things that made life bearable. Some were built for destruction; their deepest satisfaction lay in standing over the wreckage they'd made and calling it power. And they would do anything to reach that vantage point. The cloudless, indifferent sky of Gunsmoke was the only ceiling on their ambition. She had not read that lesson in a book; she had lived it. 

And she should have pulled the trigger on him when she’d had the chance. She would carry that failure like a stone lodged behind her ribs for the rest of her life. 

Her mind was a storm of its own, churning and directionless, even as she tried to dredge up something coherent to offer him. She couldn't tell him any of this; not a word of it. She had never spoken these things aloud to anyone, and she knew with bone-deep certainty that giving them a voice now would only drag her under, into a depth she wasn't yet equipped to surface from. 

To reiterate, she did not trust him. Because she could not trust anyone in the first place.

Still, the silence had stretched long enough that she owed something; even if only the barest outline of the truth. "Have you ever just..." she began, choosing her words carefully, "hopped on a bus without caring where it's headed? As long as it gets you far enough away from where you were?"

Something shifted in his expression, a brief flicker behind his eyes. Recognition, perhaps. "Hm." he was quiet for a beat. "Yeah," he mumbled, quieter than before. "I know exactly what you mean."

"Then you have your answer." She kept her gaze fixed somewhere past him, past the room and everything else. "But there are things I left behind. Things that only became clear once I'd put enough distance between myself and them." Her nails pressed into her palms; she didn't notice until it stung. "I'm going back to fix it." 

She harboured no illusions about how this would end. There was no clean resolution waiting for her, no version of this story that concluded without cost. But the alternative, an entire life spent running with every day soaked in dread, every night haunted by what she hadn't done, was a fate she refused to accept.

This time, she was going to make sure of it.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable; the storm filled it dutifully, battering the walls in long, indifferent gusts. Vash had gone still and wasn't fussing with the blanket anymore; his hands had stilled in his lap, and he was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite name. Not pity, because she would have shut that down immediately, but something closer to recognition. 

"How long?" he asked at last. His voice was careful, in a way she hadn't often heard from him. 

She considered not answering. "Long enough," she concluded finally, which was the most honest thing she could offer. 

He nodded slowly, as though that were sufficient; as though he understood that long enough was its own complete sentence, containing multitudes she had no intention of unpacking tonight. Maybe ever. So he didn't push; didn't fill the silence with something well-meaning and useless. He simply looked at her for a moment, then turned his gaze toward the window, toward the dark, storm-battered nothing beyond the glass. As if to give her back the privacy of her own thoughts.

She didn't want to sit with it any longer. Her thoughts were spinning in circles and she needed an exit. Something, anything, to anchor her back to the surface. "And what about you?" She decided that Vash's voice was at least preferable to the noise inside her own head. "Why Skullpeak?"

Vash held her gaze before letting out a slow breath. "Same as you," he admitted. "There are things I owe this world. Debts I haven't settled yet." He paused, and in the pause she heard the weight of something he wasn't ready to name. "But there's someone I need to see first." 

Her curiosity stirred. But she'd kept her own account deliberately sparse, trusting that he'd understand the unspoken boundary even if restraint wasn't his most natural instinct. He had: the least she could do was honour the same silence in return.

A few weighted seconds passed before she let out a short scoff, pulling the corner of her mouth into something that was almost a smirk. "So what did you do anyway?" Her tone was light, but deliberate. "To end up on the run like this."

Fortunately, he caught on quickly and matched her energy with a grin. She noticed that same glint behind his eyes, the one she'd first noticed when he'd offered to catch her outside the motel window.

"And what about you?" he shot back. "Want to talk about it?"

He had a point. “Fair enough,” she conceded, with all the grace of someone who deeply resented being outmanoeuvred. 

Another silence settled over the room as the storm crashed outside in bursts, hurling itself against the wall, and the couch registered its protest in a series of indignant creaks as Vash redistributed his weight across the cushions. She leaned back against the headrest and pressed her eyes shut, as though she could simply squeeze her headache out of existence through sheer force of will.

"So, what do we do now?" Vash's interjection had once again interrupted her thoughts.

She opened up one eye to stare back at him. “Hm?”

He held her gaze and sat up slightly, squaring his shoulders against the couch. "Tomorrow," he declared as if that single word were sufficient context. Somehow it was. "Where are we heading?"

It was reassuring to know he'd been turning it over too. She hadn't been alone in quietly dreading what came next, picking anxiously at the question of what tomorrow would be like after days that had done their best to swallow them whole. 

Her head still throbbed with a feverish heat, muddying her thoughts at the edges. Still, she nodded. "I don't know about you, she said, tipping her head back against the cushion, "but I don't think we should split off here."

She heard the small sound of agreement he made, missing the ghost of a smile that crossed his lips. "Alright then," he nodded. "Then we head north. Figure out the rest when we get there."

"Sure." There was a ragged edge to her voice she hadn't intended; she hoped it had slipped past him. "What was the town Rosaline mentioned?"

"Aniya Town?" He raised a brow. "It's a decent place. There's a massive underground reservoir beneath the sand lake, so the whole town runs a bit easier than most out there."

Somewhere that wasn't a festering ruin, where she wouldn't wake up with sand in her teeth and grit between her eyelids. Maybe her luck was beginning to turn at last. 

The migraine, however, showed no intention of being reasonable. If anything, it was deepening, a slow grinding pressure, behind eyes that had been building for hours and was now making itself impossible to ignore. She shifted her weight forward to stand and had to pause, one hand braced against the armrest, waiting for the dizzying lurch to pass before she trusted her legs.

"I'm off." She declared without looking at Vash, one hand bracing against the wall of the living room. His eyes tracked the motion carefully. 

"You alright?" The bewilderment in his voice had an edge to it now.

She turned just enough to let him see her face, which she suspected was doing very little to sell the lie. "I'm exhausted, and my head is splitting." She paused, squinting at him. "Don't make it weird."

He was on his feet almost immediately, closing the distance between them with those few easy strides. "Do you have a fever?" The concern in his voice was genuine. 

She watched his hand rise toward her forehead, as if to check her temperature, and intercepted it before it could land. She had endured his relentless concern for the better part of two days, and her tolerance for it had reached its natural ceiling. 

“Fuck off,” she snapped back, holding his gaze without blinking. She figured that if this wasn’t clear enough, she was running low on non-violent alternatives. “I told you. I’m fine.”

That surprisingly landed. Vash stepped back, hands raised in a gesture of surrender, a smile tugging at his mouth even as a helpless laugh escaped him. "Alright," he replied. "I got it the first time around."

That surprisingly seemed to have done the trick this time around; Vash took a step back, throwing her a smile, though he couldn’t conceal the nervous laughter that left his lips. “Yeah, I got it the first time around.”

The man was a goddamn menace. And yet the scoff that escaped her carried something almost fond in it; not that she would ever admit to such a thing. "Good night, Vash."

“Good night.”

Chapter Text

Morning came, as it always did: relentless, indifferent, and far too soon. She hadn't improved since the previous evening; if anything, her body had quietly betrayed her further through the night. The headache had deepened into something geological, a pressure that sat behind her eyes and radiated outward with every heartbeat, and her muscles ached with the dull, bone-deep soreness of someone who'd been wrung out and left to dry. She was drenched in sweat despite the storm winds having clawed at her bedroom window all night, keeping the room at a near-glacial chill. And her wounded arm felt heavier than it had any right to, throbbing with a persistence she was growing tired of ignoring. 

She told herself it was nothing: her body simply healing, recalibrating, doing what bodies were supposed to do after being shot. She clung to that explanation with both hands, even as some quieter, more honest part of her mind pushed back against it. She could not afford to be sick; not now, not with everything still unresolved. With enough stubbornness and a generous measure of self-deception, perhaps whatever this was would burn itself out before nightfall. 

Her bare feet met the floorboards, and she let herself hope, just briefly, that the wood's coolness might draw some of the fever out of her. It didn't. The morning heat had already seeped into the walls and settled over everything like a second skin, thick and suffocating, despite the suns barely having crested the horizon. By the time she reached the main hall, she found Vash in the middle of cramming the last of his belongings into his backpack, the bag slumped over one of the chairs like an afterthought. Rosaline was nowhere in her line of sight, but the quiet clatter of movement filtering through the kitchen told her she wasn't far. 

"Morning," she managed, her voice coming out scraped thin, barely louder than the ringing lodged behind her temples. "Still, she watched as Vash's attention broke away from his packing and landed on her, eyes warming like something had been switched on behind them. 

"Hey!" He lifted a hand in her direction, his whole face opening into that unreserved grin of his. "Head feeling better?"

There he was again. Most people let details like that dissolve, the passing mention of a headache said in the dark and forgotten by morning. Vash never did; it was one of the more disarming things about him, and she hadn't yet decided how she felt about it. 

She kept her expression even. His concern had a way of escalating, and she didn't need him tipping from enthusiasm into alarm over something that would, in all likelihood, pass on its own.

"Yeah, I'm fine." She thought of yesterday and looked away. "Thanks."

She crossed the remaining distance to the dining room and pulled out a chair, lowering herself onto it with more care than she would've liked to admit, one arm hooking around the chair back for steadiness. Footsteps from the kitchen drew her gaze upward just as Rosaline emerged and set two plates down on the wooden surface with quiet efficiency. The meal was sparse: a flat piece of toast and a few thin slices of meat, the kind of breakfast that barely qualified as one. But this was March, and March was it; scarcity wasn't a complaint, it was simply the landscape. Their host had already extended far more generosity than she was owed, and the food, however modest, was more than nothing.

"Morning, dear." Rosaline smiled at her as she leaned against the kitchen counter with the ease of someone who had long since made peace with early mornings. "Sleep well?"

"Yes. Thank you for the food." She reached for the fork; the metal was cool against her fingers, cool enough to draw an involuntary shiver through her hand and up her arm. "What about you?"

The nurse exhaled, her head tilting as though she'd drifted somewhere inward. "The storm kept me up for a while," she admitted. "I can't stay, I've gotten used to it yet, after living in the city for most of my life."

Preferring not to pry into Rosaline's life, she let the comment pass with a small nod and brought the toast to her lips. She wasn't hungry, but knew well enough she'd regret it later, somewhere out on the dunes, when her stomach would make its displeasure loudly known

The quiet stretched between them before Rosaline broke it. "Coffee?" she offered, glancing between them.

She hummed her assent, clinging to the quiet hope that caffeine might do what sleep had failed to: blunt the edge of the headache and give her something to work with. Vash answered with equal enthusiasm, and Rosaline retreated toward the kitchen. 

Her guest hummed in confirmation, hoping that the caffeine boost would be of considerable help in curing her headache. Vash was quick to offer a similar answer, leading to Rosaline pacing back towards the kitchen.

Another stretch of quiet settled over the table, broken only by the scrape of cutlery against ceramic, a sound that made her teeth ache. As the plate gradually emptied and her stomach filled, nausea rose without warning, rolling through her in slow, deliberate waves. It was a deeply strange sensation; she couldn't remember the last time food had turned on her like this, least of all something as utterly inoffensive as toast and meat. 

She reminded herself yet again that there was nothing wrong. After all, she hadn't slept properly for days, and her body was still knitting itself back together from a bullet wound. Nausea, aches, the low-grade tremor running beneath her skin, all of it was explicable and presumably temporary. 

"How's the arm?" Rosaline called from the counter, her voice cutting through the fog that had begun to settle over her thoughts. 

Her gaze drifted briefly to Vash, who sat across from her with every outward appearance of being absorbed in his meal. And yet, his attention hadn't moved; he was listening. Not obviously, but with quiet vigilance, he displayed when he tried not to look like he was watching her. Which meant she'd have to give the answer he was hoping for, no matter if it was true or not. 

"It's fine." Her voice came out rougher than intended, scraped raw somewhere in her throat. She took another bite to fill the pause. "Better, I think."

"Good, no infection then." Rosaline's footsteps resumed across the floorboards. "Honestly, why a graze that deep? I wasn't sure. You lost a fair amount of tissue. I half-expected to be dealing with something nastier by now." 

She followed perhaps half of what Rosaline was saying, but nodded with what she hoped was convincing attentiveness. "That's... great."

The nurse set the mugs down, dark coffee steaming gently, and continued without missing a beat. "I changed your bandage yesterday, but you'll want to take it off before the day's out. No need to replace it at that point, unless the bleeding starts up again. Leave the stitches alone, keep the wound clean with only water, and you should be looking at a removal in-" She paused, briefly calculating. "At least two weeks."

Rosaline's expression shifted then, the clinical warmth dropping away, replaced by something more pointed. "And pay attention to any symptoms that might suggest infection." It wasn't a suggestion; it landed like a directive. She felt the weight of it and resisted the urge to shrink. "Redness, swelling, heat around the wound, or any usual discharge. And don't dismiss systemic symptoms either: headaches, muscle aches, chills, anything that reads like a fever. Those matter." 

Several of those symptoms were making themselves known with considerable intimacy. But the wound itself wasn't the loudest complaint; her head was, and surely that meant something. Surely the hierarchy of pain was significant. Surely. 

It’s fine. I’m fine. 

She could not be a burden. She would not be a burden to Vash; not again, not more than she'd already been. She was fine. 

"Noted." She held Rosaline's gaze for as long as she dared, long enough to seem composed. "I'll be careful."

Vash, she noticed, had been watching the whole exchange with the careful nonchalance of someone trying very hard to appear unconcerned. He wasn't looking directly at her, but those brief, flickering glances were nothing. They were, in fact, quite a lot. 

Rosaline, mercifully oblivious to the internal unravelling happening across the table, pressed on with her instructions. "Try to avoid anything too strenuous over the next few weeks, if you can manage it," she advised. "I have no idea what your life looks like out there, but I can tell you that ruptured stitches are nobody's idea of a good time. And redoing them is worse."

Problematic was one word for it: she had no idea how to suture a wound, and she wasn't particularly eager to remain tethered to Vash's side on the sole basis that he was the only person she knew could. "I'll do my best," she told Rosaline, with a sincerity she almost meant. She was acutely aware, however, that the odds of her injury emerging from the next few weeks unscathed were not in her favour. She was wanted; not at the top of anyone's list, perhaps, but wanted nonetheless, and that distinction had a way of manifesting in bullets. 

Well, that last matter had been considerably showcased already. 

The minutes passed more gently after that, the conversation finding its own unhurried rhythm as they finished eating and nursed their coffee. It was the kind of ordinary that felt almost borrowed, too normal and fragile, and she was still turning that thought over when Vash pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. 

"Alright." He reached across the table and gathered both plates in one easy motion, glancing at Rosaline with that particular warmth he seemed to reserve for people he'd known long enough to worry about. "We should get out of your hair. We've taken more than enough of your time already."

Rosaline laughed softly and reached out, taking the plates from him. "Don't be ridiculous," she replied. "It's been good, having people in the house. You forget what it sounds like after a while, just... noise. Presence. It's been good."

She turned and set the plates down on the counter with care, then looked back, her eyes finding Vash. "Besides, I owe you this much." The corner of her mouth curved upward, something grateful and a little raw in it. "After everything you did."  

Vash shook his head as if the very idea were absurd. "You don't owe me anything, Rose." His smile was genuine. "I'm just glad I got to see you again. That's all."

“The same goes for me.” 

She watched the exchange from the outside, gaze moving between them as if following a conversation in a language half-understood. Despite her desire to respect Rosaline's privacy, she felt odd being a stranger in the middle of the room. Of course, she didn't need to know everything; she just simply wasn't accustomed to knowing nothing. 

But then, Rosaline shifted back to her, eyes glimmering with an attentiveness that hadn't been there yesterday. "As for you," she spoke gently, "we're still strangers. But Vash trusts you. And if he does, so will I."

Baby steps were still steps, she thought; her sentiment was already much more positive than it had been yesterday. "Thank you, Rosaline." She dipped her head, which did send a fresh pulse of pain through her skull. "For everything."

She smiled back. “My pleasure.”

The half-hour that followed moved both too quickly and not quickly enough. By the time they were packed and standing at the threshold, she had almost convinced herself that the act of leaving would be its own kind of relief: forward motion as cure, momentum as medicine. But her body wasn't cooperating with the narrative. Her strength had been bleeding out steadily, and the sweltering air that pressed down from the cloudless sky did nothing to explain the shivers that kept rolling through her, wave after wave, even as sweat traced cold lines down her spine. 

It was temporary; it had to be. The car was only a few metres from the day. And once they were moving, she could swallow her pride and ask Vash to drive: sure, she may never hear the end of it and find some way to be insufferably pleased about it, but she'd survive that too. A few hours of sleep across the dunes was worth whatever smug satisfaction he'd extract from the concession.

Still, there was the car to deal with. The sandstorm had been brutal, and a tarp over a shattered window only did so much. They'd have to assess the possible damage before doing anything, a timeframe during which she had the best chance of getting better.

“You ready to go?” Vash's voice reached her from the doorframe; she heard the words more than she processed them, his smile a warm blur at the edge of her narrowing field of attention.

The ringing in her head had climbed another register, and most of her focus was occupied with simply staying upright. "Yeah," she finally managed a reply and a nod.

She heard Vash ask her from the doorframe, backpack in hand. His reassuring smile was barely even registered by her mind; she was far too occupied in attempting to handle the ringing in her brain.

She was looking at him, but the edges of him had gone soft, and the room behind him softer still. Come on. Just a few more steps. You can do this.

She turned and caught Rosaline watching her from the top of the staircase, still and quiet as something waiting. The sight of her sent an irrational spike of alarm through her mind, thoughts lurching sideways before she could stop them. What if Rosaline knew? What if she had known all along? Had seen it in her face across the table and said nothing, waiting to see how long she'd hold the lie together?

What if this had all been her doing all along?

Her hand found the strap of the backpack and pulled; and the world came apart. The throbbing in her head detonated into something vast, vertigo crashing over her so suddenly it felt like the floor dropped an inch. Nausea surged up her throat without warning and her vision fractured at the edges. There was static; not outside her but inside, behind her ears, behind her eyes, nested somewhere deep in her skull and expanding.

Everything arrived at once: sensation, sound, the desperate impulse to stay standing. And then, her awareness simply went out.  

She was no more conscious once her body pummeled to the ground.

Chapter Text

It appears dark outside, or perhaps it's merely the room that’s ensnaring her in the perpetual night. And yet, nothing about her surroundings remains sombre.

Kaleidoscopic lights erupt in cascading beams of every conceivable shade, searing against the walls, the ceiling and the back of her eyes. They convulse and bleed from one hue to the next; they devour fabric, skin, and everything else that writhes around her. This near-epileptic frenzy is, however, not accompanied by sound, and yet something is making her body shudder from the inside out. Music must be thundering from some distant source, its pulse reverberating through the floor beneath her feet, ricocheting off the cramped walls, and yet she cannot hear a single note over the white noise consuming her mind.

Flares of saturated brilliance momentarily obliterate her vision, and yet she remains acutely conscious of her body, of every sensation pressing in from all sides. Bodies drift pas, skin grazing against her arms, but no one so much as pauses in their movement; all of them entranced by the pulse, the electricity surging from one person to the next like a current. It should be profoundly isolating, being severed from the world by a wall of deafening noise, but one seems to notice; no one ever does.

Someone takes her hand. The grip tightens around her fingers. Her vision, smeared by the relentless dazzle until now, sharpens in an instant, and that person smiles back at her. 

A suffocating, visceral dread seizes her. She recognizes this scene, has lived it a hundred times in the dark theatre of her own mind. She knows exactly what comes next, even as the blinding lights drown her whole.

And yet she cannot scream, a prisoner behind her own eyes, forced to watch. 

Phantom sparks still seared behind her eyes as she jolted awake, a wail lodged like a splinter at the back of her throat.

The first coherent thought to surface was the weight of her own body, how utterly weak it felt; like something buried fathoms beneath shifting sand, crushed under the pressure of its own stillness. The air sat heavy in her chest, unyielding, and it took what felt like an eternity before she could process anything beyond her own flesh. She started with the buzzing in her ears, which gradually resolved itself into a tangle of distant voices calling out to someone.

Accustomed to the sound of her own name being called in panic, she could only assume the voices were hailing for her.

It took another long moment before the sensation of being submerged finally began to recede; dragged upward through layers of dense fog, she managed to claw her way toward the surface of consciousness and catch fragments of what was being said.

“-re you alright?! Can you hear me?!”

“Vash, she’s waking up. That’s a good sign. Give her space.”

“What if she hit her head? What if it's a concussion? Wha-”

“Vash, calm down. Give her a minute.”

Her eyes finally opened fully, blinking hard against the light until the scene above her sharpened into focus. Two faces hovered over her, both pale with worry and fixed on her with an intensity that made the air feel thin. 

Vash was the first to speak, while Rosaline pressed the back of her hand to her forehead with clinical efficiency. No words left the nurse's mouth, but the grim set of her jaw said everything. This was not good.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Vash asked, his voice fraying at the edges with barely-contained apprehension. She recognized the look on his face; she'd seen it before, when she'd taken a bullet.

As sensation crept back into her limbs, she became painstakingly aware of her own body. Her arms and legs lay flat against the unforgiving wooden floor, but her head was lifted slightly, cradled above the ground as the back of her skull rested against something warm. Against the relentless sting that ravaged the rest of her, the faint comfort somewhat tethered her back to reality.

Until she ultimately realized that the makeshift pillow soothing her was someone'S lap. And the mortification compounded itself tenfold the moment she understood it was Vash's.

Oh, for fuck's sake. She could feel her entire face ignite, which was frankly impressive given that her body was already running at the temperature of a small furnace.

Setting aside the potentially alarming concept of resting her head in someone else's lap, her travel companion, of all people, she was also acutely aware that any attempt to stand would end in spectacular failure. The weakness permeating her body was staggering; her limbs felt borrowed, as though they belonged to someone else entirely. Any effort to push herself upright would simply result in a second collapse, which would be both agonizing and humiliating.

And so she simply gritted her teeth, resolute in enduring both the awkwardness and the treacherous heat climbing up her neck. "Where am I?" The words scraped out of her throat, barely audible. 

Vash exhaled in relief above her, the tension around his eyes loosening at the sound of her voice. "You're on the floor," he stated. 

"Very helpful, Vash," she deadpanned. "Thanks."

He barely registered the bitterness of her words, already too focused on easing her upright. Whether it was the fever amplifying every nerve ending in her body or simply the aftermath of fainting, she couldn't say. But she was suddenly unbearably aware of every sensation pressing in from the world around her, like Vash's arms shifting along her back, palms grazing her shoulder blades. Even once her body was up and her surroundings finally came back into view, his hands remained fixed to the fabric of her shirt, anchored there as though she would die if he ever was to let go.

It definitely was… something. A thing her brain filed away for later. Because physical contact wasn't exactly foreign to her, but she couldn't honestly claim she sought it out, either. And yet she didn't pull away. Partly because doing so would almost certainly send her face straight to the floor, but also because the position was, inexplicably, somewhat... comfortable.

Right. The fever. That should explain everything, because her thoughts were not making any sense. 

Rosaline's voice cut through the fog like a lifeline. "You're still at my house," she calmly explained, mercifully more informative than Vash. "You passed out when you reached for your bag."

She recalled it distantly; the moment she'd threaded her arm through the strap and hauled upward, the sudden drag of weight against her side enough to drain every last drop of blood from her skull. Given the state she'd already been in, it was almost impressive that she'd made it that far before her body gave out. 

She nodded slowly, her mind still piecing itself back together like shattered glass. "How long was I out?" she asked, biting the inside of her cheek.

Her head acquiesced with discernment, her mind still shuffling around in an attempt to reunite all the puzzle pieces. “How long was I out?” she bit the inside of her cheek. 

"Thirty seconds or so."

Huh. It had felt so much longer than that; several lifetimes, at minimum. Apparently, the fever had decided to toy with her perception of time as well.

“How are you feeling now?” Rosaline inquired, her gaze cataloguing every flicker of her expression for anything she might try to hide.

Which made it abundantly clear that lying was no longer a viable option. She had already collapsed once and was currently sprawled across the floor; any attempt to downplay her condition at this juncture would be nothing short of delusional.

She exhaled a surrounding breath. "Awful," she admitted. "Like someone dragged me through a bonfire."

"Yeah, no kidding!" Vash's voice came from behind her, his whole body shifting as he scoffed. "You're practically burning up!"

Rosaline paid no mind to her friend and kept her gaze entirely focused on the other traveller, analyzing. “Can you stand?” she asked, already extending her hand before the question had fully left her mouth.

She considered it for a moment, yet the answer was not a surprise. “Probably not.”

Rosaline's jaw tightened as she held her gaze for a second, then shifted it to Vash. "Can you get her back to the bed?" she asked, pushing herself to her feet in the same motion. "I need to look at the arm. The fever alone would concern me, but if the wound's turned, we're dealing with something worse."

No. Absolutely not. Over her dead body; which given the current trajectory, was not entirely out of the question. But still.

As the sound of Rosaline’s footsteps faded up the staircase, she turned her head toward her travel companion, every last scrape of defiance she still possessed concentrated into her gaze. "No way," she declared. “You are not picking me up.”

And yet she was miserably aware of how little her body had to offer in the way of resistance. The realization was humiliating in a way that cut deeper than the wound itself. She could protest all she liked, but it wouldn't change a single thing.

And Vash knew it, too; she could see it plainly, lurking behind that infuriating, apologetic smile of his, the glint of something unmistakably amused. "Hey," he said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "Doctor's orders."

The last time he'd offered to carry her, she had come within a hair's breadth of hurling her boot at him through an open window and had spent a satisfying amount of time imagining doing exactly that. But this time there was no window and no boot and no other option, and the smug awareness of that fact was written all over his face.

Before she could marshal another retort, he'd already slid her arms beneath her knees and hauled her upward in one fluid motion, her right side meeting his chest. And hell, she was aware that he was in great physical shape, but somehow had not anticipated quite how apparent that would be with her entire body pressed against his. Her face burned up, from frustration, obviously, and absolutely nothing else.

Still, she couldn't quite suppress the reluctant flicker of admiration at how effortlessly he'd done it; not a single moment's hesitation, not a single tremor of strain. The prosthetic arm accounted for some of it, she supposed, but even so; how absurdly strong was this man? 

"You should've said something." Her voice was quiet as it cut through her thoughts. "You weren't ready to leave."

She frowned. “I was fine,” she muttered. The words sounded flimsier out loud than they had in her head; which was saying something, because they hadn't sounded particularly convincing there either. Still, she held his gaze. "I swear."

His brow arched, managing to communicate an entire argument without a syllable.

Well, she had no rebuttal for that. She searched for one anyway, turned it over a few times and came up empty. She was being carried, for one thing, which did tend to undermine her argument.

The silence that followed was not dishonesty; she had only wanted to spare them. Rosaline had already given so much: her home, her water, her stores, all of it freely and without complaint. As for Vash, she'd long since counted. The dependency it implied was a wound all its own, and she had stopped looking at it directly. 

But her silence had done nothing but compound the very burden she'd been trying to spare them. She had taken their choice away, and there was something shameful in that, no matter how unintentional.

The thoughts churning through her mind were barely coherent, so it was perhaps fitting that the words that emerged from her mouth were no better. "Sorry," she murmured. "I know it's a bit late for that. I just... didn't want to be a burden."

"That's not-" He stopped. The air shifted; she could feel it, even like this. He exhaled through his nose, his voice stripped of everything but sincerity. "You didn't choose to pass out. This isn't your fault." He paused, for long enough that she almost thought he was done. "I just wish you'd told me, that's all. I wish you had said something."

She couldn't help the slight pout that crept onto her face. "I thought it would pass," she admitted quietly. "I really did."

And the worst part was that she had. She had been wrong, of course, but rarely this dramatically. 

She hadn't even realized her eyes had fallen shut until the mattress rose to meet her, Vash lowering her down with the same careful deliberateness he'd carried her with, his arms withdrawing from her back by degrees. The sheets were cool beneath her, still neatly tucked from where she'd smoothed them out not an hour ago. A moment later, Rosaline appeared in the doorway, a cloth bundle of medical supplies tucked under one arm. 

The nurse crossed the room with brisk strides, setting her belongings down before dragging the desk chair into position. She settled into it, barely sparing a glance at Vash, who, now relieved of his role, retreated to the periphery and propped himself against the window frame. 

"Sitting up alright?" Rosaline inquired, not looking up from her hands as she worked the disinfectant between her fingers."

"Think so."

Rosaline glanced at her briefly, then back down. "Tell me if that changes." Her attention remained fixed on the supplies.

Her hands moved deftly over a pair of scissors, cleaning them before bringing them to the gauze, her movements considerably more urgent than they had been the last time she'd dressed her wound. Then she looked up, her gaze landed with the weight of a verdict. 

"Tell me if you start feeling faint again," she ordered. "And this time, I mean it."

She gulped. They were never going to let this go, she could already tell. 

The cold bite of the scissors' metal against her skin was a shock, and it was only then that she fully registered how searing hot her own flesh had become. The blaze eating through her arm smothered beneath the louder, more insistent pounding of her skull; but now, with the gauze peeling away and open air reaching the wound, there was no ignoring it. Something was wrong in there: she had known it, but knowing and feeling were two very different things. 

Rosaline went quiet for a moment, which was somehow worse than any words. "That's infected," she declared at last, the clinical flatness of her tone doing little to soften the blow. "It was slightly swollen yesterday. I don't understand how it deteriorated this fast."

"It was bandaged." Vash's voice came from behind the nurse. "Shouldn't it have prevented this from happening?"

"Given the nature of the wound, it's almost certainly bacterial." Rosaline's eyes never left the injury, but her tone carried the unmistakable edge of a reprimand directed at Vash. "The infection could have taken hold when the dermis was first exposed. Symptoms don't always surface immediately." She paused. "How long was the wound open before you closed it?" 

He was quiet for a moment, genuinely deliberating or simply too chastened to answer quickly. "About an hour," he replied at last, with the careful hesitation of someone who already sensed the verdict. "Maybe an hour and a half." 

The pout that followed did nothing to help his case, nor did the sharp exhale it drew from Rosaline.

"Yes, that would do it." Rosaline clicked her tongue, her fingers moving carefully around the edges of the wound before her gaze finally lifted to meet her patient's. "Does it hurt?"

She drew a slow breath, groping for the right words and finding only inadequate ones. "It's... unpleasant," she settled on, which felt like a profound understatement for the heat radiating from her arm. "Nothing I can't manage. For now."

Strangely enough, the wound itself was the least of her complaints, which said something grim about the state of the rest of her. Her skull still throbbed with a low, relentless ache, and her body couldn't seem to decide between scorching and freezing, oscillating between the two without logic. It was precisely the kind of misery that wore you down not through intensity, but through sheer, grinding persistence. 

At that point, there were enough reasons to truly start worrying. She watched Rosaline's face for a verdict, but the nurse's expression gave nothing away. "How bad?" she asked.

Rosaline didn't look up. "Swollen. Edges are reddened." She paused. "It's not the worst I've seen, but with the fever on top of it, I'd expect things to get worse before they get better."

How fucking wonderful. She didn't have the luxury of lying in bed waiting for her body to sort itself out: she had places to be, people to find, and now, a festering infection to contend with on top of an arm that was already useless. Was the universe simply incapable of leaving her alone? 

Rosaline pushed to her feet, already thinking ahead. "I need to check my office, see what antibiotics I've got left." She reached for one of the pillows without breaking stride, shaking it back into shape before tucking it behind the traveller's back. Then she paused, and her voice dropped into something quieter. "Try to sleep sitting up if you can. Keep your shoulder elevated. It'll help with the swelling. I'll leave ibuprofen within reach, too, if the fever gets bad."

She nodded, knowing she was in no position or shape to argue. The exhaustion had been there since the moment she'd opened her eyes, and probably long before that; her body had simply been waiting for permission to admit it. Some part of her resisted, on principle; but there was only so long she could hold that line before it became less conviction and more stubbornness.

"Thanks," she managed. It was all she had. 

Rosaline ran through a few final checks before she was settled. The pillow was cool against her back, and sleep came at the edges first, drawing the room's sounds down to a murmur.  

And then something snagged her attention, just before it could pull her under entirely. 

Through her half-lidded eyes, she thought she saw Rosaline take hold of Vash's wrist, pulling him away from the window. But the image was gauzy at the edges, and she couldn't be certain whether it was real or simply another thing her mind had decided to manufacture. 

Dreaming through pain was nothing new: she had done exactly that, barely fifteen minutes ago. Though calling it a dream was generous, it had been a flashback more than anything: old memories, poisonous and precise, surfacing with a ferocity she hadn't felt in some time. Not the usual faint flickers that ghosted at the edges of her vision, nothing rawer than that. She didn't want to examine what it meant.

Her mind was still spinning, unravelling at its edges, but exhaustion was winning: she could feel consciousness slipping away like sand through a fist. Then, just at the threshold of sleep, voices reached her. Muffled, seeping through what she assumed was the closed door, just enough to pull her back from the edge. 

It took considerable effort to pull the words into focus, but gradually they sharpened. "Look." Rosaline's voice. "I know I was the one who offered. I'm not walking that back. But this is... It's complicated for me too."

Her interlocutor was quick to protest. “Rose…”

"Vash." A pause. "If you want her to live, she needs at least a few days of proper care. And I-" Another pause, shorter. "I can't keep giving out supplies for free. This is how I make my living here."

So her intuition had been right. She was a burden.

It wasn't a new thought; she'd known it since the beginning. But hearing it spoken aloud was different. It pressed it into shape; made it real.

She could feel the sting at the corners of her eyes; fever or something else, she couldn't say. The math was simple: no money for medicine, no money for food, and March had made everything scarce and expensive. She was going to die here. A stupid death, in a town she'd never meant to stop in, because she'd thrown herself in front of a man she barely knew. 

Except, did she not care about him? She turned it over and found she couldn't hold onto the indifference as cleanly as she'd like. Whatever else was true, she didn't regret it. If her being there had kept someone else alive, then maybe that counted for something.

Then Vash spoke.

"You don't have to worry about the cost. I'll pay for it."

She waited for the rest of the sentence; the part where he walked it back. But it didn't come.

He was kidding, right? 

Rosaline's sigh was quite audible, even through the door. "It's not about the money, Vash. I'd give it freely if I could. But I barely have enough left to treat the people in town. I can't stretch what I don't have."

"Then I'll get them," her companion argued without missing a beat. "I'll drive to Aniya Town while she's resting. I recall they have a decent market there, and I can pick up whatever you need. Food, too, while I'm at it.

She didn't believe it. Whatever her feverish mind had been manufacturing tonight, this had to be more of the same. 

Except the words had been so clear; no distortion, no blur. Just his voice coming through the door, steady and certain. 

She'd long since accepted that Vash operated by a logic entirely his own, one she'd stopped trying to map. She had come to realize he was selfless to a fault. But this wasn't it.

Selflessness was giving what you could spare. This was different; it would cost him, and yet here he was offering anyway, without being asked, without so much as checking whether she even wanted it. 

The disbelief hadn't gone anywhere. But something else had risen up alongside it now, hot and sudden and entirely unreasonable. 

She was furious.  At his stubbornness, at his relentless, unasked-for generosity; at the fact that he kept folding himself smaller and smaller to make room for her without ever once letting her return the favour. Who did that? Who did that, and asked for nothing back?

Had everyone ever done it for him?

Rosaline's voice got her listening again. "That... could work. Aniya Town should have what we need."

"Then it's settled."

Another pause, filled with Rosaline's hesitation. "She's not going to like it, though, is she?" It wasn't quite a question. 

Vash's response was a quiet laugh, and she knew that if she'd had a single functioning ounce of strength left in her body, she would have gotten up and hit him. "Yeah," he eventually answered. "But I'd rather she be furious than dead."

Rosaline laughed softly at that. "You never change, do you? I wonder what that girl did to deserve you."

She could hear the smile in his voice even through the door and the fog. "She saved my life first. So..." He let a second trickle by. "Trust me on this one, Rose. She's a good person."

Even halfway through slumber and her profound outrage, she felt the warmth spreading across her cheeks. 

She's a good person. 

The words drifted in her mind, settling somewhere she hadn't meant to leave open. She wanted to refute it, on principle if anything else. She knew perfectly well she wasn't, and if pressed, she could have produced a list to prove it. 

But Vash hadn't seen most of what was on that list. He'd witnessed the attitude, the arguing, the thinly veiled threats of violence, the rest of the unpleasant surface of her. The parts she couldn't seem to keep from showing. And somehow, from all of that, he had still arrived at this conclusion.

She knew she wasn't a good person, but she was one to him. And she didn't know what to do with that. So it simply remained there, quietly, in the dark. 

Maybe for tonight, that was enough.

She was asleep before she could decide otherwise. 

Chapter Text

The pain was relentless, clawing at her even as she surfaced from what felt like an endless, suffocating slumber; as though two lifetimes had quietly bled away while she lay unconscious. Her skull throbbed with the same savage persistence as before, and though her fever had at last relinquished its grip on her body, every trace of that head seemed to have migrated to her wound, scorching through arm and shoulder alike, ferocious as a wildfire devouring the earth. She didn't press her fingers to the skin, knowing it would be swollen and excruciating to the touch. Still, her exhaustion had fractionally eased from the sleep, a meagre mercy she quietly catalogued as the first, fragile proof that her body had not yet surrendered.

Her neck had gone numb from sitting upright so long without proper support, a dull ache compounding the misery already carved into her frame. And yet, considering how pitifully little strength had managed to reclaim the edges of her limbs, it was undeniable that she would remain imprisoned in that position for some time yet. 

She managed, with considerable effort, to shift herself further onto the mattress, just enough for her head to sink into something resembling comfort. Her gaze drifted upward, unfocused, to the ceiling, while her mind unravelled into the silence of her thoughts, circling back to the conversation she had overheard before sleep swallowed her. 

Her anger towards Vash hadn't exactly evaporated, even a few hours later. She'd always loathed what she could not understand, and that was doubtlessly part of the reason he had grated on her nerves from the very moment they met. For most of her life, more so ever since she became a fugitive, she had been addicted to control; needed to be the architect of every interaction, to hold the reins at all times. At yet, Vash had dismantled that instinct with an infuriating ease, as though her defences were nothing more than paper walls.  

It was as though he existed perpetually one step ahead of her, anticipating her thoughts before they had even begun to be shaped into words. Considering the grinding effort she had poured into remaking herself, stripping away every predictable edge until she was both unreadable and untraceable, she felt entirely justified in her frustration. To be seen so effortlessly, by him of all people, was an affront she hadn't quite learned to stomach. 

He was extending to her a kindness and compassion she could not recall having been shown; not since she had fled November with a bounty on her head and a target burned into her back. People saw only the vicious criminal her name conjured, or perhaps the obscene sum of double dollars tethered to it like a leash. Whenever she was thrown to the sand or made to stare down the barrel of a gun, she knew exactly what she was looking at: someone who wanted something. Money, or compliance, it rarely mattered which. Her existence was always a transaction, a means to an end. Never a person. 

Even before her entanglement with the law, what had transpired back in November had already hollowed out whatever trust she'd once carried. After all, betrayal had a particular cruelty, one that often came from the hands you'd once reached for in the dark. 

Yet, despite all her corrosive pessimism, it remained undeniable that Vash was... different. Fundamentally, inexplicably different from anyone else she had encountered before. Not only was he treating her like a genuine human being, but he consistently went out of his way to do so, as though it cost him nothing and it were simply the natural order of things. She had first understood this when the November police arrived in Skullpeak, because from the very beginning, he had been sitting on a perfectly viable escape route, one he could have taken alone without a second thought. And yet, he had stayed. Despite having every reason to leave, he chose to remain and help her. She couldn't unravel it; he had been transparent enough about his lack of ulterior motive, yet that transparency only deepened the mystery rather than resolving it. 

Why her, of all people? What could he possibly see in her that wasn't weakness laid bare, or the hollow architecture of her lies? 

What more was there to find anyway? 

Her spiralling thoughts were severed by a knock against the wooden door, followed almost immediately by a voice. "Are you awake?"

She cleared her throat, making a futile attempt to scour her mind clean. "Yes." The word came out rougher than intended, making her stifle the cough that followed. "Come in."

She had apparently missed the sound of the door groaning on its hinges, because suddenly Vash was simply there; the source of her prevailing torments, hovering uncertainly in the frame as though unsure whether he was welcome. He held a ceramic bowl in one hand and a small plastic bottle in the other. 

"Hey." He offered her a smile, and his voice was softer than usual, stripped of its usual bravado. "Slept well?"

She figured she probably would have, had she not spent the better part of the morning loathing him with remarkable dedication, yet that was not information she intended to share. "Mh." It was the only concession she offered, her gaze pointedly directed at everything in the room that was not him. 

Still, he translated the lack of objection on her side as approval to get closer; taking a few steps forward, he eventually extended his left hand towards her as he stepped next to the mattress. 

“Rosaline asked me to bring you some soup,” he explained, extending the offering her way. “Said you should at least try to get something in your system. It’s not much, but…”

He was waiting for her to take it. And yet she remained perfectly still, staring daggers at him in a silence that pressed down on the room like a held breath. 

After a few seconds of visible awkwardness, he clicked his tongue and set the bowl aside on the windowsill, pivoting instead to a vial he pulled out of his pockets. "She told me to bring you these too," he added, flicking it onto the blanket over her lap. "It's... uh, ceph... cephalax-" she could practically hear the machinery grinding behind his eyes. "Well. Antibiotics. She said twice a day, starting now."

Here he was again, performing his effortless virtue as if nothing whatsoever was amiss. As if she wasn't aware that this would cost him a considerable amount of money and a trip to another town. As if he hadn't singlehandedly decided to pay for her care without so much as asking. 

"And I suppose you're the one footing the bill for all of this, aren't you?" It wasn't a question. Her gaze levelled at him, blade-sharp.

Vash arched a brow, caught somewhere between confusion and apology. "Well-"

"Cut the crap." She cut him off before he could find his footing. "I heard you speak with Rosaline."

This time, he was quicker on the uptake. "Ah..." He sighed, and an apologetic smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He lowered himself into the wooden chair Rosaline had left behind, as though buying himself a moment. "Yeah. I figured you might."

She crossed her arms over her chest, ignoring the sharp protest of pain it drew. "Damn right." Her jaw tightened, knowing that there were a few more things she wanted to say to him, and none of them were kind. 

Vash exhaled, his gaze drifting briefly toward the wall. "Look, before you get mad at me-"

“I am mad at you.”

She was not about let him smooth this over with a smile and a sorry. Did he genuinely believe that was enough? Just absorbing everything, as though her guilt were something she could simply be relieved of? She wasn't looking for absolution. She was looking for him to understand, and wasn't going to let this go until he did. 

In the silence that followed, she watched his throat move as he gulped, visibly searching for adequate words. "I've told you before." He stated at last, his gaze returning to hers. "I've made it my purpose not to let people die. That applies to you. It always has."

A scoff escaped her. "So you'd throw your life on the line instead. For someone you barely know. Is that your purpose? 

A flicker of something bewildered crossed his expression. "Well, my life isn't on the line her-"

"Answer me."

He didn't flinch this time. "Oh, come on!" He argued, baffled. "Why is it so terrible for me to want good things for you?"

Her heart staggered at those words, which only made her angrier. He still didn't get it. He was looking right at her and not seeing it at all.

"It's wrong because you don't know me!" The words erupted from her, voice cracking under their force. "I lied to you for a whole week! Every sweet thing I said back in that tavern was complete bullshit. And still you offered me a way out, helped me steal a car, pulled me from the police, stitched my gunshot wound, and now this fucking infection-" 

Her throat tightened, and to her profound humiliation, she felt the sting of tears threatening to breach the corners of her eyes. She fought them back.

"You're in this situation now because of me. And what have I given you in return? Nothing. I've been nothing but a burden this entire time!"

There was more, so much more she could have said. But the words wouldn't come. Her mind, already scraped thin by the fever, refused to carry them any further.

"Hey." Vash's voice was quiet, almost careful. "This isn't all on you." He held her gaze with an expression caught somewhere between sorrow and something that looked dangerously close to pity. Which she despised, for the record. 

“Yes,” she countered, her lips firmly pressed. “It is.”

He studied her for a moment, then exhaled sharply through his nose. "Alright. Let's say it is." There was skepticism in his words, barely concealed. "So then, you're angry because...?"

"Because you are so infuriatingly determined to pay for my mistakes, that's why! You won't even let me have a say in what happens to me. You go out of your way for me at every turn, and I can never even begin to return the favour before you've already done something else!"

The answer seemed to strike him. He blinked once, twice, staring at her for a beat. "Wait." He paused, turning the thought over carefully. "Is this- are you angry because you feel like you owe me something?

"Yes!"

Silence. Her breathing was the only sound left in the room, ragged and unsteady. She watched him sit with it; and for once, he didn't rush to fill the quiet. 

Nearly half a minute elapsed before either of them spoke. "Alright." Vash sighed, leaning his head into the palm of his prosthetic hand. "You want to talk about what you've given me?" His voice was quiet, unhurried. "The police had their sights on my back first. You weren't in any danger, and yet you threw yourself at me and pulled me down before the shot could land." A small chuckle escaped him. "You saved my life. That's not nothing."

"I-" Well, shit. He was right, and they both knew it, and she hated him a little for it. "That's... that's different. That was instinct."

"Instinct counts," he retorted, with that self-satisfied grin she had come to know far too well. "And look-" his expression softened into something more genuine. "I'm not keeping score. I help people because that's just... what I do. You needed help, and that's the whole of it. That's allowed to be enough, you know."

She'd told herself something like this before, in weaker moments. Spoken plainly like that, it had always had the ring of a hollow proverb, pretty words with nothing behind them. And yet, the evidence existed, if she was honest with herself. Small, scattered kindnesses she'd encountered throughout her journey. The innkeeper who'd let her stay an extra night to wait out a sandstorm. The bus driver who'd kept quiet about her bounty for an entire ride without asking for a thing. Sophie, who'd welcomed her into her father's business with open arms, never failing to make her smile. 

Kindness had been rare, but it had existed. Kindness that asked for nothing in return. Perhaps that was simply all that Vash knew.

Perhaps she was worthy of it, too.

She realized that her gaze had gone somewhere else entirely, pulled back only when Vash shifted in his chair, visibly uncertain within the silence she'd let stretch too long. Her eyes moved to find his, and then, with a deliberateness she couldn't quite account for, looked away.

"Idiot," she muttered, barely audible; not entirely meant for him.

He tilted his head. "What?"

She hit him. Not hard, her arm didn't have much left in it, but squarely enough, her fist connecting with his shoulder once, then again. "You're an idiot," she repeated, and meant it completely. 

He didn't move. Just stared at her, utterly at a loss, as though she'd done something far more baffling than hit him.

She held his gaze. The anger was still there, but underneath it, something else had quietly surfaced. Something she hadn't entirely planned to say. "I don't understand you, playing the hero for every pebble that crosses your path. Has anyone even done that for you?" The question came out quieter than she intended. "Put themselves on the line, the way you do for everyone else?"

Vash said nothing for a long moment, staring back at her with an expression she could only read as unfiltered shock. 

"I mean-" a flicker of something crossed his face, almost reluctant. "Technically, you did."

She upheld her gaze without blinking. "You know very well that's not what I meant."

For once, he was the one who couldn't hold her gaze. Something in his earlier ease had quietly dissolved, as though her question had drawn back a curtain he hadn't expected anyone to reach for. He didn't seem frightened by it, exactly. Just profoundly unaccustomed to it. 

"People don't usually do things like that for me, no." He eventually answered, a scoff tilting his head upward that didn't quite conceal what lay beneath it. 

"Then why?" she shot back. "What do you get out of any of this?

He let the question sit for a moment. "Who says I get nothing?" A flicker crossed his face. "You took a bullet for me. That's not nothing."

"I told you that was instinct. It wasn't a choice. It doesn't count."

He held her gaze, something quieter settling over his expression. "Then would you make the choice? If you had time to think about it?"

The question settled somewhere unexpected. He was asking if she could choose it; not react, not survive, but genuinely choose to show up for someone else. 

And hadn't she just been thinking about exactly that? About the people who had done it for her, quietly, without asking for anything back. About Vash, who existed purely as proof of their existence. About the possibility that she might be capable of the same.

She supposed she had her answer.

"Yes." The word came out quieter than expected. No burst of heat, no performance; just the truth of it, sitting plainly between them. "I would. I'd take another bullet for you." She held his gaze, something in her jaw set. "But only if you promise to stop carrying everything alone. Let me help you, too, for once."

A few seconds passed, an eternity during which she had ample time to marinate in her own mortification and wonder why she had ever opened her mouth at all. And then the stillness broke, gently, as a smile found its way across Vash's face.

But it did not come alone. Even in the pale light of the afternoon, she could make out the silver trails of tears tracing quietly down his face.

Was he… crying?

“Did I say something wrong?” she mumbled.

He shook his head quickly. "No, the opposite actually." He didn't reach up to wipe his face. "Honestly... It's been a long time since anyone said something like that to me."

It was nearly impossible not to soften at that, and yet she wasn't quite done. "Well." Her voice had shed its edge, stripped to something softer. "I meant it. If you're going to stick around me, I'm not going to let you shoulder everything by yourself."

He held her gaze for a moment, still undone, tears drying on his cheeks. "Alright. I promise."

She gave a small nod. That was enough for now.

She was done depending on Vash alone. And this was no longer about debt or obligation. From this point forward, for as long as they travelled together, they would be equals. People who chose each other, deliberately and freely, and helped one another not out of duty, simply because that was what you did for someone who mattered. Just as friends did.

Friend. The word settled somewhere warm and unfamiliar in her chest, and she found herself grinning before she could think to stop it. She could get used to that, she thought. Eventually.

She watched him lift his arm and drag it across his face. "Sorry for making you cry, by the way." A scoff escaped her, though it carried no real bite. "Didn't know you were such a crybaby."

It was a jab; it was always a jab with her. But this one was different, softer around the edges. 

Vash let out a short laugh. "What can I say?" He shrugged. "It's a gift."

The silence that followed was different; easy, stripped of every trace of hostility. There was no tension coiled beneath it, no anxiety waiting to surface. Just the quiet warmth of something that might, tentatively, be called comfortable. She didn't question it; partly because she was too tired, but mostly because it felt weirdly good. 

"So." Her voice broke through the quietness. "You're going to let me pay for my own medical needs. Right?"

Vash’s eyes widened. “Wait no, I-”

Fuck all of this. She was still mad, actually. “We literally just talked about this!"

"Alright, alright!" He put his hands up, though the smirk on his face made a mockery of the surrender. "We'll split it. Fifty-fifty."

She deadpanned at him. "No," she said, and meant it. Even as the corner of her mouth betrayed her, curling to mirror his. 

"Please," he said, with the audacity to pout.

Her pride had taken enough battering for one day. But the reality was that she was also not in any position to be precious about money. She had walked away from Skullpeak with a decent enough sum, largely because she'd made a point of overcharging every customer who had been drunk enough not to notice. But the money would not stretch indefinitely, and the longer she stayed stubborn, the faster it would go.

"Fine," she yielded, earning herself a smirk she briefly envisioned wiping off his face. "But we split Rosaline's bill. Equally."

"Deal," he nodded, and was on his feet before she could add conditions.

He pushed the chair back toward the desk, then retrieved the bowl she'd entirely forgotten about and set it gently in her hands.

"Come on now," he said, nodding at it. "Eat."

Vash was watching her with the patient look of someone who had all the time in the world. She held out for as long as she reasonably could, until her stomach growled, settling the argument for both of them.

So she ate, and he let the quiet sit until she'd gotten a few sips in. "I should get moving," he finally said, his gaze drifting briefly toward the window. "Still need to pack the car and sort out supplies before it gets dark. I want to go to bed early so I can be up at first light."

"Why the early start?" she asked,

"Aniya Town's a fair drive now. I'll be able to pick up what we need. Should get us through, however long you need to rest."

She already knew about Aniya Town; she'd heard it from him directly, a few hours ago. Still, knowing it and making peace with it were different things entirely.

"I should've been the one doing this." She couldn't quite keep the sulk out of it.

He scoffed, and before she could react, reached over and patted her on the head. "Oh, come on." She stared up at him. "I know you promised to help, but you can't do it by passing out again."

Ouch. Fair, but still. 

He caught her silence, and she suspected the colour in her cheeks too, and laughed. "Sorry," he stated, not sounding particularly sorry. "That was too easy."

She filed it away. When she was back on her feet, she was going to make him regret that. 

Throwing her another smile, he walked toward the door before stopping, one hand on the frame as he turned to her. "Hey." She looked up curiously. "Remember that first night in Skullpeak? When I talked your ear off for no reason?"

She nodded. Of course she remembered; she'd spent most of that night resisting the urge to roll her eyes. And yet she'd stayed, long after she had any reason to, listening to a stranger talk about things he clearly wasn't used to saying out loud. 

"I hadn't been doing so well that day," he admitted quietly, holding her gaze. Something in his eyes had gone soft again. "I know you stayed because it was your job, but you listened. That meant something."

She held his gaze for a moment, which was much too vulnerable for what she could handle. Her eyes drifted as a short laugh escaped her. "Trust me, a drunk man in his feelings was hardly a novelty in that place. That tavern had a remarkable talent for producing them."

"I figure." The corner of his mouth curved. "But you stayed anyway. Talked with me even when I had nothing useful to say. The day after, and the day after that." His voice dropped slightly. "You gave me company I hadn't had in a long time."

She said nothing. The heat crept up the back of her neck before she could stop it.

Which Vash noticed, of course, and kept going. "And then you took a bullet for me. Without being paid for it." He paused. "Call it instinct if you want. But I think you give yourself far too little credit for what you give to others."

He let it, long enough that she had nowhere to look that wasn't him. Then, quietly, he straightened up from the doorframe.

"Now go on." His voice was gentle. "Eat your soup. Get some rest."

She opened her mouth, and yet nothing came out. 

He gave her a small smile and pulled the door shut behind him.

The door clicked shut and she sat there for a long moment, soup going cold in her hands, turning his words over and over and finding that she had no idea what to make of them.

She had spent so long calculating what she owed. To Vash, to the world, to whatever version of herself she had promised to become. And yet it had never occurred to her to look at it the other way around, to ask what she had already given without knowing it. Without meaning to.

Perhaps that was precisely what kindness was. Not grand gestures or deliberate sacrifice, but the small, unremarkable things. Staying when you had no reason to, listening when it cost you nothing, jumping before your mind could talk you out of it. Unplanned, unannounced. Just there, the way it had always been there in the people she'd quietly kept count of without realizing she was doing so.

It occurred to her, for the first time in forever, that she might be capable of kindness, too.

Chapter Text

In spite of her initial resistance to the idea, she soon came to understand that being sentenced to bed rest for an entire day wasn't quite the waking nightmare she'd dreaded.

Of course, such a realization hadn't arrived without a fight; at first, it was anything but pleasant. Especially after spending most of the night turning her latest conversation with Vash over and over in her mind, in part because she had slept through most of the daylight hours already. The spiralling was a particularly draining way to fritter away what little energy she had left.

It also meant that she greeted him with considerably more venom than she'd intended when he knocked on her door at some ungodly hour of the morning. The suns had barely clawed their way above the horizon, drenching the room in a bruised, amber light, and there he stood in the doorway, wearing a smile that had the audacity to nearly outshine them.

Judging by the treacherous way her heart lurched at the sight, she decided it was far too early to deal with any of this, with him, and instead grumbled at him to at least try not to crash the car on his way out. He'd laughed, told her he couldn't make any promises, and she groaned loud enough that he was still chuckling when he disappeared from the doorframe. He left a cup of coffee on the windowsill on his way out, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

After an hour of pensively cataloguing the ceiling's every crack and imperfection later, she received another visitor. Rosaline entered the room with her medical supplies tucked under one arm and that characteristic air of quiet efficiency about her. She announced her intention to conduct a proper check-up and immediately set to work. 

"99.5 degrees..." Rosaline murmured, eyes fixed on the thermometer the moment she drew it free. "Still running high, but it's miles better than yesterday."

According to the nurse, things were moving in the right direction; the fever was retreating and her arm had lost some of that frightening heat. The wound itself, however, remained a different story: the surrounding skin was flushed an angry crimson, and the lesion was sealed beneath a thin, yellowish crust that made her stomach turn just looking at it.

A few more minutes of careful examination passed before Rosaline delivered her verdict: satisfactory, all things considered. She did not, however, spare her from a firm reminder to take the antibiotics twice a day, exactly as Vash had told her the day before. And since her enthusiasm for staying in bed was roughly on par with her confidence that Vash wouldn't destroy the car between March and Aniya Town, not a single word of protest left her lips. 

Rosaline slipped out of the room, returning shortly after with breakfast in hand. The plate held a little more than stale bread, the last of what remained, according to Rosaline, but even that proved too much for her battered stomach to manage. The guilt of leaving food untouched settled over her like a stone, but Rosaline waved it off before she could even voice it; Vash's offer to fetch supplies had clearly lifted a weight from her shoulders, and it showed in the quiet relief that softened her expression.

The nurse eventually excused herself, citing a full slate of appointments with the town's residents throughout the day. She paused at the threshold long enough to press the importance of rest upon her one final time: minimal movement and minimal exertion. Promising she'd be back around noon, she was then gone through the doorframe, her footsteps fading down the hall.

Then, not long after, came the boredom. It arrived the way most insidious things did: quietly, without announcement, the way the cold crept between the sand dunes after the suns had gone and the warmth had bled from the air. She didn't notice it at first. But eventually, there was no denying it: there was only so long a person could stare at the ceiling before the ceiling began to stare back, projecting thoughts and half-formed images across the surface of her eyes. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this still, confined not just by the fragility of her body but by the relentless churn of her own mind. 

When Rosaline finally reappeared, a full hour past noon, she was fairly certain she had never, in all her years, been so profoundly relieved to see another living soul. 

"How are you feeling?" The nurse asked from the doorframe, hiking her shoulder bag back into place with a practiced shrug.

She stared back with the blankness of someone who had been alone with their thoughts for far too long. "Fine," she mumbled. "Physically, at least."

Rosaline let out a soft, knowing laugh. "I'm going to assume that lying in bed all day isn't exactly how you like to spend your time."

A scoff carelessly escaped her lips. “Not exactly.”

"Then would you like to borrow something from my bookshelf?" Rosaline tilted her head, the question genuine, though something in her eyes shifted briefly into something more careful. "That is, if you know how to read, not that I'd assu_-"

"Yes." Her answer came out faster than she'd intended. She caught herself and softened it with a nod. It was easy to forget that literacy, something as fundamental to her as breathing, was a privilege that hadn't reached every corner of the world. "Please," she added, more gently. "I love to read. Bring me whatever you have."

Rosaline's expression softened into a genuine smile. "That's lovely to hear," she admitted, her gaze losing itself past the wall with a sigh. "Books aren't particularly prized around here. When they shuttered the library, most of what was left was either stolen or fed to the fire. I managed to salvage a few, but I won't pretend they're the most riveting collection."

She understood it perfectly. Books were a luxury in the truest sense: not because they lacked worth, but because their worth was invisible to an empty stomach or a bleeding wound. And in a place like the desert, invisibility was as good as worthlessness. All the knowledge and beauty pressed between their covers counted for nothing in the middle of a gunfight, in places where survival was the only currency that mattered. It was a bleak truth, but a truth nonetheless.

"That's perfectly fine." She waved the caveat away. "As long as it gives me something to do other than stare at the ceiling and sleep." 

"Fair enough." Rosaline gave an approving nod. "I'll heat up some soup for lunch and bring back a few books along when I come back." 

It grated on her, having to ask, to wait, when every instinct she possessed was screaming at her to simply get up and handle it herself. But she didn't have much of a choice; Rosaline would have something pointed to say about that, and she didn't have the energy to argue. "Thank you," she said.

“My pleasure, dear.”

The nurse was back within fifteen minutes, balancing a bowl in both hands with a cloth bag hanging from her shoulder, the unmistakable angular shapes of books pressing against the fabric. She set the bag down beside the bed first, then turned her full attention to the soup, steadying it carefully as she passed it over. 

"I grabbed things at random on the shelves." Rosaline nodded toward the bag on the floor. "Hopefully this will do."

She couldn't respond right away as the bowl was already at her lips, the warmth of it seeping into her hands, and she took a slow sip before lowering it again. Only then did she look up, something quietly genuine in her expression. "Thank you," she mumbled again. "For all of this."

The city of March, however, wasn't going to wait on her account; Rosaline made that clear as she gathered herself to leave, citing the day's remaining obligations. She promised to return before sundown and was on her way out the door.

"By the way-" She didn't quite manage to make it sound casual. Rosaline turned in the doorframe, one brow lifted with quiet curiosity. "When do you expect Vash to be back?"

Rosaline's mouth curved. "Tonight, if nothing goes wrong," she answered. Whatever she found so amusing, she was keeping entirely to herself.

"Good. That's- good." The words were out before she'd had any say in the matter, and her own brain recoiled from them the moment they landed. 

She'd spent the better part of the last few days wishing he would just be less; less inquisitive, less insufferable himself. And now she was relieved at the prospect of him coming back? Knowing full well that he'd spend approximately three seconds through the door before he would irritate her again?

Rosaline hadn't moved from the doorframe. She was simply standing there, watching her. "You know," she smirked with genuine amusement, "you almost seem like you miss having him around."

Her pride answered before the rest of her could. "No." The answer was immediate, reflexive, and deeply unconvincing.

"No?" Rosaline let the word sit there. "You answered that very quickly."

"I'm just-" She panicked, of all things. "The car. I want to make sure he doesn't crash the car."

She somehow became very interested in the soup bowl in her hands.

Rosaline only smiled. "I'll be back before sundown," she declared, as if the conversation had concluded to her satisfaction. The smirk she wore all the way out of the room confirmed that she hadn't fooled anyone.

She stared at the empty doorframe for a moment longer than necessary.

Missing people wasn't something she did. People left, and she let them go, and that was the arrangement she'd kept with the world for as long as she could remember. Vash had been gone for less than a day. He was annoying and relentless and entirely too present at the best of times. There was no version of herself that missed him. There just wasn't.

Once her bowl was empty, she reached for the bag and upended its contents onto the bedsheets, eager for anything that might serve as an anchor against the drift of her own thoughts. The selection was eclectic, to say the least. A few novels, their back cover offering synopses that failed to inspire much excitement. A thick medical reference that she was fairly certain belonged to Rosaline's personal collection; given the density of its terminology, it might as well have been written in a foreign language.

Then one caught her eye. It was old, presumably dated to the Earth era if the faded imagery on its cover was any indication. It seemed to be a dense, illustrated study of the architecture of that era. She knew next to nothing about the discipline, which wasn't helped by the fact that she lived on an entirely different planet. But the illustrations were extraordinary, each one paired with descriptions so detailed and precise that reading them felt less like studying and more like standing inside the buildings themselves.

It was going to be a long read. But she was more than willing to commit to it, because as long as her mind was occupied with the architectural ambitions of a civilization long gone, it wasn't occupied with Vash. And at this point, keeping him out of her thoughts counted as a genuine achievement: he was already taking up far more space in her head than she was comfortable admitting. 

The rest of the day passed with a swiftness that surprised her, which was how she came to understand that idleness, when properly managed, had its own virtues. She moved through the architecture book at a pace that satisfied her, then reached immediately for the next, a novel set in a fantastical world that was almost certainly Earth-born in its conception. Its references, layered with a mythology she had no framework for, slowed her down, and yet she turned the last page faster than she'd expected. 

She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment the words stopped registering and sleep took their place. The third book had turned out to be a legal codex, a comprehensive record of the laws and statues applicable in Januar, which raised the deeply puzzling question of how it had ended up here, in a crumbling place such as March. It was several years out of date, suggesting it had been gathering dust in this town for some time. Not that it mattered in the end, because she was asleep across its open pages well before she could begin to make sense of this mystery. 

Her eyes didn't open again until the following morning, coaxed awake by the unmistakable sense of another presence in the room. She blinked once, twice, and found herself looking into a pair of green eyes, the particular shade of them catching the morning light like something precious unearthed from the dark. Or perhaps it was only his smile doing that.

"Morning!" Vash's voice landed in the room like a small, cheerful explosion. "Rosaline mentioned you slept through dinner last night so-" he held up a plate in his hands as if it were explanatory, "-I thought I'd check in."

So he was back then. And apparently, the trip had gone well: the plate he was holding was piled with a quantity of food that seemed more appropriate for a celebration than a sick person's breakfast. Sure, she was feeling better, but the idea of her stomach handling even half of what he'd brought was, at best, optimistic.

She shifted against the pillow until she could look at him properly, blinking the last of the sleep from her eyes. "I guess I slept through dinner," she grumbled. "I think I've slept more in the past two days than I have in the last five years combined."

Vash let out a low chuckle, his expression shifting into something theatrically mournful. "Honestly? I'm a little jealous."

She fixed him with a flat stare. "Get shot next time, then."

“I'll pass, but I appreciate the suggestion.”

A reluctant laugh escaped her. She wouldn't admit it, but his absence had left a particular kind of silence in its wake. She'd grown accustomed to him without meaning to; to the constant low hum of his presence, the quips, the inexplicable warmth of him simply being in the same room. Without it, the quiet had teeth.

"How was the trip?" she asked him, mostly to give her mind something else to do.

Her companion gave a casual shrug. "Fine. Uneventful, mostly. Prices were surprisingly decent, so I may have gone a little overboard." A snort escaped him, paired with his usual smirk. "Rosaline's exact words when she opened the trunk were 'enough to feel a small army', so take that as you will." He paused for effect. "And I didn't crash the car."

"That's not what you said." She squinted at him, tilting her head. "What you said, specifically, was that you couldn't promise me you wouldn't crash it."

He clicked his tongue and let the silence stretch long enough for it to be deliberate. "...Right," he conceded, laughing only after she'd rewarded him with a dismayed sigh. 

Eventually, after an exchange of banter that she found, against her better judgment, genuinely enjoyable, Vash persuaded her to actually eat. When she raised an eyebrow at the sheer volume of food on the plate, he was quick to assure her that whatever she couldn't manage, he would personally take care of. In the end, he made off with half the plate once her stomach firmly declared itself done. 

He left the room not long after, citing a handful of things still left to sort, and Rosaline came in shortly after to inspect her wound. She carried good news: the fever had broken, and while the wound still looked unpleasant, it seemed that the worst of it was behind her.

The nurse was gone as quickly as she'd come, her obligations to the town pulling her back out the door. The suns tracked their slow arc across the sky, dragging the shadows around the room in lazy sweeps. Hours passed, and neither Rosaline nor Vash reappeared.

Which was reasonable. The world wasn't going to pause out of courtesy for her inconvenience, and she'd never expected it to. She reached for another book, pointedly bypassing the Januar codex, and resigned herself to the afternoon. 

Her next choice wasn't much of an improvement. A poorly written romance novel was not exactly her idea of a good time; and yet stubbornness kept her going far longer than good sense would have advised. She made it halfway through before throwing it across the bedsheets in frustration. Breathless love stories had always made something in her chest clench with unnameable irritation. She reached for something else before the feeling could settle. 

It turned out that she had run out of reading material far sooner than she'd anticipated. At that point, her restlessness became much more obvious; she needed to move, to use her legs for something more purposeful than the occasional shuffle to the bathroom and back.

Rosaline had said minimal movement. She was being minimal about it; one hand trailing the wall as she went, just in case her legs decided to register a complaint. The bookshelf was just down the hall.

Yet the first thing she noticed upon entering the living room was Vash. He was sprawled across one of the living room couches, head tipped back against the fabric, his eyes shut with his glasses and jacket both being abandoned somewhere nearby. He was dressed in just his black turtleneck and dark cargo pants, and the fabric did very little to obscure the breadth of him. 

It wasn't as though she'd never noticed. She had, in the passing way one notices things they've decided not to dwell on. But now, with his prosthetic arm catching the last amber light of the dying sun, there was something almost magnetic about him; the brightest thing in the room, entirely by accident. Her travel companion. Nothing remotely complicated about that.

The warmth that crept up her neck was uncalled for. She'd seen him without his jacket before. She'd seen him in worse states than this. 

She hesitated at the threshold, not willing to disturb him by making a commotion in the bookshelf. But he spoke before she could decide anything at all. "Hey." his voice was rough with sleep, startling her more than she would admit. 

Her gaze shifted to him. "Morning, sleepyhead."

"You're supposed to be resting." He didn't open his eyes, but the grin found its way onto his face anyway."

She scoffed and stepped fully into the room, arms crossing over her chest. "I am resting." She argued. "I'm just resting over here instead of in there. Finished the books Rosaline gave me, so I came to find more."

Vash opened his eyes then, lifting his head just enough to look at her properly. "You could've just asked me, you know." 

"Oh, cut it out." She waved him off with a flick of her wrist. "I'm not made of glass."

Vash chuckled, and she took that as permission to cross to the bookshelf. Most of the titles were unfamiliar to her at first glance, which made sense, given that these were the remnants of the March library. After all, most people travelling to the city before its collapse did so for the gambling houses and brothels; it would have been quite the revelation if the library had turned out to be the most frequented location.  

"What have you been reading so far?" Vash inquired, and she glanced back at him over her shoulder.

"Pretty much anything," she admitted as she shifted on the couch to face her. "There was a romance novel that I gave up halfway through. But that architecture book was a surprisingly fun read. I'm looking for more of the same."

He scoffed. "Didn't know you were into architecture." It could have come across as dismissive, but she'd spent enough time around him by now to know it was the opposite. 

"Amongst many things," she nodded, turning back to the bookshelf. "I just like knowing how things work."

She scanned the shelves, searching for anything remotely promising. The first two rows yielded nothing worth a second look, and she glanced back at Vash.

“Is Rosaline home?”

"She just left, actually," he shook his head, his expression flickering with unease. "Medical emergency. She was practically out the door before I could say a word."

Probably someone in town. If Rosaline was the only medical care March had to offer, and she suspected she was, then something like that could come at any hour, for any reason.

"I hope everything's fine." The probability of anything serious was low; after all, March had barely enough foot traffic to generate trouble. But the risk was never zero.

“Yeah, me too.”

She let the silence sit and turned back to the shelves, pulling out a few books at random. The titles weren't exactly thrilling, but she held onto the irrational hope that they'd improve once opened.

After a minute of stacking volumes on the couch, she looked at the pile and felt nothing. "This is stupid," she muttered to herself. Perhaps she was just tired of reading entirely. 

She dropped onto the couch beside the pile and stared up at the ceiling. "I'm bored."

Vash looked at her. Then, at the untouched pile of books. Then back at her. "Already?"

"Yes, already," she said flatly. "I've been reading for two days. I don't think I can handle another word at this point."

"Fair enough," He laughed. "We could talk, if you want."

At least he was offering her the choice rather than prying. She'd give him that.

"Sure," she shrugged. "You got any stories left? Like the ones you were telling back at the tavern."

Vash winced slightly. "I'd probably just be repeating myself at this point."

"Damn." She looked back at the ceiling. "And here I thought your life was interesting."

"Hey!" He protested. "It is interesting!" Something glinted in the back of his eyes. "I mean, if you're really that curious about me-"

"I'm not."

He ignored her entirely. "Let's play a game."

She turned her head to look at him. "A game," she repeated flatly.

"Two truths and a lie," he declared with the confidence of someone who had already decided this was happening. "Hear me out, it's a good one."

"You are literally twelve years old."

"Probably." He didn't look remotely bothered. "But it works. We learn something about each other and it doesn't feel like an interrogation. Everyone wins."

Her instinct was to refuse, and yet she paused. The game put her in control of what she gave away. She'd learn more about him; he'd learn only what she chose to share. The one problem was the likelihood of follow-up questions, which would narrow things considerably.

The solution was simple enough. "I'll bite, but on one condition," she declared, raising a finger for emphasis.

“Name it.”

"No follow-up questions." She held his gaze, the faint curl at the corner doing nothing to soften it. "Whatever comes out stays out. We don't dig."

Vash considered this for a moment, then nodded. "Works for me."

"Alright." She shifted further into the couch. "Who's starting?"

He scoffed. “You are.” As if he had never considered the answer might be anything else.

She stared at the ceiling.

Fucker.

Chapter Text

“Who’s starting?”

“You are.” Vash’s grin was ostensibly aimed at her, his focus steady even as he repositioned himself onto the couch. 

Well, shit. She was terrible at this game, solely because she never knew what to say about herself. How elaborate could a lie get before it stopped being believable? And the truths were no easier: too mundane and she'd seem dull; too outlandish and she'd seem like she was trying too hard. Some people turned this game into a weapon, but she wasn't one of them.

Somehow now irrationally anxious about the outcome of what was, at its core, a childish game, she exhaled through her nose. "Alright," she nodded more to convince herself than Vash. "Give me a second."

Vash said nothing, which was all the time she needed.

Safest bet: keep it harmless, random facts that do not give too much away. He knew next to nothing about her, and she intended to keep it that way. They were both criminals; there was an unspoken etiquette to that. Nobody liked a sob story, and nobody wanted the opposite either; someone listing their crimes like a shopping run was the perfect way to look like a psychopath.

In any case, she would not have gone there. Not tonight, and probably not ever. 

A few ideas were starting to take shape; some true, some not. The real problem was the order. Where did you bury the lie so it didn't stick out?

That game was a  fucking pain in the ass.

After a few seconds of strained deliberation, she finally steeled herself to break the silence. "Alright, here goes." Holding Vash's scrutinizing gaze, her expression unconsciously mirrored the curl at the corner of his mouth. "One: I can hold my breath for a full two minutes. Two: I went to November University. And..." She hesitated. "Three: I'm terrified of heights."

The pause that followed was performative at best. His face had already lit up before she'd even finished talking. "Three," he stated. "You're really bad at this."

"Excuse me?" Her eyes flew wide.

"Rule one: don't save the lie for last." He explained it the way someone might explain which of a fork to hold. "But honestly? The hesitation's what got you. You gotta have your whole answer ready before you even open your mouth. Either that, or an excellent poker face."

"So you're a seasoned expert, then." She tilted her head, chin dropping against her knuckles.

"Eh." He dragged a hand through his hair. "Not exactly. Most people I've played with said I was painfully predictable."

She stared at him. "And yet you're lecturing me about poker faces."

"I know the theory. Never said I was any good at it." He straightened up. "Anyway. My turn."

She watched him settle back into the couch and forced herself to relax. It was a harmless game; she knew that. His curiosity was probably exactly what it looked like, and the "no follow-up questions" rule kept things from going anywhere she didn't want them to go. 

Besides, if they were stuck with each other for the foreseeable future, a little honesty wasn't going to kill her.

Strange as it was, she also found herself actually wanting to know more about him. She'd spent the better part of the week writing him off as hopelessly naive and too soft for his own good, and yet somewhere along the way, her opinion had changed. Her understanding of him had grown more nuanced, though no less complicated. The mystery hadn't dissipated so much as deepened.

"Okay." Vash's voice eventually tore through the silence, scattering her thoughts in every direction. "One: I've never won at poker. Not once." He raised a finger, then a second." Two: I got absolutely demolished by a kid once. And three: I have a twin brother."

She had nothing to go on but speculation. The first one seemed plausible enough: she genuinely doubted he could name all the hands in order. And frankly, he did carry himself with the energy of someone who had been bested by a child, maybe more than once.

"Three," she declared. "You don't seem like a twin."

Vash let her sit in the suspense, savouring it with a grin that was nothing short of insufferable. "Think again." He reclined against the couch. "Because you're wrong."

"You're kidding." She stared at him, genuinely thrown. 

“Am not.”

After enduring his conceited smug, she couldn't hold it back anymore. "I'll be damned." She snorted. "Well, if he's anything like you, I'm already losing sleep over it. Sounds like a fucking nightmare."

Because God, two Vash in the same room? That wasn't a thought experiment; that was a threat. She could only assume it was a foolproof recipe for her own personal unravelling. Or mass destruction.

"Don't worry." He waved it off. "We're nothing alike."

And yet something flickered in his eyes as he said it; brief, old, unresolved. He'd named a twin without hesitation but hadn't described him, and she understood that kind of silence well enough.

She was curious, of course. But she left it at that. 

“So then,” she cleared her throat. "What was your lie?"

Vash looked relieved, or maybe he just couldn't help it. With him, it was hard to tell. "The poker one." He declared, unmistakable amusement painted over his face. "I've actually won. Twice. In my entire life."

“Oh, come on!” she protested. Her indignation was genuine, yet her smile wasn't going anywhere. "That's cheating."

"No it's not," Vash scoffed.

"That's half a truth at best."

"What?"

She groaned. "It doesn't matter if it was twice or never. Being catastrophically bad at poker should've been the truth." She pointed at him. "And twice is basically never. That's not a lie, that's a rounding error."

"Technically still won, though." He shrugged, grinning in a way that made her genuinely unsure whether to laugh or throw something at him.

"Pretty sure that's not how this works."

"Oh, absolutely," Vash sneered, gaze never breaking from hers. "And I'm sure you'd know, given you've been rewriting the rules since round one." 

She drew a sharp breath. "You're the one who suggested this game!"

"Alright, alright." He raised his hands, fighting a smile. "Fine. I won't pull that again."

“So you’re admitting it was a trick?” 

Vash cleared his throat with great theatrical urgency. "Oh, would you look at that," he said, gesturing broadly at nothing. "It's your turn!"

She let him have it. This time.

He was right anyway: it was her turn. The realization landed with the particular dread of being put on the spot. She wasn't a riveting subject at the best of times, although she had won at poker before. More than twice, actually. A small, petty victory, and she intended to savour every second of it.

It didn't make her more fascinating than Vash, but-

Wait, fascinating?

She caught herself. There was something about him that snagged her attention no matter how hard she tried to look away. His empathy maybe; the way he seemed to feel things fully and without an apology, in a way most people had long since trained out of themselves. Or the fact that he could coax a smile out of her when she was at her worst, which was frankly irritating. Or those eyes, the kind that held more than they gave away.

She shut the thought down before it could go any further. Her face was already warm enough.  

"Okay." She sat up slightly. "I'm ready. One: I have the same middle name as my mother. Two: I have tattoos. Three: I threw a man off a balcony once."

Vash looked at her for a moment. "You do seem exactly like the type of person who would throw someone off a balcony."

"Bastard had it coming." The words were out before she'd decided to stay them. The memory surfaced with the warm fondness of something she'd revisit for years; the man had spent an entire evening being a massive creep, then pressed a gun to her temple the moment he'd spotted her face on the wanted board. She'd felt no remorse whatsoever about sending him over the motel railing. 

From the corner of her eye, she caught Vash arching a brow, pulling her back from what had been an otherwise delightful trip down memory lane. "So. That's not the lie." 

Fuck. “That’s not-”

Mercifully, Vash spared her the full humiliation of her blunder. "It's two," he declared without so much as a pause with one hand raking through his hair. "The tattoo thing."

This time, it was her turn to smirk. "Wrong," she declared, letting the word land before following it up. “I actually have tattoos. Believe it or not."

"What?" His head tilted, genuinely caught off guard. "Where?"

Despite the fact that none of her tattoos were in any particularly scandalous location, heat crept into her cheeks anyway. "No follow-ups!" she called out, and though it came out sharper than intended, the smile softening the edges of it made clear it wasn't a reprimand so much as a deflection.

"Oh, fine." Vash snickered, and something glinted in his eyes that she didn't entirely trust. He had something in mind. "Keep your secrets. It's my turn anyway."

The relief of silence brought by his reflection lasted about two seconds.

"So, one: I once got hit by a bus." He raised a finger. "Two: I've killed someone before." A second finger. His eyes were fixed on her, unblinking. "And three: I've been with both men and women."

Oh.  

Alright. So he wanted to go personal now. Fine. Her face was on fire and walking out the door was starting to sound like a genuinely viable option, but fine.

"Two," she eventually answered. "You told me you were a pacifist."

Vash was beaming at her. "That's right." He laughed, hand drifting to the back of his neck. "Glad it stuck."

"You make an impression," she blurted out, brain already going haywire. "Whether you mean it or not."

"Good or bad?" He smirked. "Or actually, don't answer that."

His laugh was followed by a silence that only deepened her mortification. What had he been hoping by dragging sexuality into this? The disclosure itself wasn't the issue; if anything, there was something striking about how effortless open he was about it. No, the problem was that she couldn't for the life of her determine whether this had been a clumsy attempt at flirting or a deliberate bid to rattle her composure. 

Whatever his intent, she wasn't about to let it pass without consequence. He'd been catching her off guard too often; laying her head on his lap, carrying her to her bed, saying things that had absolutely no business being that disarming. 

He wanted to play games? Fine. Turnabout was fair play.

"My turn, then." She grinned, chin dropping onto the back of her hand. "Ready?"

"Hm." A single sound, followed by a slow nod. There was a faint shadow of something crossing his expression. Disappointment, perhaps, at having his bait so cleanly ignored.

"So." She ticked off her fingers.  "One: I'm genuinely terrified of sand worms. Two: I've hit myself in the face with a shotgun recoil. And three-" A deliberate pause. "- I only sleep with someone when I'm drunk."

Perhaps more than she'd meant to put on the table. Worth it, though- the colour rising in Vash's cheeks was deeply satisfying.

"Three," he simply replied.

"Nope," she replied, lips dramatically emphasizing the p.

His brow furrowed. His mouth opened.

"No follow-ups," she repeated, before he could get there. He'd been the one to steer things this way; he didn't get to look surprised.

"Right," he said. For the first time since she'd met him, he seemed genuinely lost for words.

She let the silence sit. It wasn't uncomfortable, exactly; just loaded in a way she didn't entirely know how to deal with. She was still deciding whether to feel smug or mortified when his voice pulled back.

“So then, what’s the lie?”

His cheeks were still faintly flushed, but his composure was mostly back.

"The first one," she replied. "I think sand worms are fascinating, even though I'd rather avoid seeing one up close."

He grinned at her. "So getting shot wasn't your first terrible experience with a gun?"

"Nobody warned me about the recoil!" She winced at the memory; stealing that bounty hunter's gun had been a bad idea, but actually firing it had been worse. "Haven't touched a shotgun since."

Vash chuckled. "Sounds like firearms are bad luck to you, then."

“You’re bad luck!” she frowned, realizing her defence wasn't exactly mature. "No offence."

He laughed, and yet something flickered across his face before it settled back into a smile. "None taken," he replied. "I guess I am."

She didn't push it.

"Your turn," she said instead to shift the subject, 

He clicked his tongue, head tipping further back against the couch. "Honestly? I've got nothing."

Good. She was too tired to think of anything else anyway.

"Does that mean I won?"

"I guess it does." He blinked slowly; she'd woken him from a nap, she reminded herself. "Rematch tomorrow?"

She scoffed. "You'll lose again."

"Probably." He didn't sound particularly bothered by the prospect. "Still calling it."

She almost smiled.

They kept talking after that, about nothing in particular, the minutes ticking by unnoticed. Without quite realizing it, her words grew slower, her thoughts hazier. Her eyes grew heavy, and in the quiet space between wakefulness and sleep, her mind wandered back. 

Vash scared her, in a way she couldn't quite name. He consistently caught her off guard, made her feel things she didn't recognize in herself. Since when did she promise people to take a bullet for them? She was supposed to survive and reach her destination in one piece, not be killed in some purposeful sacrifice.

And yet, back then, his reaction had made some of it worth it. Wordless, tears tracing down his cheeks; the image had lodged itself somewhere she couldn't reach. Things had been different since. He still annoyed her, reliably and without fail, but the tension she'd carried around him had quietly loosened. Enough for her to stop bracing for every threat. Every, apparently, to fall asleep on the couch next to him.

What she'd confided during the game had backfired; she'd seen it in his eyes. He was concerned about her, worried. That wasn't something she was used to either. It didn't matter, she told herself. It had been a calculated move to win, nothing more. 

Except she'd also lost her composure the moment his eyes had found hers through those tinted glasses. So perhaps the calculation had never been entirely hers to make.

The lack of agency she had in her own emotional reaction to his concern was frustrating. She was willing to admit Vash was attractive; she wasn't blind. His hair, his smile, whatever he was hiding beneath that ridiculous coat. She'd noticed, and had been trying not to since she'd found herself in his arms. And he was also kind, and generous, and occasionally funny when he wasn't being insufferable, and he cared about her in a way no one had in a long time. That was the part that made it complicated.

Still, she couldn't let it go any further, couldn't be attracted to him. She didn't do relationships, hadn't in years and wasn't looking for one now either. Her life was too volatile, too unpredictable; too much for herself and certainly for anyone else. And beneath that, she was also terrified of them. Romantic feeling had been exiled from her life long ago. The last time she'd allowed herself that kind of vulnerability, it had been used against her; she wasn't giving anyone that kind of power again.

As for anything physical, she wasn't a stranger to it. She'd used it to cope, to reclaim some sense of agency over herself, to give her mind something to focus on for an hour or two. But she couldn't do it sober, and so she'd never retained much of it. Nameless people in nameless places, weightless and forgettable, existing at the right moment or the wrong one, depending on how you looked at it. 

She'd long since noticed the irony, resenting the world for reducing her to a face on a wanted poster while she did the very same thing to everyone she touched. Rendered them temporary, disposable. It was almost funny, in the bleak way certain truths could be. 

Every one of those encounters had ended the same way: her slipping out before the other person could form a clear memory of her face. That was how it worked; but with Vash, that exit didn't exist. He knew her, too much about her. And she'd made him a promise. Whatever was stirring beneath the surface, however inconvenient, however unsettling, it had to stay buried.

Because Vash was a good person, more than just a name to forget by morning. He deserved to be remembered, held onto, cherished freely and without conditions, the kind of devotion he'd clearly been waiting for a long time.

And that someone could simply not be her. 

Chapter Text

When her eyelids peeled open beneath the sunlight's unforgiving weight, it took her only a heartbeat to understand that something was wrong. Her body was not where she had left it. Despite her final scraps of consciousness being thoroughly unreliable, she was certain she had been talking with Vash on the living room couch before exhaustion had swallowed her whole. And yet, here she was, tucked into bed, back in the room she had been assigned. Her jaw tightened, warmth flooding her cheeks, and it had nothing to do with the fever.

Did that fucker carry me again? One of these days, she might actually kill him.

Her thoughts drifted back to Vash, like they often did when an ease that unsettled her. He had been in her life for barely a week, and yet he had managed to unravel something in her she hadn't even known was wound so tightly. The months prior had been spent adrift across Gunsmoke, grinding toward a destination that seemed to retreat further with every step she took. And yet, everything she had done or even dared to think about in the last few days bore his fingerprints in some shape or form. 

Not that her circumstances had invited distraction; she had been shot, her body on the verge of surrender. And yet even through the fever's delirium and the dull throb of her wound, her kind kept circling back to those damnable emerald eyes of his.

Ugh, what a bother.  

At least the infection was retreating with the same ferocity with which it had seized her. The fever had broken, leaving only the occasional dizzy spell when the midday heat pressed down too hard. The antibiotics had taken hold; with any luck, she would be cleared to leave before long. 

But to go where, the question still loomed. Before the whole infection debacle, she and Vash had agreed to make for Aniya Town, roughly a day's ride from March; from there, they would have figured out the rest. She hadn't intended to stay at his side any longer than necessary; some stubborn corner of her mind had even been drawing up plans to steal the car in the dead of night and tear off toward November alone, leaving nothing behind but dust and a note.

But the circumstances had shifted. A few days of feverish misery had done what months of wandering hadn't: forced her to sit still long enough to think. A change of character; or had the bed rest simply dissolved a fraction of the walls she'd erected around her heart? Either way, if she were to whisper even a fraction of it to the version of herself from a week ago, that girl would have keeled over on the spot. 

Oh well. This was hardly the moment for another existential crisis. She was growing exhausted by them anyway.

She pried the lid off the antibiotics container Rosaline had left on the nightstand and tossed back the capsule dry, grimacing at the bitterness that clung to the back of her throat. Then she swung her legs over the edge of the mattress and dropped down, her feet hitting the floorboards with more force than intended. The room lurched sideways for a brief moment, yet she steadied herself against the wall and pushed forward, following the low murmur of voices drifting from the dining room.

The scene that greeted her was disarmingly domestic. Vash sat at the table, his hair still dishevelled from sleep, gesturing animatedly at something while Rosaline listened across from him. He was facing the hallway, meaning he was also the first to catch her arrival as she appeared in the room; whatever joy had already been written across his face brightened further.

He never got the chance to open his mouth, because she crossed the threshold first and levelled a finger at him. "You carried me into bed again, didn't you?" She already knew the answer: there was no one else it could have been.

Vash, to his credit, read the room with impressive speed; likely because he understood that no amount of clever deflection was going to spare him. He leaned back in his chair and flashed her his most disarming smile. "Good morning."

Her eyes narrowed at the sheer audacity of it. "I told you to stop doing that."

"Hey!" He threw his hands up, the picture of wounded innocence. "You were practically drooling all over Rosaline's couch. A very nice couch, by the way."

He shot a quick, hopeful glance at the nurse, who responded with the most noncommittal shrug imaginable, clearly declining to be recruited into this particular battle.

Undeterred, Vash pressed on. "Besides, I couldn't have slept a wink with the snoring. The walls were shaking."

She couldn't tell whether he was lying or not, which was somehow the most infuriating part. But the mere image of herself, slack-jawed and oblivious on Rosaline's couch while Vash stood over here like some self-appointed guardian, was enough to make her want to walk back down the hallway and not come out until next week.

Somehow, she held her ground. The heat climbing up her neck and into her face, however, was entirely beyond her control. "That's not-"

"Alright, kids," Rosaline's voice cut through the argument, though the amusement dancing in her hazel eyes gave her away entirely. "No fighting at the dining table. House rules." Her gaze settled warmly on the traveller, soft and appraising all at once. "Good morning, darling."

"Morning." She managed a small wave, some of the tension bleeding out of her shoulders despite herself.

Rosaline clicked her tongue, eyebrows arching in theatrical disapproval. "Now then, what was it I said about staying in bed?"

She had walked straight into that one; there was truly no one to blame but herself. "Yeah..."

But Rosaline's smile had already broken through, and the laugh that escaped her was genuine. "I'm only teasing. You look considerably better today, so I'll let it go. This once." She pointed a gentle finger. "On the condition that you don't go passing out on me again."

She was never going to live that down. "That happened once." The protest was swept aside by a single wave of the nurse's hand.

"Once was already one time too many." Rosaline giggled, unbothered by the groan of protest this earned her. "Come, sit down. I'll get you some coffee."

Rosaline disappeared into the kitchen, and the traveller dragged a chair from beneath the table and dropped into it. She cast one last withering glance at Vash, who cheerfully waggled his fingers at her as though the matter were entirely settled and forgiven. It was not. But with Rosaline within earshot, she had the sense to let it rest, for now.

"Vash told me there was a medical emergency in town last night," she said instead, steering the conversation somewhere safer to avoid the way Vash was looking at her. "Is everything alright?"

"Ah, yes!" Rosaline's voice carried easily over the gurgle of the coffee pot on the stove. "Nothing tragic, I promise. One of the residents went into labour. It was a long night, but they both came through beautifully.

The traveller stilled, something quiet settling over her. Rosaline was this town's beating heart, its last line of defence against everything Gunsmoke could throw at its people, and she gave herself to that role without hesitation or complaint. She had likely spent the better part of the night at that mother's side, guiding new life into the world through sheer force of will and steady hands. And here she was, back in her kitchen, brewing coffee as though she had slept soundly through all of it.

"Wow." The word came out before she could stop it, small and inadequate, but genuine. She cleared her throat, trying again. "Congratulations to her. And to you. That's no small thing, what you do."

Rosaline emerged from the kitchen with a mug cradled between her palms, waving off the praise with a gentle scoff. "It's nothing." Her smile said otherwise. "It's simply my job. As long as I'm able to help, I will."

She slid the mug across the table and circled back to her own chair, settling into it, her hands finding her own drinking without looking. 

"Speaking of my job," Rosaline said, the smirk returning to her lips with practiced ease, "do you mind if I take another look at you?"

She shrugged. The odds of escaping the daily examinations were still slim, and she knew it. "Go ahead. That's the whole reason I'm still here, isn't it?"

Rosaline laughed softly and watched as her patient scraped the chair across the floor and positioned it closer. The wound was on her left arm, and so she turned the chair around and straddled it backwards instead, folding her arms over the top rail and resting her chin on her wrist. It was an ungainly arrangement, but it gave Rosaline an unobstructed view of the injury without requiring her to stand. The woman already carried the weight of an entire town on her shoulders; the least she could do was make herself easier to examine.

"How are you feeling?" She had expected the question to come from Rosaline, whose fingers were already carefully turning her arm toward the light. Instead, it came from across the table.

She craned her neck back at an angle that was frankly unkind to her spine, just so she could fix Vash with the flattest look she could manage. "Like I'm tired of that question."

Vash blinked, yet not without a smile. "You know I'm not gonna stop asking."

"You will if I hit you with this chair-"

Rosaline's pointed throat-clearing cut through the performance like a scalpel. "Dear." Her tone was mild but left absolutely no room for argument. "Answer the question."

She exhaled sharply at being reprimanded twice before she even took a sip of her coffee. But the smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth refused to be suppressed. Her gaze stayed fixed on Vash, and she had the unsettling feeling that he wasn't looking away either.

"Better. Genuinely." Her voice had gone quieter now. She turned back around, letting her chin drop down. "I still get dizzy when I stand too fast, and the arm complains if I forget about it, but it's nothing like it was. 

"That's very good to hear," Rosaline hummed, her touch careful as she assessed the wound. "Your body is responding well to the antibiotics, better than I honestly dared hope. The swelling has come down considerably."

In the wreckage of what this week had been, the knowledge that her body was mending felt like something close to mercy. She would survive, which was a significant comfort given how many times death had grazed her in the span of seven days. But it also meant the road was not yet done with her. That she would move again. That she could.

Rosaline was not the reason she was so determined to go; quite the opposite. Through nothing more than the quiet constancy of her presence, the nurse had shown her something she hadn't thought herself capable of believing: that it was possible, even for someone as stubbornly pessimistic as herself, to carve out a small, imperfect corner of the world and make it mean something. That running from one's past did not have to mean running forever.

But stillness had never suited her, and she had already stayed too long. Something restless in her could feel it; the same way it always could, just before she wore out her welcome. 

"So." She turned her head to the left, cheek pressing flat against the wood of the chair back. "How long before you'll let me leave?"

A silence followed, and Rosaline looked at her as if she'd been asked a deeply unreasonable question. "Infections of this nature," she began, "typically require ten to fourteen days to resolve fully." She exhaled through her nose. "Which means, ideally, you rest for at least another week."

She went very still. A week. Another week of staring at the ceiling and reading books she hadn't chosen and trying not to think about all the ground she wasn't covering. Another week of Vash's relentless, infuriating commentary. Absolutely not. She would take the car in the dead of night before she let that happen.

Rosaline, however, had apparently not missed a single flicker of it. "However." She raised one finger, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and reluctant amusement. "If you are anything like Vash, and I suspect you are in more ways than either of you would care to admit, then I already know you have no intention of following that advice. You're probably halfway out the door in your head as we speak."

Busted. A sidelong glance at Vash confirmed that he wasn't going to ride her rescue on this one; if anything, the slight tilt of his head suggested he found it all deeply amusing. Probably because he knew Rosaline was right. 

Rosaline's gaze had not moved from her face, steady and entirely too perceptive. "So. If your symptoms continue to improve and you don't spike another fever, I would be willing to clear you to leave tomorrow." She nearly thanked her right here and there, but Rosaline wasn't finished. "On one condition. Vash stays with you."

That she had not expected. "What?" Her brow furrowed, the word coming out sharper than intended. She looked between Rosaline and Vash as though one of them might offer a satisfying explanation. Why was he suddenly a condition?

Rosaline remained entirely unmoved. "I need someone to keep an eye on you," she explained simply, "since you seem to have a talent for ignoring your own body until it has no choice but to make you stop."

There was genuinely no argument to be made there. Any attempt at a defence would have collapsed under its own weight and likely earned her a lecture from both sides of the table.

She turned the idea over slowly. Being looked after, being someone's responsibility; it sat on her like a coat made for a different person. She had never travelled with anyone, not willingly. And the arrangement meant compromise: someone else's rhythm bleeding into hers, their habits and silences taking up space she had always kept empty.

Adapting to Vash had not been the catastrophe she might have predicted. He could send her thoughts into complete disarray without trying and had an uncanny gift for saying exactly the wrong thing at exactly the right moment. And yet, when it came to actually moving through the canyon together, they had managed, even when most of that movement had taken place under the imminent threat of dying. It didn't sound nearly as unbearable as it once might have. 

She righted herself in the chair and found Vash already watching her with a lopsided grin; she immediately regretted every generous thought she'd just extended in his direction. Almost.

"Did you put her up to this?" She squinted at him. 

He raised both hands. "I can neither confirm nor deny."

"Vash."

..."Okay, a little."

She stared at him for a long moment, then turned back around without a word. Rationally speaking, there was nothing to be gained by staying at his side. She had her own destination, her own reasons, her own road.  And yet, she had made him a promise. A promise to stand by him when it mattered. She had meant it when she said it, even if the words had felt strange and unfamiliar on her tongue. She still meant it now.

She wasn't entirely conscious of having made the decision; it had simply settled in her without asking permission. "Well." She reached for her coffee. "I wasn't going to ditch him." The words were out before she'd caught up to them, and the heat that climbed into her face in the half-second that followed was nothing short of mortifying. And why in the fuck was she blushing?

She watched something move behind Vash's eyes. A flicker of surprise, she figured. But it was gone almost before she could name it, smoothed over by that easy expression he wore whenever something had actually reached him and he didn't want anyone to know. 

"Fine." She let her gaze drift back to Rosaline. "I'll stay with him."

Rosaline nodded, something in her face settling; satisfaction perhaps, or simply relief. "Then I take it you'll both be leaving tomorrow?"

She glanced across the table at Vash, some instinct she hadn't quite learned to distrust yet. He met her gaze then shrugged, offering the question back to her without ceremony. 

"That's not my call to make," he stated.

Which left it entirely in her hands, as it perhaps always had been. It was only fair; she had been the one insisting they leave at the earliest possible opportunity, after all. The decision had already been hers to make.

There wasn't much left to deliberate. "That would be the plan then, yes."

The nurse inclined her head. "Alright. As you see fit." She paused. "Though I confess, I can't help wondering what it is you're in such a hurry to get back to."

Rosaline had said she wouldn't pry; and she hadn't, not truly. But unanswered questions had a way of accumulating in the silence, and after days of hosting two strangers who offered nothing but gratitude and careful evasion, it was only human that the weight of them had begun to show. 

She exhaled, weighed by the burden of owing her more than she was prepared to give. "I just..." She paused, stretching the beat a little longer than intended. "I don't do well when I stay anywhere too long."

"Right." Rosaline's expression shifted; not quite hurt, not quite disappointed, but somewhere in that quiet territory between them. "I do hope I won't come to regret opening my door to you." Her gaze moved deliberately to Vash, who had been coasting under the radar for the better part of this conversation. "That applies to both of you, by the way."

He swallowed visibly, his smile faltering just enough to betray him. The silence that settled over the room  was heavy and honest and not entirely comfortable. 

The discomfort didn't get the chance to take root. Both travellers watched, caught somewhere between relief and surprise, as the corner of Rosaline's lips curved into something soft and unmistakably fond. "I'm joking." She stated. "Mostly." She opened her mouth to continue, yet her eyes snapped upward to the clock on the wall. "Oh goodness. Is that the time? I have to go: I promised Genna I'd be there by ten."

She was already on her feet, sweeping her belongings into her shoulder bag, then paused just long enough to glance back at her guests.

"Genna?" Vash arched a brow at her.

"That's the new mother."

His hands found the back of his neck. "Give her our congratulations, then," he offered.

"I think not," Rosaline replied, already halfway to the door. "She's just had a baby; the last thing she needs is a stranger's name on her morning." Vash theatrically clutched to his chest as though she'd mortally wounded him. "But I'm sure she'd appreciate the thought."

The front door swung shut behind her with a decisive click, leaving in her wake two travellers, one half-empty coffee pot, and a silence that neither of them seemed to know what to do with. 

Chapter Text

It seemed that with Vash, she had made her peace with silence.

It hadn't always been that way. Silence used to press in like something physical; not quite as unbearable as small talk, but enough to leave her restless, her mind circling with nowhere to land. With Vash, she had spent a long time waiting for the catch: some darker motive buried beneath all that warmth. And yet, it never came: he was exactly as he appeared to be, which was perhaps the strangest thing about him.

She had learned, eventually, to let the quiet simply exist between them.

But serenity could only stretch so far. There were things left unspoken, and one of them would have to be the one to start. 

“So." She turned to Vash, who tilted his head and raised a brow with quiet attentiveness. "There's something I've been sitting on for a while."

The grin that crept across his lips should have been a warning. "You want to ask if I'm single, don't you?"

"What-" The words caught in her throat. "Why in the fuck would I want to know that?"

One moment, he was the most disarmingly decent person she had ever met. The next, she was actively reconsidering violence.

She caught his smirk beginning to widen and cut him off before it could go any further. "Don't."

"Fine," he sighed dramatically. The grin stayed anyway, and to her considerable annoyance, so did hers. 

Now that life had settled and they were about to be moving again, she decided it was past time to ask the question that had been gnawing at her for days. She let her expression grow more deliberate. "The other night, when we arrived-" she began, "you mentioned someone you needed to find. Do you have any idea where they might be?"

A visible hesitation crossed Vash's face, one she had no difficulty understanding, as someone who kept her past and motives closely guarded as well. She had promised not to pry, and she held to that, even now. She would not blame him if he said nothing.

He sat with it for a moment, then exhaled heavily, as if it cost him something. "Not exactly," he admitted, gaze dropping to the table. "From what I've managed to piece together, somewhere east. Probably a city. But that's the extent of it."

East. So they were headed in the same direction. 

Her own destination was far less ambiguous, but the path remained the same. A week ago, that would have meant nothing. She had been planning to leave alone, as she always had. But things were different now; she had made a promise to Vash, and now she intended to keep it. 

She knew she had not often been someone who kept promises. It was not easy to give away such commitment when one she had spent her recent years running from anything that required her to stay, folding at the first sign of resistance, retreating before the world could reach her. After November, she'd changed so much; fury and regret had a way of forging something stubborn, even if what drove her was the kind of purpose people would call reprehensible. It was still purpose; it was hers. 

Vash, for his part, had done nothing to make stubbornness easy. He tested her patience in ways the drunkards back in Skullpeak never had; because at least with them, she'd had the comfort of imagining a chair connecting with their skulls. With Vash, she could never quite decide if she wanted to hit him or -

Nope. Not finishing that thought. 

The point was, she had made a promise. And no matter what her gut yelled at her, she was determined not to waver on it. Not even if it meant another bullet.

"If you're heading east-" She paused; the old reluctance rose in her chest like a reflex, the deeply ingrained instinct of someone who had always moved alone. Unlearning it was not a graceful process. "Then I guess we're going the same way."

"Hm?" Vash's brow climbed his forehead, interest sharpening in his expression. "Is that right? Where are you going?"

The doubt pooled and thickened, chipping away at a wall she had spent years reinforcing. She ground her teeth together, feeling the pressure travel up her jaw, and forced the word out anyway. "November."

"Right." He leaned his chin into the palm of his prosthetic hand. "November University. I remember."

One of her truths from the game; she hadn't expected him to hold onto it. She was learning, slowly, not to be surprised by that. "Yeah, something like that."

"So, what are you getting at?" He asked, sensing through her flat tone that she wasn't going to explain any further.

She arched a brow. How had he not pieced it together already? Or was he deliberately playing obtuse just to make her say it aloud? "If you're open to it," she cleared her throat, "we could travel together for a while. Part ways further down the way."

He blinked slowly, as though processing the words from a great distance, but his smile told a different story entirely. "Hold on." His voice carried the careful cadence of a man trying very hard not to gloat. "You're the one asking me to come along?"

He wasn't just rubbing salt in the wound; he was grinding it with both hands. "Keep going and I'll change my mind." She tried to make it sound like a genuine possibility, yet she suspected the colour rising in her cheeks rather undermined that.

"Hey-" He raised both hands. "I'm just surprised. You were dead set against it a week ago. I wasn't exactly holding my breath."

She pulled a face at him, mostly because he wasn't wrong and she resented him for it. She hadn't expected it to change either. When Vash had first barreled into her life, she had written him off as a walking migraine with the social awareness of a sandstorm. Now, barely a week later, he had somehow become the single most consequential person she had ever encountered.

What an utterly bewildering concept.

"I genuinely appreciate the offer. I do." He nodded, and something in his expression moved. "But unfortunately, I'm going to have to say no."

“But hey, I appreciate the offer. Really,” he nodded, and something in his expression shifted, although she couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was. “Unfortunately though, I’ll have to decline.”

…wait. What?

"Huh?" It was the only sound she managed. Flat, unambiguous rejection had not even registered as a possibility she needed to prepare for.

Vash, for his part, appeared unmoved by her bewilderment, or at least he was doing an admirable job of pretending. "I don't want to derail your plans." His smirk was a well-worn mask; it did nothing to conceal the shadow behind his eyes. "Or were you about to ask for my hand in marriage? Because that's a different conversation entirely."

The confusion and the indignation she could handle. It was the humiliation that stung; the cost of having worked up to that offer, only to have it tossed back at her with a joke. 

"Vash, I swear to everything in this world, I will punch you." There was nothing veiled about it anymore; he had well and truly earned the unfiltered version. "Be straight with me. Why are you pulling back now? You were the one who insisted on helping me. You practically forced it."

She thought back to the ferocity of their argument the day the police had shown up in Skullpeak, or the night they had sworn to have each other's back and catch a bullet if it came to that. She wondered where that version of Vash had gone. 

"I don't regret a single moment of it. Believe me." His eyes dropped briefly before finding hers again, a melancholic smile tugging at his mouth. "But you've probably noticed by now. Bad luck follows me like a shadow, everywhere I go." His tongue clicked softly, and his gaze slid away again. "You've already paid for it once."

She could not believe what she was hearing. "So you plan to protect me from your bad luck by disappearing the moment my arm is healed." It wasn't a question. "Is that it?"

"Well, it's not like I'd just vanish without a word," He reclined in his chair, exhaling sharply through his nose. "And I wouldn't leave before you've recovered, obviously. Rosaline put me in charge of keeping you in one piece, and I plan to do just that." A short, humourless laugh escaped him, though his eyes still wouldn't quite meet hers. "Or else, I have genuine reason to believe she would hunt me down and shatter my kneecaps."

She stared at him, each word landing with the same baffling weight as the last. He had stood there and lectured her about receiving kindness without converting it into debt, trusting people without keeping scores. And now he was sitting there dressing up his retreat as consideration for her well-being. The irony of it was almost impressive. 

"Trust me." Her voice was low. "You're not scared of the right person."

Vash didn't appear to be taking her seriously. "Of you?" He blinked, like the idea had genuinely caught him off guard. "Well, you did promise to punch me..."

"I promised a lot of things," she shot back instantly. "We both did the other night. So what exactly is this?" She jabbed a finger in his direction. "Protecting me from bad luck? That's your idea of helping each other out?"

Vash sat very still, visibly distraught by the force of her reaction. "Well..."

She thought they were the same, once. Two people running from the same kind of weight. But she was beginning to see the difference. She kept people out to protect herself. Vash kept them out to protect them. It was the same wall built for entirely opposite reasons. His selflessness was different: she felt it had a self-destructive edge to it. So much so that he seemed to prefer loneliness over the risk of hurting someone by staying.

He had done so much for her. The very least she could do was drag him back from this edge. Show him that he was so far from being the danger he thought he was. 

"Look." She shot back. "There are a hundred things in this world that could kill me. Bounty hunters. Police. Sandworms. Fuck, even the weather on a bad day." She sustained his gaze and refused to let it go. "But bad luck? That's not a reason. It's just an excuse, and a lazy one."

Vash sat with her words for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. "You're not wrong," he eventually nodded. "But it's more than just bad luck. My life is- it's dangerous. Unstable. The longer you stay close to me, the more that becomes your problem too."

"And you think mine isn't?" she retorted, indignation flaring. "I got a bounty on my head, too, Vash. I know what danger looks like."

"That's different-"

"Is it?" She didn't let him finish. "I know you said I don't owe you anything, but I made a promise to you and I intend to keep it. But you also swore to me that you'd stop shouldering everyone's burdens. And that includes your own, Vash." She held his gaze. "I told you to let me carry some of it."

He opened his mouth, and yet she still gave him no space to protest.

"I don't need your protection from anyone's bad luck. If helping you means putting myself between you and the next bullet, then that's exactly what I'll do."

He didn't move for a long moment, just studying her. Something in his face shifted, as if her words had reached somewhere he hadn't expected them to. 

"I'll never ask you to do that," he said quietly. 

"You don't have to ask." She held his gaze. "I already did. And instinct or not, I'll do it again."

She still wondered, sometimes, what had possessed him to stay. She was not an easy person to be around; too guarded, too volatile, too much... everything. And yet, he had chosen to remain, through everything she had thrown at him.  He had walked into her life and quietly rearranged it without asking permission. And after all of it, whatever it really meant, she was not about to let him disappear before she could return the favour. She would make sure he got something for himself out of all of this. Whatever it cost her.

Perhaps using her own death as an example was a touch dramatic. Her life was surely worth more than a glorified debt to someone she had known for barely a week, even if stubbornness and misplaced gratitude were powerful motivators. Still, she meant it. She would not waver. Not for as long as she had anything left to give. 

After a while, he exhaled, long and slow, and let his head drop. When he looked back up, his smile was a little helpless. "There's nothing I can say that's going to change your mind, is there?"

She felt an answering smug pull at her lips. "Not a chance," she replied with a certainty that left no room for debate. "Also, if you even think about taking the car to ditch me in the middle of the night, smashed kneecaps will be the least of your concerns."

He let a second trickle by, then sighed. "Fine." He replied, knowing he had lost. "Then let's head to Aniya Town first. And then we move east."

She couldn't have stopped her grin if she'd tried. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Vash scoffed, dragging a hand through his blond hair with exaggerated weariness. "Under duress? No, I guess not."

"You're being dramatic." She rolled her eyes, propping her chin on her hand.

"And you threatened to punch me." He pointed at her.

"Figure of speech."

"And to smash my knees."

She shrugged, entirely unbothered. "None of that applies to you if you keep your hands off my car."

His brow furrowed. "Since when is it your car?"

"Since I took a bullet for it." She matched his look with one of perfect innocence. 

She nearly laughed out loud when Vash groaned and leaned back in his chair, admitting defeat. The banter dissolved into stillness; and once again, it settled around them like something familiar.

Because with Vash, she had made her peace with silence. And somehow, that felt like the most extraordinary thing of all.

She was on the verge of savouring her victory in peace when something pulled her attention sideways. Vash's perpetual grin had vanished; in his place was something focused as his head tilted slightly, listening. A faint sound threaded through the air around them: a melody, barely more than a handful of notes. It was nothing really, and yet it seized her attention completely; but it seized Vash's even more.

His hand was already moving, diving into an interior pocket of his coat before the last note had finished. When it re-emerged from the crimson coat, his fingers were wrapped around a slim, rectangular object, dark and smooth. His index grazed its surface and it lit up, sudden and bright, pulling a sharp breath from her. 

At the sound of her gasp, Vash's eyes flicked back to her. "Sorry," he murmured. 

She couldn't see the surface of the item from across the table, but she couldn't look away either. Lost Technology, perhaps? The cool luminescence bleeding from what she assumed was a screen was unmistakable; it called to mind the artifacts she had learned to handle back in university, relics of a civilization that had collapsed over a century ago in the catastrophe known as the Big Fall. 

It had been the whole point of her studies; excavate meaning from what had been left behind to help what was left of humanity now, here on Gunsmoke. She knew that glow, but she had never expected to see it here.

"What is that?" she finally managed, and Vash's gaze returned to her.

Something shifted in his expression; a flicker of awareness, quickly suppressed. He tucked the object back into his coat with a speed that allowed her no further examination. "Nothing," he replied. Then he caught her expression and had the decency to look slightly cornered. "It's a- uh. A portable clock."

She stared at him. "A portable clock."

“Yes.” 

That was most certainly not a portable clock. 

And yet, as much as it intrigued her, she did not press further. She had made a point in their partnership to avoid digging where they weren't invited, even if that point had been cemented over a game that was never meant to carry this much weight. 

But the object's existence, and the fact that it was in Vash's possession, opened doors she wasn't sure she was ready to walk through. If he carried Lost Technology so casually, what else was concealed in the folds of that coat? What else was concealed in him? Perhaps Vash was something far more layered than a petty criminal with a wandering conscience. 

The question arrived late, all things considered. Later than it should have. She'd been so preoccupied with whether to trust him that she'd never stopped to wonder who, exactly, she was trusting. She should have been asking herself that from the beginning, and yet here she was, miles down a road she could no longer turn back from, finally arriving at the real crossroads.

Who in the hell was Vash, really?

Chapter Text

The rest of the day had passed without much incident; with Rosaline gone, the only option left was to occupy herself however she could. The impending departure meant there was much to prepare: food, water and fuel, three things now available in generous quantity since Vash's trip to Aniya Town. Even though most of what he'd brought back was meant to stay in Rosaline's possession, they still had to set aside what they'd need before leaving. 

Because usually, she could do with unpredictability. After all, people were naturally unpredictable; so was the weather, the terrain, the fucking wildlife...  Her whole life was unstable in all possible aspects, and yet she often managed to remain in control of the things she could influence by moving at her own pace and making decisions for herself first. 

Was it possible that Vash was already sleeping, then? Is that why he wasn’t being annoying all of a sudden?

"Hey."

Good. Exhausted was fine; she could work with that. She found herself wondering whether Vash had read her the same way.

Not that it mattered.

“Dunno, maybe.”

"Have you at least figured out where you're headed tomorrow?"

This time, she actually had an answer. "Aniya Town first, for supplies."

Rosaline lifted a brow. “And then?”

“I… I don’t know,” she admitted, gazing toward the floor. “East, I think.”

This was in line with what Vash had told her about his relationship with the nurse, a few days ago; she remembered him mentioning that he’d often show up at one clinic where she worked.

“Did he tell you how we met?” Rosaline inquired, tilting her head. 

Rosaline's words, echoing her wife's own wisdom, settled over her in a way she couldn't quite understand. She'd spent years keeping people at a distance out of necessity. If you didn't let anyone in, you didn't have to watch them leave, or worse, be betrayed by them. She'd told herself it was merely practical, rational even. The only way to survive in a world that had never given her much reason to believe otherwise.

“So how’d you shake them off?” 

“Vash did.” Her face lit up at the memory. "One day, there was a knock at the door, but it wasn't them: it was him. He told me he knew what I was dealing with, that he'd heard about The Solstice, and asked if I wanted out."

Rosaline shook her head. "Not a word," she scoffed. "But I've made my peace with that. Some things aren't mine to know. And after everything he's done for me, asking feels like the wrong way to repay it." Her gaze drifted briefly, settling somewhere distant. "Though I'll admit I've wondered. About the bounty and the rumours."

... what?

Had Rosaline known all along? Why hadn't she said anything?

Noticing her reaction, Rosaline's brows climbed. "His full name is Vash the Stampede. Wanted for six million double dollars. His name is on everyone's lips." She paused, her brows dropping into a frown. "Darling, don’t tell me he’s never told you…”

Vash the Stampede. Six million double dollars. Surprisingly, it didn't ring any bells. And that amount; it wasn't just a bounty, it was a declaration. Most bounty hunters on the planet would know that name: no wonder he'd vanished the second the police showed up in Skullpeak.

She gulped under Rosaline's revelation. "No, I knew," she lied, smoother than expected. "I just didn't realize you did."

That also opened another question. If Rosaline knew about Vash, did she know about her, too?

"Well, he's never outright told me about it," she admitted. "But I've seen the posters around town. Hard to miss a face like that.

Right. Of course. She mentally cursed herself for being so careful to avoid wanted boards these days; apparently, she'd stopped registering them altogether. It was probably the only reason she hadn't clocked his face the moment she'd met him.

"But if you ask me?" Rosaline's voice was quieter now, more to herself if anything. "I don't think he's dangerous. Not the way they make it sound." She paused. "Knowing him, I'd wager he got caught up in something far bigger than he bargained for. A ‘wrong place, wrong time’ kind of situation."

Was that what he'd meant when he'd refused to travel with her? Said he carried bad luck at his heels and used the excuse to keep his distance? Had he been trying to protect her from something he'd dragged behind him his whole life?

"What makes you say that?" was what she asked Rosaline instead.

"I honestly don't know." She exhaled. "A hunch, I suppose. His name comes with all kinds of stories attached to it. Someone told me once that Vash the Stampede razed an entire village and left no one alive." She shook her head. "That doesn't sound like the man I know."

Rosaline was right. Tying that name and that absurdly infuriating man to something so monstrous was perhaps the most preposterous thing she'd ever been asked to consider.

Vash, who had thrown herself into danger for her sake without a second thought. Vash, who had stated plainly and repeatedly that he refused to take a life and would probably weep over accidentally stepping on a bug. That Vash was being accused of slaughtering an entire village?

That sounded thoroughly absurd. "Yeah." She shrugged. "I don't see it either. But it's not something we've talked about."

"Maybe it should be." Rosaline's eyes were serious now. "If you're travelling together, it seems worth knowing where you stand." 

She held that for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. Maybe it should."

She meant it. Advice was something she usually let slide off her without much thought, but not this. She and Vash had an unspoken agreement to leave each other's pasts alone, and up to this point, she'd been fine with that arrangement. But potential mass murder sat somewhat outside the terms of it.

She wasn't angry. He hadn't had the chance to defend himself, and frankly, she still couldn't bring herself to believe it. But she was going to ask, and she wouldn't let him off the hook, this time.

Movement beside her pulled her back. Rosaline was on her feet, chair scraping softly against the floor, smile back in place. "On that note, I'll let you sleep." She shot him a pointed look. "And please actually sleep this time. I don't need you collapsing in the entrance again."

She didn't have a comeback for that one. "I don't plan on it either."

Rosaline moved toward the door, pausing briefly in the frame. "Sleep well, dear."

"Good night."

Silence settled back over the room, and she let herself fall onto the mattress with her eyes closed. As if it might stop her thoughts from running; it didn't.

She'd seen death before, thought about her own and other people's. She carried grief long enough to know it didn't disappear so much as it became background noise: always there, just quieter on good days. In a world like this one, death was never far; she'd always known it might come for her before she was ready.

But Rosaline's story had shifted something. Reminded her there was more to life than the shadow of death. Life was fickle and fragile and unpredictable. But the best things within it, bliss, freedom, and the people who made it bearable, were perhaps the most fragile of all. If Rosaline's words had left any mark on her, it was to convince her that fragility was not a reason to turn away. It was simply the price of caring about something.

But death's looming presence carried fear, of course. That remained within her, steady and familiar. The gunshot, the infection had been stark reminders of what the road ahead might serve her, and travelling with someone else was another unknown that may well be what finally got her killed.

Yet, that fear dimmed more and more every day. That someone beside her wasn't anyone; it was Vash. Vash, who wouldn't hesitate for a second if her wound flared up again. Who had promised to stay at her side, even if it had taken a full argument to get that from him. Who would exhaust every last option before he let anyone die, her included. 

The same Vash who was apparently wanted for mass murder, amongst many things. But she chose not to believe it for now. Deep down, a part of her knew: this couldn't be Vash.

Fear was not going anywhere. But maybe, just maybe, it didn't have to be the only thing. 

When sleep finally came for her, it found a stubborn smile still resting on her lips.

Chapter Text

Somehow, she is small again; perhaps smaller than the door she just slammed. Smaller than the carts and the giant bird and the people drifting past in their oblivious world, unaware of the small creature weaving frantically between them.

She may be small, but she is as untethered as the wind; even the tallest walls and the largest fences cannot hold her. The world never troubles itself with looking down; always soaring, looming over the short, the young, the fragile and the forgotten. It never remembers that even the most formidable of constructions are riddled with cracks and gaping holes.

The layered hum of intermingling voices and laughter fades as she distance grows, and soon she's threading her tiny body beneath barbed wire that no one has ever thought to mend. Her legs carry her through hollow corridors and rust-eaten doors draped in cobwebs, until she reaches her destination, cradled within the belly of a lightbulb. Travellers and wanderers will say it is modest compared to the ones towering over the big cities. But to her, and her cloistered life in a quiet, unremarkable town, it is the most immense thing she has ever stood before. And with immensity comes wonder; what does the lightbulb keep buried inside itself?

She enters a room that proves to be unlike all the others, at once the most sacred and the most desolate place in the entire facility. Cramped and sombre, stripped of both lamp and sunlight, the only illumination bleeds from the centre of the room, where the ceiling gives way to tinted glass. A blueish glow pulses from beyond the sphere, swirling behind liquid like a slumbering ocean, that mythological concept she has only ever touched through the yellowed pages of picture books from eras long past. 

Behind the glass, adrift in those inner seas, a creature lies suspended. Or is it even alive? Does it breathe? People have always insisted it is nothing more than a machine, its preordained purpose to sustain humanity. It does not move, never stirs, never answers; it only produces. After all, this is the fate of a Plant: born to serve, and condemned without reprieve to provide.

But the young girl is blind to such fatality; to her, the Plant is not a tool, but a companion. One that does not move, does not react, and yet somehow listens with a patience no living person has ever offered her. The silence between them is heavy, deliberate, full of something she cannot name, and this is all she requires. Someone, something, that simply let her speak and hold her woes without turning away.

And so she talks, on and on, until the words outpace her breath and race ahead of her thoughts. Soon she can no longer trace the sentences she's forming; it all pours out in a torrent of breathless, tumbling sound that no one alive could decipher. No one but her, and the silence, that unfaltering companion still holding vigil beside her. It goes on for what feels like hours in the elastic time of a child's mind; until something shifts at the edge of her vision. Instinctively, the young girl spins, her gaze snapping upward to the glass above.

And the glass peers back with shimmering eyes.  

“Promise you will be careful?”

The remnants of last night's dream dissolved the moment Rosaline's voice pulled her back; her eyes were soft with worry. Yet she didn't even have time to parse the question, because Vash was already laughing before she could draw breath to answer. 

"Promise," he assured, earning his companion's confused stare as to how he hadn't retorted with a punchline. 

Rosaline did not appear any more convinced. "That's precisely what worries me," she scoffed. 

"Ouch." Vash placed a hand over his heart, expression wounded. "Right in the chest, Rose."

But the nurse didn't even dignify that with a reply, though a reluctant grin tugged at the corner of her lips, and turned to her instead. 

"And you, darling. Be careful." Rosaline's tone was closer to an order than a suggestion. "Watch yourself for anything alarming. If the fever returns or that wound starts swelling again, don't you dare wait it out. Find a medical professional immediately."

Right, because those were easy to come by. She kept the laugh to herself, filed the advice away, and decided the simplest solution was to just not let anything happen at all.

“Got it,” she replied instead, nodding vehemently.

Rosaline made a sharp sound, as though something had just surfaced in her memory. She'd been dispensing medical wisdom all morning without pause; it was frankly astonishing that the woman still had reserves left. "And don't forget your antibiotics." She raised a pointed finger. "Even if you feel perfectly fine, you finish the full course. No exceptions."

She wasn't about to argue with that. “I will.”

"And don't push yourself beyond what that body can handle right now." Her gaze slid briefly to the blond beside her, who had been idly worrying about the zipper of his coat without apparent awareness of the conversation. "Those stitches are holding up. Let's keep it that way."

Vash's head snapped up at that, gaze narrowing as he registered the implication. "Oh, come on." He pouted. "It wasn't that bad."

"I said it was acceptable." Rosaline's laugh was warm, her arms folding across her chest. "Not awful."

He pressed a hand to his chest, as though deeply moved. "I'll take that as a compliment, then."

The two regarded each other in the particular way of people who have found each other after a long absence and know they are about to lose each other again. Something shifted in the air between them, with Rosaline's eyes staring warmly at Vash, who she suspected mirrored her emotion.

"It was wonderful seeing you again, Vash. Come find me the next time you're passing through." Her gaze drifted to his companion. "Even if you don't happen to have a stubborn little friend in need of mending."

Said stubborn little friend could neither prevent nor disguise the heat that crept across her cheeks. And yet her instincts seemed to be as treacherous as her complexion, because she turned to Vash for rescue. Vash, of all people, who didn't let a single heartbeat pass before that insufferable grin was already spreading across his face.

"Sure." He huffed. "Guess I'll just have to keep that pretty little face out of harm's way then."

She blinked slowly, turning to Rosaline for rescue instead. But the nurse only shrugged, her knowing smile firmly in place; no help was coming from that direction either.

A low sound escaped her throat, and the look she levelled at Vash could have drawn blood. "That pretty little face," she hissed, "is going to knock your teeth out."

"Hm." Vash tilted his head, the grin stretching a fraction wider. “I’d like to see her try.”

God, how she wanted to wipe that shit-eating grin clean off his face.

"No fighting on my porch!" Rosaline finally cut in, mercifully severing the exchange before she could turn to violence. "And that," she added before either of them could protest, "includes whatever it is you two call flirting."

Oh, that trip was about to be a fucking nightmare.

Her head whipped toward the nurse. "We are not-"

"Sure you aren't," Rosaline's smirk said otherwise. There was no winning this one, and they all knew it; she let the protest die where it was. "So. Vash."

The blond turned to her. "Mh?"

“Take care of her.”

"I promise." He nodded, his smile carrying no levity whatsoever; only the unadorned weight of a man who meant every word.

Rosaline let out a tired sound. “You promise a lot of things.”

“I know.”

She was in the driver's seat before Vash had even reached the car, door already shut behind her. "I'm driving," she announced through the window, and it wasn't up for debate.

She had to admit, grudgingly, that Vash had done a remarkable makeover job on the vehicle. The window was mended, every trace of the November police markings scrubbed clean. The car looked nearly new. She was impressed; she was also not going to tell him that.

Vash's hand found the door handle and he paused. "I'd argue, but you'd just tell me it's your car."

"See?" she scoffed. "We're getting along already."

But as she settled into the driver's seat, hands curling around the steering wheel, something occurred to her. Something rather significant.

She had no fucking idea which direction they were supposed to be going. At all.

Reluctantly, her head turned toward her travel companion, who had made himself entirely too comfortable in the passenger seat. "So," she mumbled, "Which way is Aniya Town?"

Vash lifted a brow at her “North?” 

“Not helping, Vash.”

"Well." He tilted his head. "There aren't exactly roads out here. So unless you'd like me narrating every turn directly into your ear for the next several hours..."

He let the sentence hang there, smiling pleasantly. She stared at him; he stared back.

He waited a few additional seconds before opening his mouth. "...can I take the wheel, now?"

And this is how they ended up switching seats.

One of them found this utterly hilarious, while the other pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window and lodged a continuous protest for the better part of fifteen minutes, as the car wound through the near-deserted streets of March.

The silence, when it finally came, lasted approximately forty seconds.

"Wanna play two truths and a lie again?" Vash asked.

Vash sneered at her after an instance of peace that proved to be way too short. “Wanna play two truths and a lie again?”

She glanced over at him, her gaze lingering a moment longer than she intended. He reclined into the driver's seat with effortless ease, right hand loose around the steering wheel, his other arm propped against the open window. The scorcing desert wind moved through his blond hair as he drove, casting shifting shadows across the amber of his gaze.

She could feel her cheeks heating up and told herself it was the heat. "No," she declared flatly. 

"Okay then." He clicked his tongue. "What about truth or dare?"

That startled a laugh out of her despite herself. "You really are a child," she said, turning toward him.

"I'm the child?" Vash raised a brow, glancing over the rim of his glasses. "You just sulked for fifteen minutes because I took the wheel."

“Oh, fuck off.”

He snorted in response, eyes returning to the road ahead. Their dynamic was the same as it always was, yet something sat uneasily in her chest, something Rosaline had planted there deliberately. Questions she hadn't been able to shake since the previous night. And even if she had promised Vash not to dig too much around him, she knew this was different.

"Alright then, I'll bite." She was grateful he wasn't looking at her. "Truth or dare?"

He glanced over, just long enough. "You've got that look again," he said, eyes already back on the road.

Of course he did. 

"What look?"

"The one that means you're about to ask me something you've already decided you're going to ask."

Busted. Her silence of hesitation was as good as a confession. "Stop doing that," she muttered.

"Alright. Truth it is."

Her brow arched. "Is it true that your name is Vash the Stampede?"

She could only watch in profile. He kept his eyes on the road, but something shifted behind the amber of his glasses before a sharp exhale slipped through his lips.

"Damn." His head tilted slightly, gaze fixed ahead, and he no longer glanced her way. "And here I was, foolish enough to think there was at least one person left in this world who didn't know my name."

"I didn't," she replied. "Not until Rosaline told me."

Silence settled between them, filled only by the low grumble of the engine and the sand beneath the tires. She could feel the weight of it and almost regretted asking. But murder was not a small word, and she was not done.

"So Rosaline knows," Vash said quietly, almost to himself, his gaze anchored to the horizon ahead. 

It was a jarring shift; she had grown so accustomed to his relentless brightness, his easy laughter, that this desolate version of him felt almost like a stranger wearing his face. And yet, she knew that stripping away the performance was the only path to anything real, and so she pressed forward.

"She does. She saw the wanted posters first, then started hearing things. Rumours that weren't easy to dismiss." She kept her voice measured; she genuinely had no desire to wound him. But some things couldn't stay unasked. "So then." She shifted in her seat. "Vash the Stampede. Truth or dare."

"Hey-" He sat up slightly. "It's my tur-"

“Is it true that you murdered an entire town?”

Those words found something; Vash turned toward her in an instant, his gaze fixing on her with an intensity that left little room for breath. And yet his eyes held no anger, not even a flicker of it: she had begun to suspect that anger was not something he was built for.

Neither of them looked away. He glanced at the road only when he had to, and each time his eyes came back to her, they carried something unreadable she couldn't quite name.

"Played me at my own game..." He exhaled quietly, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Well done."

"You're dodging the question."

A second ticked by, then another. His jaw tightened. "It's... complicated."

She crossed her arms. "Murder isn't complicated."

She knew that wasn't entirely true. But she wasn't interested in philosophy; she wanted to know if the rumour was real. 

"I didn't kill them." His eyes stayed fixed on the road. "But they died because of me. I was there; that was enough." He paused, his jaw tightened. "The only one I pulled out was a kid. So yes. I'm responsible."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Vash." Her voice came out sharper than she intended. "That's not murder."

"Why?" Something flickered behind his glasses. "Because I wasn't the one who lit up the blaze?"

"Then tell me what happened."

She wouldn't have blamed him for staying quiet. But after a moment, he spoke.

"It happened a while ago. Prospector's Worth was the town's name," he mumbled. "A tiny town, north of December. I'd been through there before, knew a family there. Good people." He paused. "There was an organization operating in December."

"The Solstice?" she interrupted him.

Vash's eyes widened. "You know them?"

"Rosaline mentioned it."

He hummed, gaze distant for a moment. "Then, yes, The Solstice. They're dangerous, even if they don't look it. I'd been getting in their way for a while, helping people like Rosaline out of their grasp. That family was one of them. I was passing through to check on them, but I guess I didn't know The Solstice had eyes on me."

Vash's jaw tightened. "When I got there, it had already started. Part of them came straight for me, kept me occupied while the rest moved through the town." He stopped, drawing a breath that seemed to cost him something. "By the time I got free, everything was already burning. There must have been explosives hidden all around."

She said nothing. She'd half-dismissed it when Rosaline first mentioned it; now, sitting in a car with someone who had watched an entire town burn because of them, it was beginning to sound less like a conspiracy and more like an actual threat. 

"The only one I pulled out was a young girl. She'd been hidden; her parents must have had just enough time before-" He didn't finish. "Everyone else was gone."

Silence. She had no words for it, and for once, she didn't try to find any.

Her thoughts were loud enough that her own voice startled her when it came. "Is this why your bounty is so high?

“Partly.” He nodded. He was still smiling; something worn around the edges, but a smile nonetheless. "By the time the police got there, I was the only one left standing along with the kid. It wasn't hard to make it look like I did it."

She arched a brow at him. "Surely there must have been enough proof to show that you didn't." 

He lifted a shoulder. "Maybe. But the town would never have been attacked if I hadn't been there." His eyes stayed on the road. "I wanted to help them. Instead, everyone died and that kid lost her parents. I guess the bounty is the least of it."

She swallowed hard. The anger was already rising; the same anger, the same reasons as before. He was yet again being a self-sacrificing idiot. 

She exhaled slowly, measured. "Let me get this straight." Her voice came out even, which took effort. "You did your best to save them. You just got there too late. That doesn't make you responsible for their deaths. Right?"

"But the end result is the same." His brows furrowed. "They died because of me."

That did it.

"Is this what you meant?" Her voice came out sharper than she intended, sharp enough that Vash's head turned. "When you said misfortune follows you everywhere, you meant this? Punishing yourself for things you couldn't control?"

He opened his mouth to protest. “I-”

"You can't be everywhere, Vash. You know that, right? You can't save every single person, every single time. And blaming yourself when you can't is not the same thing as being responsible!"

Vash exhaled sharply. "Of course not." He dragged a hand through his hair, leaning back against the door. "But I was there. I was the one who put them in danger. They never would have been otherwise." He stopped himself. "Life is precious, and it was lost. That's all there is to it."

She held his words for a moment, then let them go. "Then I'm not going to waste my breath trying to change your mind." She turned back to the window, and Vash didn't push it.

He was being unbelievably stubborn in his selflessness. There was nothing more to say; she'd tried, and he wasn't going to budge.

From what she'd seen, his reflex was to take accountability for everything within reach, and plenty of things beyond it. A bounty for a crime he tried to prevent. Driving her to safety, patching her wound, and introducing her to Rosaline. Staying at her side when he had no obligation to. 

If that bullet had killed her, would he have blamed himself for that, too?

Asking the question was the same as answering it. 

The city limits were beginning to emerge on the horizon. Her gaze drifted upward without thinking, and it caught on the shape rising against the barren sky. The lightbulb. Dark where it should have been glowing. 

She'd spent years studying them, talking at them without an answer. There had been a time when she'd planned to spend her whole life working with them. That time had passed, but a dead Plant still did something to her she couldn't entirely explain.

She didn't think about it. "Hey, Vash."

“Mh?”

“Would you mind if we made an additional stop?”

“Not at all.” He shook his head. "Where to?"

She shifted her arm from the leather seat, finger raised to the lightbulb through the windshield. “I want to take a look at the Plant.”

A few seconds passed. Vash opened his mouth, then closed it again. "You know it's..."

“Dead, I know,” she nodded. 

He held the confusion a moment longer, then let it go. "Fine," he said, hands settling on the wheel. "Let's go."

She wasn't entirely sure why she'd asked. Only that she'd needed to; and that somewhere between his stubbornness and her own, she'd stopped being able to tell the difference between his foolishness and hers.

How deep was she going to sink for that man?

Chapter Text

She could not recall the last time she had felt so small. As she stood in front of the towering Plant, like a child pitted against the indifferent breadth of the universe, she was reminded of how crushing it was to stand beside the man-man giants of this world. Rattled by the scorching winds, the metal groaned above her head, looming from what felt like miles away.

But the worst thing was undeniably the silence. A typical urban Plant facility was perhaps as tall as it was loud, especially when the condensation flow crested at its peak in the afternoon. The sunlight relentlessly striking the lightbulb would cause it to superheat during the second half of the day; she could effortlessly conjure the sound of steam points straining to the point of rupture from memory alone. 

For the March Plant, however, the silence was suffocating; perhaps as desolate as the facility itself, which remained upright only by the virtue of its metallic skeleton. Technically, the structure was still sound, but corrosion had long since begun its patient reclamation, shrouding the steel in tarnished bronze. Fragments had shed and collapsed to the ground, the sand already swallowing them whole; perhaps the most fitting metaphor for ruin wrought by the inexorable passage of time.

Still, it would prove impossible to determine whether the Plant itself yet lived from the outside; the ceiling enclosing the base of the lightbulb rendered the faint luminescence emitted by the tank imperceptible from where they stood. Tracking its vitals from the Control Room would have been feasible, had there been sufficient power coursing through the facility, but even the emergency reserves were bound to be entirely exhausted by now, rendering that avenue useless.

The most direct recourse would be to make for the Tank Room, where a portion of the basin remained visible from below. Or trust Vash's word on the matter, but she had always been far more inclined to corroborate things with her own eyes.

The crack of the car door being thrown shut wrenched her from her thoughts, causing her to instinctively swivel towward the sound. She was promptly met with Vash's inveterate grin. 

The sound of the car door being slammed shut drew her out of her thoughts, causing her to instinctively swivel toward the noise. She was promptly met with Vash’s perpetual grin.

"Do you think it's safe to go inside?" She asked him.

His smirk carved itself wider. "Probably not." He tilted his head toward the entrance. "Though I doubt that would change your mind."

Little shit. 

But he was right. "Indeed," she huffed, though the smile pulling at the corner of her lips rather undermind the effect. "Come on, then."

The main employee entrance stood before them, a utilitarian door whose paint had long since blistered and peeled away in strips, leaving the bare metal beneath it mottled and raw. She had anticipated finding it sealed, the lock frozen shut by years of disuse and the absence of power to release it; instead, it gave with a grinding resistance, as though the building itself was deliberating. A cascade of dust dislodged from the frame exhaled and settled to the ground.

Unsurprisingly, the interior was consumed by darkness; Plant facilities had never been conceived with natural light in mind, leaving them entirely dependent on artificial illumination. Had the emergency power system remained functional, a handful of safety lights would have carved dim corridors through the black; their absence was yet another indication that the reserves had long since run dry. 

She turned to Vash, who had positioned himself in the doorframe, one shoulder propped against the jamb, peering into the dark. "Got a flashlight?" she asked him.

His gaze detached itself from the darkness. "In my bag."

Without waiting to be asked, he had already pivoted on his heels and ambled toward the car to retrieve it. He returned shortly, rattling the lamp once before clicking on it; the beam illuminated the entrance in a grudging wash of light. 

She did not hesitate to take the lead. Her feet moved before she consciously directed them, carrying her down corridors and around corners with a certainty that had no rational basis, as though something lodged deep in the marrow of her bones had memorized this place long before she had. Behind her, Vash's footsteps fell unhurried, the flashlight beam sweeping ahead of them both in a restless arc. 

The layout was nearly identical to what she remembered. Plant facilities had been mass-produced for deployment aboard the spaceships, stamped from the same blueprint. The auxiliary buildings added to them tended to shift to accommodate the terrain, but the internal architecture remained largely consistent from one facility to the next. 

She knew it, and yet the knowledge did nothing to account for the tightness gathering in her chest, nor for the way her throat drew slightly closed with each successive turn, as though the building was pressing in around her.

The elevators were decommissioned as well, leaving them no alternative but the ladders to traverse between levels. Eventually, they reached the main hatch, the primary conduit between the plant building and the tower, ordinarily sealed for security. In its place now yawned a gaping breach: a hollow corridor stripped of all vitality, the air within it stale and undisturbed. Yet another quiet analogy of what awaited them on the other side.  

"Hey." Vash's voice echoed between the walls in the hollow dark. "Wanna tell me why we're here?"

She snorted. Fair enough; she'd be asking the same thing. "Give me a minute."

“My, so mysterious.” She could practically hear the grin threading through his voice. 

Three years. She hadn't set food inside a Plant facility in three years, and she was only now registering what that meant; the low, wordless unease that had been trailing her since they'd pulled up outside, the pull that had brought her here before she'd had the sense to question it. Not melancholy, not nostalgia, but something older and less nameable instead. 

The Tank Room settled it. She had always felt closest to herself in this room, and stepping into it now, into its silence and absolute stillness, made her chest constrict. She was accustomed to the cerulean glow that bled from the tank above, the soft luminescence that made the whole chamber feel submerged, alive. Now the dome was drowned in shadow, and even the flashlight beam surrendered against the glass, scattering on its surface without revealing a thing beyond.

A fracture ran along the left flank, the metronomic drip of water through the fissure making it easier to find it, each drop striking the floor below with quiet persistence. The pipes along the wall had fared no better: corroded, buckled, several already collapsed. The room had simply been left to finish dying on its own.

She exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the empty dome. Her chest ached with a grief that had no clean justification; she hadn't known this Plant, had never stood in this specific room before today. Yet it didn't matter.

"It's... about what I expected," she murmured, more to herself than to Vash. As if naming it could make it easier to hold. 

"There was no meltdown." Vash's voice came from just behind her, stripped of its habitual lightness as though even he felt the weight of the room. "Half the town would have gone up with it, otherwise."

She turned sharply, fixing him with a wide-eyed stare. "You've been here before." It was not a question. She had known he was familiar with March, but knowing about something and having stood in the room while it happened were two entirely different things. 

He nodded. "Yes. I was there that day."

His admission prompted her to arch a brow. At times, it genuinely seemed as though he existed in all places simultaneously; a man perpetually arriving just in time for the worst of things. She couldn't help but wonder how many corners of this world he had travers in his lifetime. How old was he truly? She had never thought to asked; yet standing here, it felt like the kind of question that deserved a better moment than this one. 

"They managed to force water back into the tank to avert a catastrophe." His voice was even, but there was something careful in it, the flatness of memories carried for a long time. "But by that point, there was nothing anyone could have done for the Plant. It was already too late."

Without him elaborating, she could still piece together what had truly transpired. They often called it a "quiet deactivation", an even in which a Plant suddenly died without a warning. 

Plants served primarily to yield two things: potable water and organisms scientifically classified as "embryonic cells". Both were extracted directly from the Plant tank, the latter subsequently transported out of the facility and cultivated into a broad range of food sources. Providing these was a Plant's singular function and purpose; as such, any aberration in the generation process was sufficient to send alarm rippling through an entire community. 

The precise mechanism by which a Plant might die remained largely nebulous to most. It was far from adequately document; it was hardly a commonplace occurence for a Plant to simply extinguish itself. And yet, despite certain researchers raising alarm over such events occurring with troubling frequency across Gunsmoke, the broader public dismissed these concerns as little more than fringe hysteria. 

Nobody genuinely understood how Plants functioned, nor could they fathom their precise origins. Their very existence remained a source of contention, with most scholars converging on the broad consensus that they were organic constructs engineered by humanity back on Earth and transported across the stars aboard the ships that had crashed on Gunsmoke, 104 years ago. 

But their presumed origin contradicted the concept of a quiet deactivation. How could a machine simply die, let alone one that had been meticulously engineered to serve humanity in perpetuity?

After lingering in silence for a brief spell, Vash's voice pulled her from her reverie. "After that, I feared life would grow untenable around here. A lot of people left, of course. But so many others lacked the means to abandon everything and start over elsewhere. So I spent a few months here, trying to rally whatever support I could find."

"So that's why you went back to December," she started, firmly holding his gaze. "To ask for Rosaline's help."

For a few suspended seconds, Vash went very still; not the theatrical stillness of someone caught off guard, but something more genuine. "How did you..."

"She told me everything." She paused long enough to let it land. "The clinic, her debt to the Solstice. You showing up and pulling her out of there."

He nodded, the admission settling between them without ceremony. "Yeah, that's right. She needed a way out, far from the city. March was far enough. "His jaw shifted slightly. "Just wish I'd gotten back to her sooner, before she had to get herself tangled up in all of that."

She was not going to let him get away with self-imposed guilt this time. "Oh, so that's another one for the list, then." Her tone was deliberately light. "Let me guess: you got her out safe, and somehow you still managed to find a way to make it your fault."

Vash absorbed the blow with nothing more than a slow exhale through his nose. Then, inevitably, he smiled, though it seemed slightly more tired around the edges. "Damn." He snorted, his metallic hand glinting under the flashlight's beam as it raked through his hair. "You're really out for my blood today."

And there he was, infuriatingly irreverent as ever. "You know," she grumbled, "it'd be a lot easier to argue with you if you weren't so predictable about it."

Vash hummed, as if he had heard this before and had long since made his peace with hearing it again. The smile at the corner of his mouth never wavered.

"Alright then." His gaze found hers, something unreadable sitting just behind the amusement. "My turn now."

She blinked. "Your turn for what?"

"Truth or dare."

The look she gave him could have stripped paint. "Vash, I swear to god-"

"Hey." He raised a hand pre-emptively before she could finish the threat, his grin unwavering. "I followed you into a condemned building without asking a single question. The least you can do is answer one or two of mine."

He had a point. She hated that he had a point.

"Fine." She exhaled through her nose and met his eyes. "Truth."

His grin widened, because of course it did. "Then tell me." The amusement in his voice softened. "Why did you bring me here?"

She frowned at him. Because the honest answer sat somewhere she couldn't quite reach; not a decision or a reason, but something in her chest that had moved before she could stop it. "I wanted to see the Plant." She crossed her arms. It wasn't untrue. But it wasn't the whole of it, and something in his expression told her he already knew that.

Vash chuckled. The fucking nerve. "Let me guess: that was your lie."

“Wrong game.” 

“Oh, I know.”

She held his gaze for a moment, weighing it. Then she exhaled and let the guard down; not because she'd decided to, but because standing here, in this room, it felt dishonest not to. "I needed to see it," she said quietly, "I don't have a better reason. I just did."

Vash said nothing for a moment. Just looked at her in that way he had that made her feel faintly transparent. Then his gaze drifted upward toward the empty dome, and something in his expression shifted, just slightly.

But she noticed. And she knew what it meant.

"The Plant." The words came before she'd decided to speak. Her hand rose instinctively toward the glass before she remembered she couldn't reach it, and she let her finger point upward instead. "Do you think you're responsible for its death? For what happened to March? Because you couldn't get here in time to save it?"

She already knew the answer. Which is why she wasn't surprised when his face fell, the grin gone all at once, like a candle snuffed out. His eyes brimmed with something old and deeply settled, a guilt that had long since stopped being sharp and simply become weight.

“Well…”

"I know." She didn't let him finish. For a moment, she just looked at him; at the way he carried it, all of it, without complaint. Then she exhaled. "You carry the weight of the world as if it were yours alone. As if every life lost is a debt you personally owe."

Vash said nothing, and she took it as permission to keep going.

"And so you indict yourself every time something goes wrong. For every soul you couldn't save." Her eyes drifted to the dome above. "Take the Plant. I don't know what killed it. I'd bet it was the fact that it never got to stop. Just kept producing, day after day, giving everything it had until there was nothing left to give. And that's not on you."

She exhaled sharply, struggling to keep the edge from her voice. "Plants exist to serve us. That's all they're allowed to do. And you-" she gestured vaguely at him "- you've done the same thing to yourself. Chained yourself to something you can't ever fully pay off. Don't you think that's the same?"

He didn't answer that either. Her eyes drifted back to the done. 

"One day, you'll destroy yourself if you keep doing this."

She fell quiet.

She wasn't sure anymore how much of it had been for him, for the Plant or for herself; for the version of her that had stood in a Tank Room at seven years old and talked to the glass, desesperate to be heard by something that couldn't possibly respond.

For the version of her that still waited for an answer beyond the glass. Waiting for something to reach back through it, to speak to the pain, to the vengeance she'd sworn on and quietly doubted every single day. To the weight of the grief she'd long buried beneath all of it.

Maybe she'd come here for that, too. To see if anything had changed.

But it didn't. The dome stayed dark, and the only sound was the drip of water through the crack in the glass, steady and indifferent. 

She glanced back at Vash. He hadn't moved, still watching her, making her feel less like she was being observed and more like she was being held. 

"Life exists outside of your control." Her voice had dropped, less of an argument now and more something she needed to say. "And death too. But there's more to it than emptiness. People leave things behind, memories. The shape they carved into the lives of the people who knew them. They don't just simply vanish." Her gaze drifted upward again. "Like the Plant. It's gone now, but think about how long it was here. How many people it kept alive, how many homes it lit up at night. How many memories it made possible."

She paused, bringing her eyes back to him. "It deserved to exist, even if it was always going to end. Like smoke, it doesn't vanish when you put out the fire. It just becomes something you can't see anymore."

When her gaze finally came back down, Vash was still watching her, head tilted and wordless, like he hadn't so much as shifted his weight the entire time she'd been talking. The easy warmth that usually lived in his expression was gone; what remained was something far more attentive, and it unnerved her more than she expected. She became acutely aware of how much she'd just said. They'd barely known each other for more than a week. Who was she to tell him any of this?

"Ugh, sorry." She groaned, tearing her gaze from his, which had settled on her with unsettling steadiness. "I don't even know what I'm saying anymore."

Vash lowered his hands slowly. "No." He replied simply, without the usual buffer of a smile. For a moment, she almost didn't recognize him; something in his face had gone very open. "You're right. I just need a while to sit with it."

She nodded once and looked away. "Right." The heat in her face was not going anywhere. "Sorry for... all of that."

"Don't be." He chuckled. "Thank you. Really." The smile that followed was quieter than his usual ones, and it did nothing to help with the flush. "I didn't know I needed to hear that."

She had no idea what to do with that, and so she looked back up at the dome without a word.

"I gotta say." Vash's voice broke the quiet, for which she was embarrassingly relieved. "I've never heard anyone talk about Plants like that before." He tilted his head slightly. "Most people don't, I don't know... Care about them, I guess. Not like that."

She looked back at him sideways. "Suppose I'm more open-minded than most."

"Hm." The corner of his mouth curved; not the full grin, but the beginning of one. "So. Truth or dare?

"Are you serious right now?"

"Hey!" He raised both hands, the grin fully arriving now. "I just listened to a ten-minute speech about Plants and death and smoke-" he gestured vaguely at the space between them. "I think that earns me a least one question."

She sighed. He had a point: they still had weeks of road ahead of them. He was going to find things out whether she offered them willingly or not. 

"It's nothing impressive, really." Her teeth found the inside of her cheek. "I was studying to become a Plant Operator. Worked in one for a bit during University."

"Huh." He arched a brow. "Really. Never would've guessed."

"Is that so?" Her tone was flat. "I never got my degree, if you were wondering. With the bounty and all."

Vash shrugged. "Who cares about a piece of paper. What I'm more curious about is the reason." He was smiling at her now with something closer to fascination than courtesy. "Why the interest in Plants in the first place?"

She laughed, which surprised her a little. The last time she'd told this story, she'd been mocked for a week straight. She had no particular reason to think Vash would be different. "It's a stupid reason. I usually told people I did it for the paycheck."

"Good thing I liked stupid, then." He grinned

"Sure you do." She waved him off. "It's really not that deep, I'm warning you."

"Try me."

She began to wind a strand of hair around her finger, eyes drifting somewhere past him. "When I was young, I lived in Redfort with my father. Middle of nowhere, with nobody there by choice." She paused. "There were no other kids my age around, so whenever it got to be too much, I'd sneak into the Plant facility and just... talk to it." She glanced at him sideways, as if checking whether he was already laughing. He wasn't. "I don't even know how it started. I just know I could go one for hours. Even if it probably couldn't hear a word."

"Who knows." Vash smiled at her. "Maybe it was."

There was something in his voice she couldn't quite place. 

She shrugged. "Maybe." Her gaze drifted past him and past the room. "There was this one time when I really felt like it was actually hearing me. I looked up at the tank and there it was, just... looking back. These curious eyes." Her throat moved. "It looked so young. Like on the other side of the glass, there was just another little lost girl. Same as me. She..."

She stopped herself, having learned the hard way that this was the part where people started looking at her differently. And the last thing she needed was for Vash to spend the next few weeks convinced he was travelling with a lunatic.

"Anyway." She waved it off, nudging a fragment of concrete with her foot. "I never got to find out, because a few seconds later the technician walked in and threw my ass out."

"And you never went back?"

"They patched the hole in the fence. I wasn't about to walk through the front door, so...." She shrugged. "Gave up. Moved to November a few years later. Haven't been back to Redfort since."

Even in the city, at university or during her brief time working as an operator, she'd never seen a Plant up close. Just charts, readouts and numbers on a screen. She used to stand under the dome anyway, looking up. Waiting. But nothing ever showed up; the tank swirled, a smooth ocean of hollowness above her head. 

"Well." Vash was quiet for a moment. "That explains a lot."

She braced for it: the look, the careful tone, the gentle suggestion that Plants were merely machines and she was reading into things. But it didn't come. "See, I told you it was stupid," she preemptively said anyway. "You probably think I'm out of my mind."

"Not even a little." The quickness of it surprised her. "I've always thought there was more to them than people give them credit for."

She scoffed, mostly to cover the relief. "Everyone I knew growing up treated them like appliances. Just there to keep the lights on and the water running." Her gaze drifted. "But I kept thinking about her eyes. The way she looked back at me like she was actually... there. Like the silence between us meant something."

Her eyes briefly flickered to Vash, yet again waiting for a reaction. 

"I know how that sounds," she defended herself.

Vash said nothing for a moment. "It doesn't sound the way you think it does," he finally replied.

She glanced at him, noticing that he wasn't smiling. Just watching her, following something in her words she couldn't quite account for.

He eyes flew upward; and once again, akin to the many times prior, there was no other gaze to meet hers.

"I know we couldn't survive without them." She smiled softly. "But sometimes, I just wish we treated them better. They give everything they have to us, every single day. And we never even stop to think about what that costs them."

"You know," she whispered almost to herself, "maybe that's why they remind me of you, too."

Something shifted in his face; she saw it happen, and she couldn't look away. The easy warmth drained out of his expression entirely, replaced for something much more raw and complex. As if he'd been described in words he didn't know existed. He wasn't smiling, nor deflecting this time. He was just... there, staring back at her, and for a long moment neither of them said anything at all.

Then she registered the colour rising in his face, and her own followed immediatly.

"Sorry, I-" she stammered.

"No." He cut her off, which was almost funny given he looked just as caught off guard as she did. "It's... It's a good analogy."

"Right." She scoffed, mostly to have something to do with her face. "Well, as long as you actually got something out of all of that. Otherwise, I'm going to feel like I've been talking to a wall."

"I did." He replied quietly, eyes trailing off. It was strange to see him like this: no deflection, no easy smile to hide behind. "Thank you. I mean it. I didn't think anyone would..." He stopped. "Never mind. Thank you."

She stood there, mouth slightly open, and said nothing.

"Can't promise I'll change overnight," he added after a moment, almost to himself. "But I'll try. For your sake."

"My sake." She scoffed because denial was always easier than the alternative. "Don't make me laugh."

Yet she could feel her face blazing. Her sake? What was that supposed to mean?

Neither of them said anything for a moment. The drip of water through the cracked glass filled the silence, steady as ever.

"Well." Vash cleared his throat, eyes drifting sideways. Not quite to her, but no quite away. The smirk that followed was smaller than usual, still finding its footing. "I do want to travel without the imminent threat of having my kneecaps shattered."

She laughed despite herself. "Alright, fair."

Her gaze went up toward the casket of the Plant up above, holding it there longer than she needed to. She didn't fully understand what had driven her here. But standing here now, with the darkness and the empty dome above her, she thought that she didn't need to understand.

It was doubtlessly the last she'd ever see of this place; by the physical state of the facility, she'd be surprised if anyone else would attempt to break in without fear that it'D crumble over their heads.

The sudden surge of melancholy that swept through her was enough to turn her stomach. "Let's go," she mumbled, blinking with more force than necessary. "We've already been here long enough."

"Yeah, we should probably get moving." Vash nodded. "Aniya Town is still a long way out.

"Six hours, give or take."

Six hours. She turned the number over in her head as they made their way back through the facility, their footsteps echoing in the dark the same way they had on the way in. Only now the silence between them felt different; fuller somehow, heavier. 

Six hours in a car with her own thoughts and whatever this was.

She exhaled through her nose. They hadn't even reached the exit yet.

Chapter Text

If the car really did last six hours, she was wholly unaware of it.

She remembered walking back from the Tank Room in a  uncomfortable silence, with neither her nor Vash willing to say a word before she slotted herself back into the passenger seat, muttering a discontent objection that ended up dissolving much of the tension.

Then, she could not recall anything. Frankly, she did not have a single clue of when she’d succumbed to slumber, yet relief washed over her at the prospect that it eluded her from having to reflect upon the things that had transpired during the day.

The fiery suns had been swapped out for soft moonlight hovering from afar, though the circadian cycle did very little in dissolving the sweltering heat shrouding the desert. Fortunately, the car was still driving at sufficient speeds that a soft breeze slipped through the open windows; but as the shadow of buildings emerged in the distance, it was clear that it was about to change. 

As she regained consciousness, ears rocked by the buzzing of the car engine, her mind suddenly caught up to the fact that she could feel the weight of Vash’s flesh hand settled against the naked skin of her shoulder, fingers gently swaying her to avoid any more discomfort to her wound.

“Hey,” he mumbled; she could notice him staring through her half-lidded eyes. “We’re almost there.”

Since her brain was still drowsy, her prompt reaction was to allow a soft hum to slip by her lips; such an unsuited reaction was probably the reason why he chuckled as he shifted his hand away. And yet for some reason, the warmth of his fingers against her skin still lingered on for a few additional seconds.

“Didn’t sleep enough at Rose’s?” he asked, fingers curling around the steering wheel. 

“Mh,” she mumbled, slipping her body upwards to properly rest on the passenger seat. “Maybe.”

The blond laughed again; somehow, she couldn’t help but think that his voice sounded much better than the roar of the motor she’d unconsciously endured for six hours. “How’s the arm?” he inquired, eyes briefly shooting her a glance.

She blinked a few times; not like she’d nearly forgotten about her life-threatening injury, of course not. “A bit numb, I think?” her response was tentative, as if she didn’t quite know how to describe it either. “Feels heavy. But I’ll live.”

It was once again acutely overwhelming to deal with such thoughtfulness, his insistence on always caring for her well-being without any ulterior motive still feeling so foreign. Yet, she figured she could let it slide; not only was she not in the appropriate mental state to argue, he’d already gotten enough berating for the day. 

Instead of drowning in fruitless scrutiny, she shifted her attention to the sights that lingered outside of the car window as they approached Aniya Town. Despite being in the middle of nowhere with no huge city in its vicinity (at least not since March’s downfall), the town was surprisingly welcoming even as darkness enclosed it. There were a few signs lit, beacons in the night announcing the presence of commodities for newcomers: a few inns and taverns, in the likeliest of scenarios. But as the car began scrolling through the streets, she realized that there was a fair share of locals strolling around as well, cheerfully discussing under the glow of streetlights.

From the bits and pieces of general architecture she could discern, the buildings appeared pretty modern; an unanticipated sight for such a modest town away from everything. 

“Cute place,” she whispered, if mostly to herself. 

No matter where she looked, her eyes were unable to locate the familiar faint gleam of a Plant lightbulb; did this town not own any? 

“Rich, too,” Vash added, his hands swerving the wheel to drive the car into the nearest street. “It’s pretty cozy, compared to a lot of other places.”

She nodded, racking her brain for the tidbits of information he’d once told her. “You mentioned an underground reservoir, right?”

“Yeah. From what I’ve heard, some people from March discovered it and decided to relocate. They trade fresh water for fuel and supplies, hence the wealth.”

A scoff slipped through her lips in reverence. “Smart move.”

“Hey,” Vash chuckled in response. “Around here, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

And he wasn’t wrong; she could hardly judge what other people did to survive in the middle of the ruthless desert, where everything was constantly threatening to ransack, maim or kill you; sometimes all at the same time. If wealth inequalities was the answer to survival, then so be it; trading was pretty much essential around these parts anyway.  

And so, rather than applying what would’ve only been worthless judgment, she allowed her head to fall onto the headrest. “How do you even know all this?” she asked, lips bent in a inquisitive smile.

“Beats me.” he clicked his tongue, sharp breath exiting his nose. “I did travel a lot around these parts.”

She arched a brow curiously. “And people don’t recognize you?”

The blond merely shrugged in response. “Sometimes,” he admitted; his scoff nearly sounded wistful. “I’m just like you on that front, never staying in the same place for too long.”

At his words, she vividly recalled what had been one of their first real conversations as they were escaping from Skullpeak, carefully avoiding the city’s wandering gaze. That day, she’d admonished him; blamed him for not being able to grasp the sting of leaving everything behind. Had she known they were so similar on that front, perhaps she would’ve remained silent.

In fact, there were a few things she regretted saying to him. To her merit, she had only been cautious of her own safety; nothing he had said or done at that point indicated that he was someone worthy of confidence. But now that he’d painstakingly earned such trust, the idea of apologizing to him briefly flashed through her mind. 

Perhaps was it an honest idea, if only for the sake of their conjoined trip, to express her remorse for being so insensitive that day. She would not, however, apologize for fantasizing about throwing a desk lamp at his head; if anything, she actually regretted not doing it. 

“We’re almost here.” Vash’s voice cleaved through her inner monologue, urging her gaze upon him as he spoke. “I know a good inn nearby. We can definitely stay there for a night or two.”

She lifted a brow. “Two?” Sure, they hadn’t exactly laid it out day by day, but as far as she was concerned this wasn’t the plan. 

“The next inhabited town on the way east is Hope’s Ford.” the blond calmly explained. “We can’t get through the mountains by car. So from here, I’d say it’s at least a good three-day drive. Maybe even four.”

Even if she wasn’t as talented as Vash in conveying the impression that she was reading minds, his ensuing train of thought proved to be predictable enough. “So, you want to take a break before the long trip.” she assessed, too unbothered to phrase it as a question.

He nodded approvingly, a smile at the corner of his lips. “Preferably so,” his response was soft, commending her for getting the right answer. “That way, we’ll have the whole day tomorrow to refuel and gather some supplies.”

As much as it pained her to admit, he was right. There were a few instances in which she’d been on the road for even longer than that, especially during the times she was moving on foot; but she had been thoroughly exhausted all throughout. Getting some time to rest beforehand was perhaps the most logical option here. 

“Alright…” she sighed, head colliding against the fake leather of her seat. “Let’s get to the inn first, then we’ll reassess.”

The blond promptly scoffed, his gaze flickering over to her before drifting back to the road. “You’ve slept through the whole trip and you’re already tired?”

“Ugh.” she groaned, her eyes rolling back in indignation. “No, but at this point, I just want to lay down in a real bed.” with the back of her heel, she mercilessly kicked the front of her seat. “That car is probably the least comfortable thing I’ve ever sat in.” 

And she’d known the University chairs. And those goddamn awful stools in the Control Room of that Plant she’d worked at; so that was saying a lot. 

Her companion laughed at her comment, nodding softly. “Awful engine, too. I’m surprised that thing’s still working.”

“Wow.” she huffed. “The police having shit taste; what a concept.”

Vash burst into laughter, and she couldn’t help but smile at such a delightful sound. 

Frankly, the inn was a far more pleasant place than what she’d expected. Usually, motels in smaller towns would be bundled with a tavern or a bar of some sort, considering that these were usually the two institutions that proved to be most frequented by traders and wandering travellers. Yet, from what she’d been able to discern, such a place happened to be across the street instead.

The inn Vash had chosen was rather humble in comparison, the lobby area consisting of a simple wooden desk adorned between dark walls with a few couches to the right, facing the staircase. 

She stood up, lower back against the counter and glancing sideways at Vash as he conversed with the innkeeper, a lovely old woman with gray locks framing her smiling face. Her blonde companion had informed her that they planned to rent a room with two single beds for the night, mentioning that they had yet to conclude if they were staying for a second one as well. 

As he spoke, she was somehow urged to raise a brow at his request for a single room. Yet, as her hand went digging through her backpack for the necessary funds (since she’d already settled with Vash that she was the one paying this time, much to his dismay), the hushed racket of coins clattering between her fingers painfully reminded her that money did not, in fact, grow in the desert. Sure, she wasn’t exactly poor thanks to the funds she had managed to hoard from Skullpeak’s drunks, but that surely would not last forever. Sparing some small change everywhere she possibly could was the only conceivable way she was going to make it to November without relying on Vash. She winced, silently grinding her teeth at the thought.

In truth, sharing a room wasn’t the worst thing in the world; especially in light of the fact that they’d already done it once, back in Tantrails. Sure, she might have been in atrocious pain to the point that she was fully unable to recall a single thing about the room itself, but it was an event that did happen nonetheless. Nothing awful had occurred between them because of it; although, she felt that they were way past that point now.

Her eyes trailed Vash’s movements as the metallic key settled into the palm of his hand, a motion to which he responded by smiling from ear to ear. For some outlandish reason, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking that the sight was quite adorable, considering how childlike such a pure expression made him seem; and for however long it took her brain to come to this conclusion, never once had she tore her gaze away from him.

She was only startled from her trance-like state by the sound of his voice after he’d shifted his head toward her. “Room 202,” he stated. “That’s on the second floor.”

For a second, she wondered if the innkeeper told them that information while she hadn’t been listening. The embarrassment of having conceivably overlooked such a thing was prompt to follow; and so she huffed the unease away, simply nodding in response. “After you.” her head spun around, calling attention to the staircase behind them. 

He was prompt to throw her a silent smile, akin to the one he’d just offered to the old lady behind the desk before taking the lead toward the left; and she soon followed, right on his heels.

The way to the floor up above was composed of a dozen steps leading to a square landing, which opened up on the right toward a second set of steps. The pair climbed the first flight of stairs, comfortable silence wrapping them like a veil; or at least until they reached the first landing, when a boisterous commotion resonated over their head, urging their attention toward the source of the noise.

Through the doorframe to the stairwell had stumbled a middle-aged man whose features she had no time to analyze because soon he was stumbling down the steps like his ass was on fire and the last existing source of water was on the ground floor. He was skipping the flight of stairs so rapidly that she was frankly surprised he hadn’t tripped over his own feet already; the mere thought made her mentally chuckle. 

The man got nearer and Vash spun toward her, grin stretching the corner of his lips as they seemingly shared the same thoughts. And yet she had no time to bestow his expression, instead compelled to watch as the fellow crashed into her companion in an unceremonious jolt, thus forcing him to stumble. The collision was so powerful that it made him slam into her, simultaneously toppling with her back colliding into the wall.

Pain flooded her in a flash, though it was prompt to subside when she opened her eyes. After all, Vash had been the only thing standing between her and the mysterious individual; and since he’d begun turning toward her beforehand, the blow had forced him to halt his rotation as he was fully facing her.

And now, he had her pinned against the wall. 

And he was not moving back. In fact, he was not moving at all. 

Hands affixed to the wall, both of his arms encircled her body as his large shoulders loomed above, arched inwards as if shielding her from a threat. The precarious position left little to be desired, with barely enough space between them; it would prove to be impossible to exhale without him sensing the warmth of her breath. Which was frankly convenient, in a way, because that gasp stranded in her throat was not about to escape her mouth anytime soon. 

What the actual fuck. 

Her mind was ringing, buzzing; excessively aware of every fickle sensation on her body. She could feel the fabric of his shirt rubbing against the tip of her nose and the raggedness of his coat brushing onto her clothes; both the balmy warmth of his human hand and the nipping chill of his prosthetic abrading the naked skin of her shoulders. 

She sensed the rise and fall of his toned chest as he panted rapidly from the shock, the motion compelling her to sink further into the wall that now supported her body like a crutch. And yet, as it certainly wasn’t enough, she noticed his right leg nudged between her own, somehow constraining her entire body in an unintentional grip that kept her from trembling; though, perhaps was he also unaware that such weight was the only thing now thwarting her from crumbling to her knees. 

His protective stance seemed unyielding, yet completely oblivious to the fact that currently, the biggest threat to her sanity was himself. 

“Woah, careful friend!” Vash’s voice rang above her head, somewhat muffled as if cotton balls were clogging her ears. “You’ll hurt someone!”

She only realized that he’d been talking to the unknown man once he’d answered with an irritated groan. “Fuck off!” his gruff voice echoed from even further away.

“Sure, have a great day!”

The sound of the front door opening and then slamming shut was the last piece of their interaction she picked up on; because soon her attention was fully back on Vash, who for some reason still hadn’t moved. 

They were so close, bodies embedded together as if they were always meant to be united like pieces of a puzzle. Then he was shifting around and it took every ounce of willpower left within her not to gasp, the noise that eluded her lips rather sounding like a tiny whimper.

When his eyes settled back on her, their gazes locked as if this was as fundamental as life itself and she was quick to realize that their faces now rested a hair’s breadth apart. Unwittingly, she focused on the frown of his eyebrows, on the small wrinkle that painted his forehead behind the rim of his glasses, on the smooth skin of his lips and on the sound of their breaths now intermingled, erratically paced to a congruous speed like the hands of a clock chasing one another.

Even if he was far taller, towering over her frame in a posture that was somehow both threatening and electrifying, the amount of concern and affection swelling from his gaze was just enough to stifle all the remainings thoughts still scorching her mind, smothered as flames doused in a sandstorm.

Either he was thoroughly oblivious to the effect of his actions or he was deliberately ignoring them; but whatever it was, it only served as a stark reminder of how much of an absolute menace this man was to the safety of the walls shielding her mind. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, and she fathomed with context clues that he was asking her. 

Despite the proximity of their mouths, his voice still resounded as if it was miles away from her and somehow, she just knew there was no way she’d be able to reply to him. Scratch that, she couldn’t reply at all, at least not if she didn’t wish for the words exiting her lips to sound like an incomprehensible mess of garbled noises. 

Suddenly, his frown grew with seeming apprehension as she did not answer. “Are you hurt?” he inquired, opting for another question. 

Quick! Find something! A reason, an excuse; anything to escape that predicament before her mind would implode. 

“My, uh…” she faltered, still racking her brain for the simplest of words. “My arm.”

Somehow, this was the thing that made him move away, shoulders shifting upwards. “Sorry!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t realize.”

And yet, for some baffling reason, he never took a step back; or at least if he did, it wasn’t far enough for her to calm down. The meagre space amongst them was only sufficient that it allowed her to inhale a sharp breath, her face now doubtlessly warmer than the suns. “W-what…” she stammered, thoughts still too jumbled for words. “What are you doing?”

“Huh?” perhaps this was the moment in which he realized how close he’d been standing. Something gleamed in his gaze as it travelled downwards, trailing her face before shifting lower to her body still firmly pressed against his; and then he gasped, promptly jumping backward on the landing as a slight blush adorned his cheeks. “Oh! Sorry,” he exclaimed, a nervous chuckle punctuating his words. “Just wanted to make sure you didn’t get hurt, that’s all.”

Oh, he hurt her all right; knocked through her ego indeed. 

He was now the furthest away from her than he’d ever been throughout that interaction, but her mind was still uncontrollably whirling and he was still too close. She was not accustomed to such proximity; or at least not while sober. In truth, she was the type to abhor any kind of physical contact; the slightest touch frightened her to no end no matter the cause or purpose. 

But now, her mind was behaving in ways she did not understand; because she hated physical contact, and yet she didn’t hate… this. 

Not to say she liked it either. Frankly, such reflection was disconcerting to a brain that was so used to computing in arbitrary shades of black and white. Now, it was muddled in patches of unsettling grays and daunting nuances, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to shove him down the stairs or yearned for him to step closer, closer than before, trapping her between the stability of the wall and the unpredictable warmth of his chest…

Fuck. I can’t do this.

“You can go to the room.” the words tumbled out of her mouth faster than she could even think of them. “I’ll… I’ll be right back.”

She was clueless as to when she’d started sprinting down the staircase, only aware of the accomplished fact once her hands were on the front door, fingers tensely jiggling with the doorknob to get it open. Noises reverberated behind her as she ran, and she fathomed that they might have been Vash’s words of protestation, indubitably confused by the events

And yet, she never mustered to make sense out of them; she didn’t even try, because soon her body was being propelled outside out of its own volution, desperately wishing that some fresh air would offer her some respite and slow down the rapidly derailing turbine that her brain had become. 

But the atmosphere outside was heavy; it was damp and sweltering, perhaps as warm as herself, which did not hinder the onslaught of her nervous panting. Nestled between the surrounding buildings, there was no wind, no breeze, no nothing; just the humidity besieging her, heat allowing the flames in her mind to fuse into a blaze.

Sure, it wasn’t helping, but at least she was far away from Vash. And at the moment, after being close to him for so long, bodies adhered to one another for what felt like an eternity, that was all she needed.

Her mind was confused, baffled by the thoughts rewiring it faster than anything she had ever known. In any other scenario, it would be ridiculous; to have such a bewildered reaction to feeling things. Oh, the feelings were definitely there, acute and painful, and yet she had no idea what they were supposed to be, much less how she was supposed to react to them. She was wholeheartedly unsure if she wanted to scream her lungs out until her throat stung or was two seconds away from bursting into tears.

What the fuck is this.

She was not in love with Vash. That part was a truth, firmly set in stone, considering the time she had spent reflecting on it. All of her life, it had always been difficult to surmise where she stood about relationships, where the bar between friendship and romance began and ended; especially considering that she had never known the bliss or curse of a romantic relationship. After spending much of her childhood alone, she had never gotten the chance to truly understand how other people's minds worked, much less how they would form bonds amongst themselves. It was only after setting foot in November and forcibly meeting other people her age that she had gotten the opportunity to nurture relationships; except that her socialization journey had begun later than everyone else around her as she lept from what felt like miles behind them. 

And now, she wasn't faring much better than before. After all, she had no idea how friendships were supposed to work after being stabbed in the back by everyone who had held such a title; and she didn't know romance either, mostly because she'd never really been interested in the first place. The only thing she did know was sex. And fuck, that was not what she needed from Vash either. She was glad to finally have someone who’d stick by her side without expecting anything out of her in return. Turning him into yet another nameless body to lie with would not only end in disaster, it was also not what he deserved. Oh, he deserved better indeed; and that better wasn't her. 

But the scene replayed in her head, flashes of foreign sensations invading her brain. The nipping bite of metal brushing her skin. The warmth of his breath on her cheek. His toned leg pressed against her, rubbing onto her thighs. And that goddamn look in his eyes, so virtuous, and yet…

Perhaps the stone was beginning to fracture after all.

…Fuck. 

Oh, she was so fucked.

Time probably ticked by, but she was clueless as to how long she had spent outside, back nudged against the wall while attempting to make sense of emotions she could not for the life of her understand. For a while, she feared that Vash would eventually bust out of the front door, completely oblivious that he’d been the main cause of her outburst. But as time went on and there were no traces of him, she figured that he probably knew better at that point. 

In their short time together, she had made quite the effort to learn more about him; it was fair to assume he had also done the same. Perhaps was he able to discern that as much as she enjoyed his company, she often needed time spent on her own, especially when it came to processing emotions.

It took another long moment that lasted between minutes and eons, but she eventually managed to somewhat brush the matter off and allow her fingers to curve around the doorknob again, feet dubiously leading her inside the lobby. Soon, she was climbing the staircase, consciously ignoring the innkeeper's gaze as she was unable to halt her mind from spiralling again; how in the hell was she going to explain this to Vash now?

Because from his perspective, all he’d seen was her stammering from the shock and the embarrassment combined, two things he had seemed entirely unaware of, before madly sprinting out of the building at speeds unimaginable. She wasn’t exactly looking forward to telling him anything about the feelings he’d induced in her mind; but then, what else could she say? 

Fortunately, however, her derailing reflection was brutally brought to a standstill as she entered their shared room; because instead of Vash’s familiar smirk greeting her, she was met with the sight of his unconscious body sprawled out on the mattress. 

He’d chosen the bed further away from the door, which did offer her some space as she now entered the room. And yet, her eyes couldn’t help but linger on him, on his fully clothed form because somehow he hadn’t even bothered to change. It appeared that he had only gotten rid of his boots and his bag before heading to sleep, back lounging over the drapes.

It was subliminal; it really was, but her eyes never moved away as she observed him and his tousled hair sprawled over the achromatic pillow. Her eyes trailed the motion of his toned chest as he breathed, then shifted to the sight of his parted lips once she heard the faint sound of snoring. She had to admit that Vash had never really felt like a threat to her; and still, she figured never before had he ever looked so peaceful, nearly angelic.

Then, finally, she froze. Because fuck was that thought process everything she had desperately been aiming to avoid. 

Before she could even begin to process the ensuing wave of feelings that was about to smash into her like a truck, her body had already sunk to the ground, back slumped against the side of the bed. And in the hollow stillness of the night, the only sounds were those of Vash’s snores and the tiny, choked noises eluding her lips as tears fell into the carpet.

Chapter Text

It’s hazy, all of it. Her surroundings are boundless, nowhere and everywhere all at once. Almost as if it never existed, as if her body had been the only thing conceived by the birthing universe. The first and sole proof of material existence.

She knows her body is real. Oh, she is feeling it all right. In the sheer absence of perceptible reality, in this mystical space, there are no more walls, no more hardness. Nothing holding her back, shielding her from incoming dangers or preventing her from spilling out. The world is soft now, smooth and delicate, chasing her limbs as they move.

The world, or whatever is left of it, is all but reduced to her back, softly sprawled across a mattress.

She feels warm, which in any other moment of her life would irk her to no end. Sweat beads over her skin in tiny drops, lukewarm and yet oddly pleasant, fulfilling. The warmth is someone else’s skin, and still she doesn’t find it strange that there’s nothing else she’d rather feel.

Their weight presses into her chest, shifting amid the drapes and the soft moans it draws from her. She can barely recognize her own distorted voice amid the rustle of moving bodies, and yet the desperation in her core, the hollow ache it leaves in her throat, points to her as the sole culprit.

Her arm lifts from the comfort of the mattress, nearly flying to the other shape in a spontaneous yet gentle arc, as if magnetized; her wrist brushes the smoothness of his back, grazing his shoulder blades. Her fingertips curl, press down, silent yet unbelievably loud.

Haziness still envelops her like a mist, suspended between bliss and longing, yet its dimness is pierced as her eyelids flutter open, meeting an entrancing emerald gaze she knows so well.

It seems almost out of character that no smirk graces his lips. In fact, his face is bare, devoid of expression, as if all of his emotions distilled into this bond they share. His gaze speaks for a thousand voices, so near yet distant, fixed somewhere far away. Watching, searching the desert for some form of an oasis. As though she’s the salvation hidden between the dunes, calling to him, pleading that this is not all just a heat-struck mirage.

The stillness they share has a voice. She knows, because she's thinking the same thing.

Time does not exist here; it is suspended and meaningless, the endlessness that slips by irrelevant as he lowers his face and finds her lips. They crash into one another, lost in the impact; unceremonious, almost desperate, and it doesn't matter. Their kiss replaces words, replaces emotions and the void in between. A need she never knew she craved.

Would there ever be any other way to breathe?

Their bodies shift, limbs tangling and melting, interlocked like a chaotic two-thousand-piece puzzle finally completed, forming a picture that would make sense to no one else. Every stifled sound is swallowed by their breath, somehow erratically in sync when not muffled by their lips, neither of them able to pull away from each other.

Then he stops.

She watches as he retreats further into the mist, gazing back at her like a treasure finally found. There’s a gleam she recognizes, that unbridled softness she spent so long unravelling. A gleam of admiration, a joy that could light up a thousand Plants, so rare and precious. And it is aimed at her.

“You’re beautiful.” He beams at her. “The best thing that happened to me.”

His voice shatters the illusion before everything goes white.

Her eyes darted open as if she’d been struck by lightning.

She was still in her bed, the motel room in full view as the sunrays filtered through whatever gap remained in the curtains. She could see all of it: the crimson carpet worn thin in patches, the chipped laminate dresser, the yellowed lamp with a cracked shade. Clear as day.

She was dreaming.

Yet her whole body was still burning, sweltering under the rising desert heat. Her bedsheets clung to her skin, twisted around her damp legs. She felt trapped, boiling alive in whatever the universe had decided to inflict on her that day.

She’d been dreaming. Dreaming about sex.

With Vash.

Her thudding heartbeat drowned out the morning’s stillness, threatening to tear free from her ribcage without warning. She forced herself to inhale, slowly, while everything came flooding back at once in flickering images and feverish warmth. Yet her breathing only grew louder and uneven, dragging through her nose and spilling out in ragged bursts, impossible to contain.

The flashbacks gained an audio layer as she panted and remembered. All. Of. It.

This was not happening.

This was unbelievable. After she’d spent what had felt like hours talking herself down after yesterday’s incident, hammering it into her own skull that all of it had only happened because he was so selfless and probably had no concept of personal space, that she’d conjured up whatever spark she felt had ignited between them on that staircase by being tired and fucked up and a bit touch-starved. Because yeah, that must’ve been it. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had sex, let alone if she’d ever truly wanted it. Biology does weird shit sometimes; reacting to a man’s body pinning her against a wall was undoubtedly somewhere on the weird but explainable list of possibilities.

The moonlight had long accompanied her as she twisted around in her sheets, running through all these logical conclusions as if rehearsing for a play. Ever since their first encounter, he’d only shown her kindness, sympathy, patience, and all those small graces typical of friends. After all, that’s what friends do.

Granted, she was far from an expert on the matter, but she wasn’t stupid. She could manage a decent enough definition of it. Friends care about each other; they keep each other company, stick around when everything else goes sideways and don’t ask for anything in return.

Friends take bullets for each other. They patch up their gaping wounds without hesitation. They put themselves in danger, driving alone to the next town over for medical supplies. They nurse each other back to health, promise to keep each other safe as they recover, bicker over paying medical expenses, and agree to tag along even as they’re led toward the unknown.

Because friends don’t always need to ask questions, even when secrecy looms. They come to learn each other’s sharp edges, where the cracks run deepest. They learn how to step carefully, when to leap; not out of fear, but out of respect for each other’s deepest scars, especially those that remain unhealed.

They teach each other how to trust again, how to sit in silence without ever feeling alone. To discover how bright the world can shine when you’re sharing its weight. To realize that there’s more to it than lies and misery and death.

Because that’s what friends do.

And sometimes, they find themselves cornered in a narrow stairwell, pressed between the wall and the world, breath falling into the same unsteady rhythm, unable to move away. Their eyes linger, searching, tracing every detail. Wondering if there is any meaning to all of this.

Because that’s what friends do.

She’d finally collapsed in exhaustion mid-rehearsal, not yet convinced that biology and definitions that were definitely not in any dictionary were credible enough to explain it all away. She’d desperately hoped it would all be over by morning, that it would finally make sense, that she’d wake up and find the whole thing laughable.

Do friends have sex dreams about each other?

Holy shit. She wanted to die, to vanish into fine dust in the humid air flooding her lungs. Still torn between crushing shame and dread, the only thing she could do was burrow further into the damp sheets.

Her eyes drifted to the other side of the room,  unsure of what they sought. Yet luckily, there was nothing to find. The other bed lay unmade, hollowed of any presence, save for Vash’s backpack slumped open at the edge of the mattress. His absence steadied her, if only a little: she was relieved to have some time alone to try and deal with whatever flavour of panic attack she was edging toward. Still, he couldn’t be far. Ever since Skullpeak, they had moved like echoes of one another; any minute now, he could come bursting through that door as though nothing had ever happened.

And nothing did. 

The flickering realization that she now relied on his presence might have unravelled her under different circumstances, might have sent her spiralling by now, if it hadn’t been for the other extremely pressing issue.

Visions of her dream came rushing back in fractured flashes. Strands of blond hair falling over her, brushing her face. Hands wandering, leaving heat in their wake, the ache to be touched. His lips against hers, the lingering shock and the hunger that followed. And the tenderness of it all, so much of it.

She didn’t try to fight it. It would be a losing battle, and she knew it. The thoughts slipped through her defences too easily, seeping into every corner of her overwhelmed mind. She knew they would stay with her, clinging stubbornly long after daylight faded, and she would simply have to let them.

It wasn’t just that they felt wrong; though they did, in ways she couldn’t fully articulate. It was worse than that. Because beneath the blaring alarms, beneath the tight coil of dread twisting in her chest, there was something else. Something quieter. More dangerous. 

Warmth. It spread slowly, curling through her like an unwelcome comfort. The kind that didn’t belong, that contradicted everything she told herself she was allowed to feel. And yet it was there, steady and persistent and impossible to dismiss. And that’s what frightened her most: not the dream itself, not the implications or questions it raised.

But the fact that some part of her wasn’t able to let it go. 

Not that it eased the guilt, far from it. However harmless it might have seemed on the surface, it felt like a quiet betrayal all the same. No words spoken, no actions taken, and still, something had shifted. Vash had chosen to count on her, to lay down his life in her hands if it came to that. He had followed her into this uneasy experiment of learning trust, of navigating remorse and reliance, even as they were both quite obviously the furthest thing from experts in any of it. Of all people, he had allowed himself to be vulnerable with her. Vash, wanted, hunted, shaped by forces she couldn’t understand, who carried his convictions like a burden he refused to set down.  Vash, for whom she imagined that, driven by his undying need to shield others from disaster and supposed bad luck, few people had stayed around long enough to see past the surface, to unravel the quiet weight he bore.

Of course, she would never be the perfect candidate for that role in his life. And yet, she had been willing to try. However unnatural and demanding it might be.

He trusted her as his friend. That should have been enough. It was supposed to be enough.

So why wasn’t it? Why did her body ache so badly that it was not enough?

And why was her mind always drifting back to him, to his steady presence in the lonely emptiness of the desert? To his irritating quips that she’d somehow come to find endearing? Why the hell couldn’t she shake the brightness of his smile, his endless patience in trying to get her to stop being so stubborn, or the image of his hair swaying in the breeze as he hummed unrecognizable tunes behind the wheel?

And why did it get to her so much?

Vash had given his trust in its most vulnerable form. And yet, the only thing she could wring from this extraordinary, unconventional gift was her own selfish wants. Sex. Attraction, or whatever the hell this was.

Vash did not deserve this. And despite how much she longed to let that small voice at the back of her mind speak, to make sense of these foreign notions taking root, she could do nothing but silence it. Nothing good would ever come of it. Whatever was be could only end in failure and heartbreak, and she would never be so selfish as to willingly lead him down that path.

Her thoughts were abruptly cut short by the shriek of the door hinges, snapping her attention to the red-coated figure who’d just appeared in the doorway. Everything froze, and even as he beamed at her, ceramic mugs in both hands, she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the face. This was already embarrassing enough; she didn’t exactly need the flashbacks of that smile. 

“Morning sunshine!” he called out to her, and she instantly wished to be buried in the sand. “Slept well?”

“I guess,” she mumbled, eyes fixed on the yellowed wallpaper. She stared up so intently at the faded flower pattern that it might as well have crumbled under her gaze.

Frankly, she couldn’t tell if this was better or worse than the recurring nightmares that often kept her up at night. Right about now, probably worse.

Unaware of her internal turmoil, Vash acknowledged the affirmation with a hum. “I brought coffee.” He lifted the two mugs carefully as if to avoid spilling any of the liquid. “And some breakfast.”

She lifted a brow inquisitively. “They allowed you to leave with the mugs?”

“Well…” he chuckled nervously. “I said I would return them. Didn’t leave much time for them to protest.”

Unbelievable. “You stole coffee.”

“Borrowed,” he corrected her with a smirk.

“Vash, you can’t borrow beverages.”

He laughed, laying down the incriminating mugs on the dresser. “I swear, I’ll bring them back!”

Thing was, she was certain he would. There had never been an ounce of malice in this man, not for as long as she’d known him. Which is why the whole exchange made her feel even worse.

She groaned, satisfied to use his petty crimes to legitimize her cranky attitude. “I swear to God, if the reason we’re finally arrested is for a coffee shop theft, I am going to haunt you from my grave.”

“But what an ending it would be!” 

“Don’t start.”

She grumbled, eyes shifting away from the doorframe. The shame kept washing over her, drenching her in more than just sweat from the heat. His steps shuffled on the carpet in what seemed like aimless movements, offering some background noise as she stared into the void in front of her, mind already miles away from the motel room. 

This was already far too awkward for her to bear. How was she supposed to interact normally with him without being constantly reminded that she had been dreaming about him naked, in a bed, with her? That she was uncontrollably fantasizing about him kissing her like she was the only good thing left in the world? That she ached to be touched again, longer, harder than whatever fleeting moment they’d shared on that staircase? 

That’s it, she was going bonkers. There was no other explanation.

She was forcibly pulled out of her daze when the sight of a small paper bag entered her vision, and she lifted her eyes toward Vash, who was handing it to her.

“Banana bread,” he clarified without allowing her to ask. “Figured you might like it.”

Once again, he was far too kind for his own good. She mumbled inaudible words of appreciation as she took his offering, letting it fall onto her lap. 

“Didn’t hear you come back in yesterday.” his voice rang over her head, giving her even less of a reason to lift it back up. “Granted, I’m pretty sure I passed out as soon as my face hit that pillow. Did you stay up late?”

She was caught off guard by his version of events, though she had to remind herself it was perfectly understandable that he would bring it up, given that she had bolted out of the building with barely a word of explanation. Truth be told, she had no idea how long she’d spent hyperventilating outside, but it was a relief that he hadn’t witnessed any of it. 

“No, I came back up a few minutes after you.” Her words were as convincing as she managed to make them sound. “Needed some fresh air after a full day of enduring heat and dust in a car, I guess.”

She watched as he nodded, a knowing curve at the corner of his lips that suggested he thought there was more to it than she was letting on. Yet he didn’t push it. She was glad he didn’t

“Fair enough,” he finally replied. “I’ve heard people saying there’s a heatwave bearing down on the canyon for the next few days. I’d argue it’s already here.”

She clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Figured. Glad we’re here now rather than the middle of the desert.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same.”

She remained stiff, deliberately avoiding his eyes and everything else that relentlessly reminded her how unhinged her fantasizing mind had become. His hair, the orange glint of his round glasses, the faint outline of his fitted shirt beneath his crimson coat.

Nope. Focus. Now.

“Alright, so what’s the plan?” she blurted out, far more brightly than she’d intended. She needed something to focus on, anything, and right now, that meant untangling herself from the sheets and getting out of bed.

Vash nodded. “I figured we could take the day to resupply. Gas, food and the like. Then, enjoy one night of good sleep in a real bed before we hit the road again.”

It was only logical that they were in dire need of supplies if they were going to spend several days on the road. They’d left nearly everything Vash had brought back from Aniya Town with Rosaline, who needed it far more than they did. Now empty-handed and facing a considerable journey, making sure they were prepared was simply the sensible thing to do.

“Fair enough.”

Vash let the pause stretch between them, almost as if surprised she wasn’t arguing with him over it. Then, just as the silence was on the verge of turning awkward, he cleared his throat.

“I was about to head back out to the market in a bit. I’ve got the layout memorized from last week, so it shouldn’t take too long to grab everything.” he hesitated, holding her gaze carefully. “Do… you want to come with, or…”

“It’s fine,” she barely tried to hide her lack of doubt. “What I need right now is a bath, pronto. I can probably fill up on gas while I’m out.”

She watched as he flashed her a grin. “There’s a shower in the bathroom, by the way.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. In this shitty corner of the world that barely anyone deigned to draw on the maps, motels with enough running water for a shower were not exactly a common sight. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d seen one, let alone used one herself. How much did this room even cost? Why hadn’t she thought to ask Vash before allowing him to choose their lodging?

This would have pissed her off in any other circumstance. But right now, she was sweating and thoroughly fed up: she would gladly take the luxury of a shower only a few metres away. She figured she could always complain later if the impulse remained.

“Ah.” was instead her only acknowledgement, far from exposing her delight in front of such a commodity. “Well, my offer still stands. I can handle the fuel.”

Vash faltered again, his words seeming to catch at the edge of his lips. “I can wait for you, if you want.”

“It’s fine,” she brushed him off. ‘I… need some alone time, I think. If you don’t mind.”

He acquiesced without even the lift of a brow. “No worries,” he chuckled. It barely seemed to faze him, in fact: perhaps he was getting used to this independent side of her by now. “We’ll get plenty of each other getting lost in the desert anyway.”

The comment made her freeze mid-movement as she swatted the covers away from her legs. Of course, she knew it didn’t mean anything. Vash was simply making an offhand remark about their situation, acknowledging out loud that they’d be crammed into a narrow vehicle for however many days it took to reach the next town. It was just a figure of speech. The kind people used all the time. There was nothing suggestive about it. 

But her current predicament made even the most ordinary words sound twisted. And even worse still, this whole scenario, which up until now had been nothing but normal, was everything she dreaded. And there was no way to back out now.

After all, she had been the one to ask that they stick together for a while. She’d even bickered with him over it, threatened to break his knees or whatnot. Now there was no way she’d easily get out of that arrangement. And logically, she didn’t exactly want to either; she needed that car, the supplies, and had so far enjoyed Vash’s company even when he was at his most frustrating. Sharing the burden of planning the trip, figuring out the required stops along the way, it was finally giving her a sense of relief she hadn’t even known she needed.

Obviously, having a mental breakdown over irrational feelings was no good reason to walk away from their partnership now. The mere thought of having to spell it out loud, to actually explain herself to him, gave her the urge to puke.

Yet, she couldn’t be around him now. She couldn’t endure his compassionate gaze on her, the sight of his body as it now leaned against the dresser, holding a coffee mug in his prosthetic hand. 

She swallowed, cutting off any encroaching thoughts before they could take hold. “I’ll get in the shower then,” she blurted out, swinging her feet to the carpet. She moved right past him, throwing him a fleeting glance as she nearly ran for the bathroom.

“Should be back later this afternoon,” she heard him shout as her fingers gripped the handle. “Don’t have too much fun without me!” 

She briefly poked her head out of the doorway, squinting at his smug face as he sipped his coffee. “Then don’t steal anything,” she warned him.

“No promises,” he smirked back at her, and the irritation it caused urged her to slam the bathroom door shut. "Oh,  and don’t forget your antibiotics.”

“I won’t!” she defended herself, as if she hadn’t completely forgotten about them by now. 

A few seconds passed before she heard the front door swing open, then click shut. Leaving nothing but silence and the lingering echo of Vash’s presence in the motel room. 

She let her head slump against the wood of the door with a groan.

Fucked. She was so fucked.

Chapter Text

The day had been one long, sweltering ordeal that, at every turn, seemed to have no end, because of course, nothing on Gunsmoke could ever be straightforward. After stepping out of the motel, she was greeted by the sight of an entire convoy bus parked squarely in front of their car, effectively blocking any chance of getting out. As if the desert wasn’t already sprawling enough for them to park literally anywhere else. 

She had to run around for nearly two hours trying to find who the convoy belonged to and whether they would kindly move their fucking crap somewhere else. As it turned out, the driver was passed out in an alleyway, having just been robbed by a pair of second-rate thieves who were still in the midst of fleeing. After roughing them up thoroughly enough to send them scurrying back to their mothers, she’d hauled the poor man over her shoulder and dumped his ass back on the bus after borrowing his keys. She’d made sure to park the car on the other side of the street, for good measure.

She was thoroughly drained by the time she pulled into the gas station and nearly drove her fist into the clerk’s nose by the time he’d managed three words. He was insufferably rude and her patience had run bone-dry weeks ago. She had no time for his shit.

Remarkably, she drove out of there without any casualties and returned the vehicle to the motel without so much as a smile on her face. As if the way her day had begun hadn’t been aggravating enough already.

As she removed Sophie’s tool from the ignition, hands still gripping the steering wheel, her gaze drifted up toward her bedroom window, wondering whether Vash was already back by now. He probably was: he had mentioned memorizing the market layout, and it was unlikely it would have taken him more than a few hours to gather supplies. After all, there were only two of them stranded in the middle of the desert, with two backpacks and a battered car: their predicament hardly called for a lavish feast.

She remained seated for a moment, unsure of what her next move should be. Her errands were done, however infuriatingly complicated they had been: she had no reason to linger out there. Vash was right earlier: this might be her last chance to enjoy a quiet evening and a decent bed for a long while. Who knew how long the next stretch of the journey would be, or what obstacles lay ahead?

Yet she hesitated, her mind adrift. Was she feeling bold enough to face Vash now, after the events of the morning? They were going to spend the evening in their cramped motel room, probably doing little else than talking before drifting to sleep. It was nothing they hadn’t done before, and yet it felt so strangely inappropriate to her now. She could already picture herself unconsciously ogling him as he lay sprawled across the bed, effortlessly aggravating her without even trying. He’d look up at her with those insufferably beautiful eyes, a tender curl at his lips, and try to make conversation by asking about her childhood or something equally disarming. 

She shook her head with a groan, letting it fall against the steering wheel with a dull thud. There was absolutely no way she could deal with this right now. 

As she stepped out of the vehicle, her gaze snagged on a garishly lit violet sign across the street, comically depicting a pint of beer surrounded by a bajillion flashing arrows. Call it divine intervention; she found herself wondering whether it wasn’t speaking directly to her, beckoning her toward her near-perfectly reliable method of handling her problems.

Ignoring the shit out of them. 

Her feet instinctively carried her in the opposite direction from the motel, though not without stealing one last glance at the bedroom window. Wondering what Vash might be doing right now. How he would react if she walked through that door. What he’d make of her absence. In any case, she was the problem here: she feared that stepping into that room now, hauling that tangle of contradictory emotions on the verge of bursting, she might just as easily try to kiss him as kill him.

And so to the bar she went.

After slumping onto a barstool, forearms pressed flat against the counter as though the wood might draw the heat from her stifling body, she caught the eyes of the barkeeper idly washing glasses a few metres away. He ambled over shortly after and asked what she would like to drink.

“Beer,” she deadpanned. Her supply of politeness had run dry for the day. “Whatever you’ve got on tap.”

“Coming up.”

She had nearly lost track of time until she noticed the daylight fading through the grimy windows, betraying just how late it had grown. She’d spent the better part of the afternoon trading words with the barkeeper, all while wrestling with an inexplicable urge that hovered somewhere between weeping and punching something, neither of which would have solved her problems. As empty glasses lined up in front of her like a quiet indictment, she kept arriving at the same unwelcome conclusion: there was nothing waiting for her at the bottom of a pint. Not relief. Not answers. Just the stubborn, irrational hope that the next one might prove her wrong. 

And still, the core of the issue remained. The part she’d been carefully drinking around all evening. Even setting aside her volatile temper and major trust issues, the way the mere suggestion of something romantic was enough to make her want to crawl out of her own skin, she still couldn’t begin to fathom what Vash would possibly see in her. His most defining trait was that he was catastrophically, recklessly compassionate: the kind of man who wouldn’t hesitate to bleed for a stranger and would wave the concern away with a smile. Who had chosen to blame himself for the annihilation of a whole town merely because he hadn’t gotten there in time to change its fate. So what would make her so special?

He had stitched up her shoulder. Stayed by her side. Made sure she didn’t fall apart, even when she pushed him away and tried to convince him that she was fine. But then, he’d done similarly significant things for Rosaline. Probably for dozens of others she’d never know about. That was simply who he was. It didn’t mean anything, right?

A thought surfaced unhelpfully: was getting shitfaced even good for recovery?

She considered this for a moment. Then shrugged and took another sip. 

Getting drunk across the street from her own bed to avoid confronting her inexplicably attractive companion about her unresolved feelings was beginning to feel pathetic right about now. She didn’t even know what she’d tell Vash when he asked where the hell she’d been. Was he worried something had happened to her? Maybe he had panicked, convinced she’d collapsed from her injury again and was out searching for her at this very moment.

God, this was so childish. She drained the rest of her beer, ready to settle her tab, when the scrape of a stool being dragged beside her jolted her out of her thoughts.

She lifted her eyes toward the figure who had settled onto the stool without once letting his gaze drift from her. He was tall and lanky, with the kind of easy, loose-limbed posture that came either from overconfidence or from too many drinks. Possibly both. His ashen blond hair was cut short but had long abandoned any pretense of order, falling forward in uneven strands as though he’d dragged a hand through it one too many times. Grains of sand still clung to it, trickling down onto his black-and-yellow leather jacket.

“Hey, gorgeous.” The word came out slow and deliberate, dragged out at the edges the way drunk men did when they thought it sounded charming. His brows shifted, a suggestion more than an expression.

It took everything she had not to roll her eyes all the way to the back of her skull. “Hey,” she returned flatly, setting her empty pint down on the counter.

He motioned to the glass with the tip of his chin. “You were done with that?”

“What do you think?” she snorted, unimpressed. “You’re welcome to the leftover foam if that’s your thing.”

The man barely flinched. He simply raised two fingers toward the barkeeper, who nodded and moved off without a word. She watched it happen and said nothing. 

Okay, sure. She had told herself she was done. Done moping, done circling the same drain, done nursing both her drink and her feelings like some tragic bar cliché. But who was she to turn down a free drink? Men had to at least be good for something. 

Her new friend turned back to her, a grin already settled on his face like it had never left.

“Figured a girl like you could use some company.”

Gag. Did men like this genuinely believe women existed to be charmed by them? What an insufferable prick.

She didn’t look at him. “I’m fine on my own.”

“Sure you are.” He leaned back with that same grin, entirely unbothered by her rejection. “Doesn’t mean the company’s not an improvement.”

It took everything she had not to hit him. The only thing standing between him and a broken nose was the drink he’d just bought her. Which, all things considered, was a depressingly low threshold for mercy. 

She arched a brow, sweeping a pointed glance over the row of empty glasses in front of her. “This look like an invitation to you?”

The source of her new headache absorbed her answer for a moment, pressing his lips into a thin line while the gears behind his eyes visibly turned. “Okay,” he said. “So, not a great first impression. Let me try again.”

The bartender slid fresh pints toward them, foam still settling. Noticing the event, the man lifted an arm and nudged the drink across the counter with two fingers. 

“Hi.”

She glanced at the glass, then back at him. “Bold reinvention.” 

“I'm evolving.”

“From what, exactly?”

A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “From the guy you were about to ignore to the guy you’re still talking to.” 

She gave him a look. “I talk to annoying people all the time. Occupational hazard.”

He snickered, entirely too pleased with himself, and slid his hand across the counter toward her. “I’m Aiden.”

“Oh, now you’re polite,” she said.

“Better late than never.” He shrugged, unbothered.

She looked at his outstretched hand for a beat, her face unreadable. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried this with her; not by a long stretch. Usually, she didn’t even register it. Sober, she had no interest in this kind of thing, never really had, and so turning people down had always come easily. She’d done it more times than she could count and never lost a moment’s sleep over it.

Drunk, however, was a different matter and she was thoroughly so at the moment, mentally in a freefall and desperately trying to bury the fact that she might be harbouring a crush on the only man she actually trusted. So her judgment was, at best, compromised, which was why she shook his hand anyway, her own name slipping out before she’d fully decided to give it.

They kept talking as the glasses gradually emptied. She noticed, with mild irritation, how much bolder he grew with each sip, edging incrementally closer, his shoulder nearly brushing hers, so much that she came to notice the faint smell of sweat and gunpowder on him. Which, to be fair, was likely shared by everyone in this part of the world, herself included, and so she let it slide. 

At some point, she lost track of how long they’d been sitting there. He caught her eye, drained the rest of his beer with quiet confidence, and didn’t let a single second elapse before sliding his hand over her forearm just as she was reaching for her own drink.

“What do you say we get out of here?” he whispered, his face now uncomfortably close. “I've got a room upstairs.” 

She couldn't say she was surprised by the request; only by how quickly it had arrived. It always came eventually. Men were nothing if not consistent.

She instinctively shuddered. And then, almost against her will, her mind began to reach for something. Maybe the absurd amount of alcohol in her veins was to blame, but she felt this wasn’t as reckless as it seemed. Perhaps her dream had simply been trying to tell her something practical: that she needed sex, as most reasonably constituted human beings did, and had used Vash as a convenient placeholder. He was the only person consistently in her orbit these past few weeks. Of course her brain had taken a few shortcuts

And Aiden was right there. An answer, of sorts. Annoying as hell, but uncomplicated. No history, no weight, no chance of fucking up one of the only bonds that had actually meant something to her in years. No insufferably compassionate eyes to make her feel like she was being quietly seen through. Just a drunk, overconfident stranger with a room upstairs and no expectations beyond tonight. 

She studied Aiden at length, watching him trace idle circles on her skin as he waited. He’d clearly been at it long before she’d arrived; the vacancy behind his amber eyes betrayed that he, too, was thoroughly shitfaced. She appraised his face, cataloguing its details as though they might somehow help her decide whether this was worth her time.

The conclusion arrived before she’d finished looking: he wasn’t even close to being as pretty as Vash. The realization drew the knot in her stomach tighter.

Of course he wasn’t Vash. And that was precisely the point. 

She nodded, offering her best attempt at a seductive smile. “Sure,” she gestured toward her own drink, still mostly full. “You wanna finish that first?”

Aiden snorted, visibly delighted with himself. “A woman after my own heart.”

He seized the glass and drained it, unceremoniously swiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

She followed him up the stairs, which proved a considerably more harrowing undertaking than anticipated. On his feet, the man had nothing to disguise how wasted he truly was: he would have rolled back down to the ground floor had she not been there to catch him. 

When they finally reached the room, after what felt like several small eternities, he barely waited for the door to click shut before he was already on her, lips colliding with far more fervour than the time they’d spent together warranted. Her back was shoved against the wall before she’d even had time to register the sequence. 

She did her best to keep up, dredging up from somewhere in her memory the mechanics of how this was expected to go. God, she was supposed to want this. So why wasn’t any of it landing?

His free hand moved to her waist, then her ribs, appraising without pausing to let her breathe. She forced herself to loop an arm around his back and hold on, if only to feel like she wasn’t about to be swallowed by the flimsy wall behind her. 

It was almost as if she’d forgotten how sex worked. The push and pull of it had always felt instinctive before, and yet now she felt strangely removed from it, like a spectator watching something she was supposed to be part of. 

She kept waiting for something to catch. But it didn’t. His touch, his lips, the press of his body against her. Nothing. No heat, no pull, none of the easy, thoughtless want she’d been counting on. She was drunk and had chosen to be there. Now, this was supposed to be the easy part. 

So why wasn’t it working?

Okay. She had to think, and fast. She knew what was expected of her. She knew how to make it quick.

Yet right as she was about to push Aiden back so she could throw herself down on her knees and unbuckle his belt, he startled her by pulling away first.

“I don’t feel so good.” His voice had lost its edge entirely. She clocked his face; pale, glassy, the overconfidence drained right out of it. “I’ll be right back.”

Aiden did not sound like he would be right back.

He made for the bathroom at speeds almost unattained by mankind and the door clicked shut behind him. A few seconds later, she heard him throw up. Loudly.

Fantastic. 

She stood there for a moment, alone in the middle of a stranger’s room, listening to the muffled sounds of his misery through the door.

This was, without question, the dumbest move she’d ever pulled. She had fled into a bar to avoid confronting herself, and had ended up in a stranger’s room listening to him retching behind a closed door. To be fair, she had been looking for a distraction. At least she’d been served on that front. 

She briefly considered helping Aiden through this unfortunate hardship. And yet the thought alone was enough to irritate her: frankly, she didn't care and never had. That had been the whole point. She didn’t do guilt; that was Vash’s department. Perhaps some of it had started to rub off on her after all.

Her eyes drifted around the unfamiliar room. The peeling wallpaper, the single bare bulb, the muffled sounds still coming from behind the bathroom door. She exhaled slowly. What the fuck am I even doing here?

She never had an interest in this kind of thing. None. She didn’t ache for people. Didn’t think about them that way, didn’t lose sleep over them, didn’t sit in bars turning the thought of them over and over like a stone she couldn’t put down. That had always been so simple. Which was precisely what made the situation with Vash so fucking infuriating: whatever it was feel didn't feel simple at all.

The biology explanation clearly wasn’t it. If it had been, she would have felt something. She’d had every opportunity: once Aiden had finally shut up and pressed her against the wall, she’d had no line of sight on him. She could have conjured anyone. No one, if she’d preferred. It didn’t need to be someone specific. 

And yet she knew, somewhere beneath it all, that some part of her had wished it was Vash.

Fuck this.

Without a word, she left Aiden in his suffering and made for the exit as quickly as she could, ignoring the barkeeper’s inquisitive glance and the amused smirks of a group of men near the door, who she assumed were Aiden’s friends. She crossed the street and slipped into the motel lobby, out of the moonlight.

When she pushed open their door on unsteady feet, she found Vash sitting on his bed, the strange little portable clock she’d spotted back in March resting in his hands. He looked up at the sound of the door, and something in the way his shoulders dropped told her he’d been waiting.

“There you are,” he laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it she wasn’t sure he meant to show. “I was beginning to think you’d bailed on me for real this time.”

Something in her chest pulled tight. The fact that he’d even entertained the idea, even for a moment, sat badly with her. Despite everything this man stirred up in her, despite the frustration and the confusion and the mess of it all, she still wanted him to know that she would never do that now. That whatever this was between them, she wasn’t going anywhere.

She buried all of it under a smirk. “Seriously? Did you seriously think that I bolted?”

The nervous edge left his face. What replaced it was quieter; something closer to certainty. “No,” he said simply. “Not for one second.”

Okay, never mind: she hated him. 

She hated him for meaning it. For saying it so easily, like it cost him nothing, like trust was simply the easiest thing to hand out for him. For looking at her like that without a trace of doubt, when she was standing there, reeking of someone else’s bar and still wearing her own terrible decisions.

It was insufferable. He was insufferable. And the worst part was that it made her want to say something honest back. Which she was absolutely not going to do.

“How was your day?” Vash eventually asked her, shushing her out of her daze. 

She wasn’t sure she wanted to go over the whole thing. The shitty parking disaster, the thieves, the insufferable clerk, the drinking. She was absolutely certain, however, that she had no desire to revisit what had just occurred across the street. If she could scrub it from memory entirely, that would be even better.

“Messy,” she instead chose to answer. “I was just across the street. Drinking.”

“Alone?”

She considered this for a beat. “With some locals.”

Vash tilted his head. “And you didn’t think to invite me?”

“No…?”

“I can’t believe this,” he said, in a tone that suggested he absolutely could.

Still, he didn’t seem genuinely offended and laughed it off almost immediately, which irked her, because she was still drunk, and the sound of his laugh sent her thoughts spinning in a dozen directions. Oh, this was going to be a problem.

She couldn’t stay inebriated and conscious in the same room as him for another second without saying or doing something she’d regret. This was a disaster waiting to happen, and the alarming part was that some small, reckless part of her was almost tempted to let it. 

“I’m going to bed.” She said it the way she said most things she didn’t want questioned: flatly, with enough finality to close the subject.

As she reached for her backpack to change, Vash pouted. “Think about inviting me next time?” he said, with that soft grin she was beginning to find deeply inconvenient. “Or at least a sign of life. So I don’t spend the night convinced you’re passed out in a ditch somewhere.”

Of course he’d worry about that. She was never going to hear the end of it.

“I passed out once,” she said, with the weary dignity of someone who had made this point many times before. “Once. Can we please move on?”

“Do you solemnly swear,” Vash said, with great ceremony, “to stop hiding how you’re actually doing and tell when something’s wrong?”

She paused. The question landed closer to home than she would have liked.

“No…?”

“Then I’m not getting over it.”

She grumbled and hurled a shirt from her backpack at him without thinking. He was so unbelievably infuriating. 

He caught it against his face, laughing, then held it up to examine it. “Are you giving this to me?”

She crossed the room to take it back. Yet, as she came to stand in front of him, still boozed up, feet all but cemented to the carpet, something in her chest went very quiet. Her gaze drifted from the shirt to his eyes. Green and unguarded, unobscured by his glasses. She hadn’t noticed until now that he’d set them aside. 

Too close.

She held his gaze for a beat longer than she meant to, long enough to feel the air between them shift. It was easy to forget how much harder it was to look at him when she had nothing to be annoyed about. She was still looking when her gaze dropped to his lips, almost without her permission.

He seemed to notice, because a small grin crossed his face; slow, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. She snatched the shirt back from his hands.

“Absolutely not.” she declared. “I’m not giving you the shirt I always sleep with.” The warmth rising to her face was the heatwave. It was definitely the heatwave.

“I was starting to like it on me,” Vash pouted at her. 

“You own two shirts and they look exactly the same.” She shook her head. “Don’t pretend.”

“I could branch out.”

“You won’t.”

He smiled at that. Not the teasing grin, but something quieter. She looked away first.

She went to get changed before she could do anything stupid. 

A few minutes later, she turned off the lights and made for her bed. Vash let out a noise of protest, something about it being too early, which she silenced with the firm efficiency of someone putting a child to sleep. She willed herself toward unconsciousness and hoped the alcohol would do the rest. Instead, she realized with a creeping sense of dread that the images from her dream were still there, vivid as ever the moment she closed her eyes. And worse: it wasn’t the visuals nor the sex that unsettled her most anymore. 

It was the feeling underneath it all. The warmth that spread through her chest when she let herself think about it for too long. Something quiet and stubborn and completely unwelcome.

She couldn’t chalk it up to biology. Couldn’t blame the alcohol, or the fact that he was the only person around, or the way he’d looked at her tonight like she was someone worth waiting up for. She’d tried every excuse in the book; none of them held. No amount of drunk, meaningless sex had ever left her lying awake feeling like this.  

She recognised it. The same feeling from her dream: the one she’d woken up from that morning, heart loud, chest tight, telling herself it was nothing. 

She didn’t know when she finally managed to fall asleep. Only that when she did, she was fairly certain her life had, quite decidedly, turned to shit. 

Chapter Text

They were out the door, bags and supplies in hand, waiting for the first light of dawn to break over the horizon. They’d agreed that the sooner they slipped out of town, the sooner they’d close in on their next destination. After looking over a crumpled map that Vash had dug out from his backpack, she’d managed to piece together a clearer picture of this part of the world. 

Everything west of Januar was broadly written off as the Badlands; stretches of territory where sand and lawlessness reigned in equal measure. She remembered that back in November, horror stories had circulated endlessly among the students, doing nothing but stoking speculation about this desolate corner of the world. The thing was, so few people had actually been there; most ran on generalizations and whatever scraps of information they could get their hands on, which tended to be the most sensational kind, and likely half-fabricated to begin with. 

It had made sense that she’d have an easier time disappearing out here. Yet so far, before setting out on her journey back east, she’d mostly drifted aimlessly, scrounging up enough money for a meal and, on a good night, a bed to sleep in. She’d never really taken the time to properly study the area, least of all anything around the Brisroy Canyon, which was notoriously inaccurate on most maps. Scholars who drafted them never bothered to put themselves in harm’s way to get it right. Towns appeared and vanished all the time, distances were frustratingly vague and near-impossible to chart accurately through a mountain chain; enough to make any cartographer lose their mind. 

The next town east would be Hope’s Ford. About half a day’s ride before it sat an abandoned borough called Copperglen that, according to Vash, had been deserted years ago. A scandalous affair, he’d said: something that involved the sheriff, his wife’s sister and a prize-winning goat that was never recovered. She wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t made the whole thing up, yet didn’t care enough to ask.

So they’d packed the car at the crack of dawn and were nearly ready to skip town half an hour later. All the while, she tried to shake off the exhaustion that her lack of sleep and restless mind had left behind. It was easier to take it out on Vash than to wrestle with herself. 

“Think we’re all set!” his companion shouted, his head suddenly poking out from the other side of the car. 

“You sure?” she arched a brow at him. “Sure you didn’t forget anything?”

He looked up at her defensively. “I never forget anything.”

Oh, how she definitely did not believe him.

“And the coffee mugs?”

His eyes went wide. He froze. 

“You said you’d bring them back.”

A slow, distracted nod . “I said that, yes.”

“Then go?”

Vash stared at her for a second before sighing. “Can’t we drop them off on our way there?”

“I’m not getting my already-stolen car mixed up in your petty crimes.” She deadpanned, waving a hand in his direction. “Go on! In the meantime, I’ll make sure everything’s properly secured so I don’t end up with a crate of bananas to the back of my head while I’m driving.”

His gaze flickered toward the backseat, packed to the brim as though a family of four had crammed their entire lives in the car. “Oh yeah, I could’ve found a better spot for that.”

“Go!”

She watched Vash sigh before disappearing behind the motel door. And yet she couldn’t quite shake the smile tugging at her lips. Even with the mental toll and general aggravation this man seemed to bring out in her, she couldn’t say it wasn’t a relief to have someone around, someone to talk to when the long hours of the desert day stretched out in solitude. 

It was hard not to wonder how much of the road ahead they’d actually share. When would they split? What would be the thing that finally drove them apart? And how long would it take her to get used to the quiet again?

She pulled herself out of her brooding thoughts as she watched Vash emerge from the building, incriminating mugs in hand and sulking like a scolded dog. Still, he tossed her a glance as he turned and started off down the street.

“Pick me up on the way?” he shouted at her from over his shoulder.

“Not a chance!” she smirked.

He sighed loudly enough to make sure she heard it, which  drew a chuckle out of her. 

She spent the following minutes trying to tidy the backseat, shoving and rearranging the crates and the water canteens and oh my god who even brings an entire chocolate cake on a desert roadtrip. How the fuck had Vash survived this long was genuinely beyond her. 

As the town slowly stirred to life around her, chatter and shouts rising through the streets, she was caught off guard by a hand tapping on her shoulder. She was about to swat the stranger away, thinking it was probably just a beggar looking for loose change, when her eyes landed on the figure standing behind her.

He was significantly taller than her, perhaps even more so than Vash, his medium-length brown hair layered unevenly, falling to the nape of his neck. He wore a sun-bleached button-up beneath a patched, sand-colored field jacket and ill-fitting trousers that had clearly seen better days, with a battered satchel slung across one shoulder. He looked like someone who had read extensively about the wasteland and was now finding out what it actually felt like. 

He carried the weight of a story she already knew, and something unnameable moved through her. However out of place he looked, the past had a way of making itself known.

She knew this man.

“Roberto?”

A smile broke across his face. “Long time no see.”

What was he even doing here? They were so far from November. Had he been looking for her? Following her all this time? Something in her lurched, caught somewhere between dread and morbid curiosity. It was the first time her past had bled back into her life in what felt like months, and it was no less unsettling for it. 

She appraised him for what felt like a small eternity, while he stood there and let her, hands loose at the side in no apparent hurry. He didn’t appear threatening, yet anything reminding her of that chapter of her life was threatening enough to warrant caution. 

“I guess you’re not dead.” She smirked at him, using humour as a shield against the anxiety quietly eating her alive. 

Roberto snorted. “And I guess you’re not in prison.”

Cheap shot. “I guess not.” She returned his quip with a dry smile. “Yet.”

“Still setting the bar high, I see.”

Why was she never even able to catch a fucking break? Was one quiet day without major and/or life-changing upheavals too much to ask?

“Always.” She wasn’t buying it for a second. “I know you’d love to see my ass finally behind bars, wouldn’t you?”

He shrugged, letting a beat pass as if genuinely entertaining the idea “Not particularly.”

His dismissal was unexpected, especially in this new life of hers where every face that recognized her seemed to come with a price tag attached. She’d have expected no less from an old acquaintance, with a healthy dose of spite thrown in for good measure. 

She lifted a brow, her hand drifting a little less instinctively toward the weapon at her hip. “You’re not here to turn me in?”

“Wasn’t thinking of it.”

Huh. “Why?” None of this made sense. “I’m worth quite the bounty these days. Don’t you have student loans to pay back?”

Roberto let out a short, pained laugh. “Well, yeah,” he admitted, like it physically hurt him to say it. “That’s actually why I’m here.”

“In Aniya Town?” she stared at him. “Or do you mean the Badlands in general? Because I hate to break it to you, but you might just end up owing more. Assuming something doesn’t eat you first.”

He sighed deeply, as if he hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Which, given everything, was probably true. 

“Don’t remind me.” He reached back to rub the nape of his neck at the thought. “I’ve already had knives pulled on me twice and a bottle shattered at the back of my head this week.”

She laughed at him. “Well, welcome to the Badlands. The finest hellhole this side of nowhere. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

“I’m not enjoying it.”

“I noticed.”

She used the quiet beat of uneasy agreement as an excuse to study him. He looked more or less like how she remembered: same face, same eyes, just rougher around the edges. She didn’t know him well enough to say what exactly had changed: just that he looked like someone who’d been having a significantly worse month than he’d anticipated. Why the hell was he even here? None of the pieces fit, almost as if they came from entirely different puzzle boxes.

Where was Vash, anyway? She scanned her surroundings, but there was no sign of her red-coated companion. A part of her hoped she could wrap up this interaction before he got back: the last thing she needed was to have to explain whatever this was to him. 

“No kidding, Rob.” She finally dragged her gaze back to the ghost from her past, using her nickname to showcase her goodwill. “I don’t care what shady creditor you’re running from, but get the fuck out of here. This is no place for library rats who learned about the world from footnotes.”

He lifted a brow, affronted. “I have a degree and a job, actually. The real world and I are well acquainted.”

“Congratulations?” She huffed a laugh. “Tell that to the next fucker who pulls a knife on you: I’m sure your CV will help.”

“Says the one who dropped out.”

That landed. She felt it somewhere behind her ribs. 

“Kicked out, asswipe.” She corrected him coldly. “So I’d watch your mouth before I kick you under the wheels of my truck.”

“Okay, criminal.”

Roberto knew exactly what he was doing. He was far too aware of her very public fall from grace to pretend this was nothing but casual banter. She hated him for it, hated that he could drag her back to places she’d long since buried, on the other side of the world. She’d never asked for any of it to be shoved back in her face.

“I’m here for the Bernardelli News Agency.” He said it quickly before she could act on her threats. “They hired me straight out of graduation, said I was the most promising of my class.” A pause. “Their words, not mine. At least I get an actual salary this time. I hated that unpaid internship.”

“Should’ve picked a male-dominated field,” she snorted. “They pay better.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for my midlife crisis, thanks.” He moved on before she could follow up. “Anyway, I worked on the Gossip column for a year, then the Agency decided it was getting stale. Said they needed something fresh, stories from places no one ever bothers to write about.”

“And they sent you?” she raised a brow. “The rookie?”

He exhaled sharply. “You should see the job market. It’s rough out there.”

“Would’ve been worse as an intern.”

He gave it genuine consideration.“Probably.”

November hadn’t exactly been kind to its students. Most people took whatever job came their way and didn’t have much room to complain as long as it kept food on the table. She wasn’t surprised things hadn’t changed.

“What have you got so far?” she smirked, both curious and unconcerned. “Sandstorm survival tips? Ghost stories? I hear the apparitions are particularly active in this part of the desert.”

“Very funny. But no, nothing worth printing yet. Bandits, dust and towns that look like they gave up ten years ago.” He waved vaguely at their surroundings. “People are going to want something that’ll make them sit up, not put them to sleep.”

She decided to stop mocking him for half a second. “Okay? And what do you want from me?”

“An interview.” He said as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “I want your account of the trial.”

She froze. One word: that was all it took. Everything she’d spent months burying clawed its way back to the surface without asking permission: the accusing stares that followed her down every hallway, the humiliating interrogation, the press swarming as they’d already decided the ending. The coldness of her father’s gun in her hand. The weight of the trigger she never pulled. 

“You already know what fucking happened.” Her voice came out low, each word measured. “For fuck’s sake, you were in that hearing room. There’s nothing left to say.”

“Oskar is full of shit.” His tone shifted, eyes heavier and more serious. “And so is his father. The whole Solara family is crooked. I know it. And I know you know it.”

“You don’t know shit about me,” she hissed.

He held her gaze for a beat, as if gauging whether the daggers in her eyes were actually capable of killing him. “My point, exactly.”

She hadn’t spoken about it in so long.

When she’d left November, she’d been running from an arrest warrant; the one they’d slapped on her after she pulled a gun on the man accusing her in open court. She’d been determined to get as far away as possible and never look back. Leave behind everything she’d worked for. Her passion, her convictions, her emotions and whatever future she’d imagined for herself. She just wanted to live. 

She had only one goal: to find her father, after he’d gone missing in the midst of the trial. She left with the persistent hope that he was still out there somewhere. That if she ran far enough in the right direction, she might find him. Something in her gut had whispered that the answer would only break her. She’d ignored it anyway: he had to be somewhere.

She’d made it as far as Februar, on the other side of the world, and found the man who used to be her lawyer. He revealed a truth that she’d long suspected: that the people who had accused her also had her father killed, to keep her from ever having a reason to fight back. 

The grief came first. Then everything else: the running, the guilt, and the weight of having lost everything she’d ever held dear. All at once.

And so, she decided to return, back to the same place that had shunned her. The same people that had crossed her. And this time, she wasn’t going to hesitate.

She snapped herself back to the present. “Leave it alone.” Roberto was still looking at her like she was breaking news, which she supposed she was. “Nothing good will ever come from turning over these stones.”

“We’ll never know if we don’t try.”

“We?” She let the question sit there for a second, then took a step toward him. “There is no we, Rob. I've always been alone in this shit show, and it's not going to change. So what’s it going to be? Do you turn me in, or do we both walk away and pretend this never happened?”

Roberto said nothing. Just held her gaze, jaw tight. 

“Go back to your gossip columns” Her voice dropped, almost tired of its own sarcasm. “There’s plenty of material out here if you dig around. Forget you saw me here. For old time’s sake.”

The silence between them stretched. She knew Roberto, or had, once. Enough to know he wasn’t predictable. He could let her walk away just as easily as he could make her regret turning her back on him.

Okay, maybe not. But she kept her hand near her hip regardless.

After a long moment, he sighed. “Despite everything, I swear you haven’t changed.” He declared, a sad smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Maybe a bit less shy, though.”

“High praise.” She didn’t quite manage to keep the edge out of her voice. “You’re still a bitch.”

He laughed, then the smile faded. “Look.” He shifted his weight, choosing his words carefully. “About the interview, are you sur-”

A hand landed on her shoulder without warning, yanking her a few inches back from her old classmate. She turned her head and found Vash, his face hosting a shit-eating grin that radiated the specific energy of someone who had absolutely no idea what he’d just walked into. 

She never thought she’d mean it. But god, was she glad to see him.

“Alright!” He announced with all the dramatics she had come to expect of him. “This was very fun and all, but the press tour is officially over!” His eyes dropped to Roberto, who was staring back at them like they had just burst into song in the middle of the street. “My dear companion and I are in a hurry and must be on our way!”

The journalist blinked. “Who are you?”

Vash was already steering her away by the shoulder, back toward the car and out of the most inconvenient conservation she’d had all week. And given the week she’d been having, it was saying something.

“Thank you, have a good day!” Vash called back cheerfully to no one in particular and everyone at once. 

Roberto’s eyes cut to her, as if asking for an explanation.

She shrugged. “What he said.”

And soon enough, they were pulling out of Aniya Town, Roberto still standing in the street, unanswered questions written all over his face, shrinking slowly in the rearview mirror until he was just another figure in the dust. 

She kept her eyes on the road, silent as the unease sat low in her chest. Roberto wasn’t the type to let things go. He’d found her once; she had a feeling he could do it again. Call it irony, or fate maybe. After all, she had been running from her past long enough to recognize when it had decided to start running after her. 

Chapter Text

A heavy silence permeated the cabin as they left the town behind, the suffocating heat already pressing down on them through the windows, thick and relentless. The desert ahead stretched into a flat nothing, broken only by the walls of the Brisroy canyon, standing threateningly miles away. Neither of them seemed to know what to say, nor did they want to be the first one to speak.

She was sure Vash knew. By the way he had stepped in at just the right moment, materializing out of nowhere with that grip on her arm that had been firm enough to pull her back from the edge, he’d heard something. Maybe not everything, but enough. She hadn’t even been aware he’d come back before he grabbed her, too lost in her own spiralling thoughts to pay any attention to what was happening around her and Roberto. She’d been so deep in it, so close to the ugly part she kept locked away, that the whole world had narrowed down to the man’s face and the things she wanted to say to it.

Now Vash sat perfectly still in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on the window, watching the land blur past without uttering a single sound. It was very out of character for him, which made her feel something uncomfortable in her chest. She figured he must have caught at least something of her outburst. Otherwise, he wouldn’t look so guilty. He probably knew her well enough by now to understand that keeping quiet was the wisest move available to him.

Yet she had to know. The not knowing was already eating at her, gnawing at the edges of her composure. There were a lot of things she could handle, but silent judgment had never been one of them. Especially not coming from him. 

“How much of this did you hear?”

Vash turned his head toward her, seemingly snapped out of a daze. “Huh?”

“Vash.” She pressed him, her voice low. “What did you hear?”

“Uh….” His eyes were fixed on the windshield, as if the answers might come to him through the glass. “Well, you two were already talking when I got back. I heard you mention something about November and gossip columns.” He paused. “And a trial.”

She let her head drop to the steering wheel, which was certainly not the safest driving practice in the book. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

She didn’t want to have to tell Vash about this. Not now; not ever, actually. There was a certain comfort in the arrangement they’d fallen into as a pair of wanted people with shadowed pasts that they’d agreed not to dig up. No questions, no reckoning; just the road and whatever came next. Their dynamic had served them well enough so far. Mostly well, at any rate; her dreams put aside. 

She dreaded everything this new information was about to unravel. The truce they’d built suddenly felt fragile in front of what would come next. She’d have to reach back into the parts of herself she’d spent so long bricking over to try to excavate the right words from the rubble to explain everything. Lay everything out for someone she actually cared about, in a way that wouldn’t make him look at her differently.

She already wanted the whole thing to be over.

“You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to,” Vash reassured her. His hand reached for her shoulder, and the gesture nearly made her crawl out of her skin.

Of course, she didn’t want to, but somebody had already planted the seed, and Vash now had just enough info to start filling in the gaps. She knew better than anyone how dangerous a half-finished picture could be. Would he decide she was actually a serial killer? Some other flavour of irredeemable criminal? He’d work out soon enough that she wasn’t like him, an innocent dragged into the crosshairs of the law by bad luck and even worse timing, and start to spiral, turning over every possibility, every crime she might have committed. And then, when he’d had enough time to sit with it, she wouldn’t even be able to blame him when he had finally decided she was too much of a liability and left her somewhere along the road. 

She forced herself to stop panicking. This was her trust issues talking, nothing more. Even after the rumours, even with everything she still didn’t know about him, Vash had never given her a real reason to expect the worst of him. If anything, he’d made a habit of doing the opposite. She filed the thought away before it could get too comfortable and told the rest of her brain to stand down. 

Still, she didn’t want him filling in those gaps on his own. It was better to give him something real, something small and controlled, than to let the silence do the work for her. She’d have to come clean, at least just enough to keep the worst of it from taking root in his mind.

“I told you I wasn’t a fucking saint.” She didn’t quite hiss it, but it came out sharp enough. “You shouldn’t be too surprised.”

“I’m not,” he said. He sank back in his seat, running a hand through his dishevelled hair, and seemed to be genuinely thinking it through rather than just saying the right thing. “I mean, you’ve got a bounty on your head. These things usually go through some kind of legal process first, don’t they?”

Huh. In her case, the trial had come before the bounty, but that was a detail she could leave unmentioned for now. “Sure,” she answered, and before he could follow the thread any further, she tilted her head toward him. “Speaking from experience?” She let the question hang just long enough to feel like a deflection. “You ever get tried?”

“Me?” He let out a short laugh. “Oh no. Nothing that official. I got handcuffed and beaten up in a jail cell. Had the whole judge, ‘’jury and executioner’’ in the same afternoon. The bounty came after I escaped.”

Well. She hadn’t expected that. Vash had a gift for dropping the wildest things on her at the most random of moments, completely unguarded about it, and somehow always managed to loosen something in her chest before she could stop it. This time was no different.

She glanced over at him. “I thought you said you deserved to be hunted.”

Something shifted in Vash’s eyes; warm, almost startled, like he hadn’t expected her to have held onto that. Yet she had; it wasn’t the kind of thing you forgot easily. The idea of him quietly absorbing the blame for the destruction of a town he’d arrived too late to save, the law waiting with their conclusions already drawn. And him just accepting them. 

The worst self-sacrificing idiot she’d ever had the misfortune of meeting. 

“I know,” he said quietly, his eyes drifting somewhere past the windshield. “But someone was counting on me to come back. I wasn’t going to let that go.”

There was something in his expression she didn’t quite have a name for; something quiet yet powerful, shaped around a person she didn’t know and a moment she hadn’t been a part of. Someone counting on him to come back. She turned the words over in her head without meaning to. It spoke of a love that had nothing to do with her and a gentleness she hadn’t earned; somehow, it stirred something in the pit of her stomach she immediately wanted to bury.

She wasn’t jealous. That would be absurd.

“In any case. “His eyes settled back on her. “I know you’re a good person. Whatever you were accused of, I’m not going to think less of you for it. And I won’t force you to say anything you don’t want to.”

Why was he so infuriatingly kind about it? Couldn’t he be his usual nosy self and pry so she’d have a good reason to be mad instead?

He seemed to read her silence for what it was and let it sit for a moment, lips pressed together. “But… that guy. Who was he?”

So much for not prying.

She sighed, realizing there was no way to dodge that one even if she tried. “His name’s Roberto. We went to university together. Well, not together together, just at the same time. We had one class in common, got paired for a group project.” She paused, a choked laugh escaping her. “Our professor nearly failed us because some idiot stole his backpack with the final assignment in it. We spent forty-five minutes chasing the guy across campus before the deadline.” She hadn’t found it so funny then. “He also dated my roommate for a while.”

Vash lifted a brow. “Dated?” he inquired. “As in past tense?”

“She dumped him. Said he’d rather date his books than her.”

“Ouch.”

The easy part of the story stopped there. “Last time I saw him was at the trial.” Her gaze drifted somewhere past the road. “He was helping to cover the case. Must have still been an intern back then. We didn’t speak. Not once.”

“I see…”

She could feel the questions behind Vash’s eyes as he tried to piece together the very little nuggets of information she’d given him so far. She hated feeling that she owed him more. They’d already tackled the whole “owing each other” conundrum, yet it seemed her conscience hadn’t gotten the memo: every second she stayed silent felt like another small lie stacked on top of the last.

She exhaled through her nose before she could talk herself out of it. Whatever strange mood had crept up on her today, she was going to use it, knowing she would probably regret it in about five minutes.

“I pulled a gun on someone,” she declared, unable to look as she felt Vash’s eyes fix on her. She kept her gaze forward. “During the trial. Someone important, with a reputation. I had every intention of killing him.”

She heard Vash swallow, treading carefully on eggshells as he weighed her confession and searched for his next words.

“Do you mind me asking why?”

“That bastard crossed me.” Her fingers unconsciously tightened around the steering wheel, nails pressing into the cheap leather. “He fucked up my life. And like the bratty, entitled shit he is, he blamed me for it when I called him out on it.

Oh, it was really making her blood boil now. Focus. 

“Before I knew it, the whole thing had been blown out of proportion.” She could feel the old rage climbing back up her throat, like it never fully went away, no matter how many miles she put between herself and November. “His dad’s the biggest shot in the city, and he wasn’t about to let his fuck-up of a son taint his precious reputation.” Her jaw tightened. “Long story short, he fucked me over. Twice. So I pulled a gun on him.”

Vash let it sink in. A beat passed, then another. “Did you shoot?” he whispered, something in his voice she couldn’t quite identify.

“I chickened out.” The words sat wrong in her mouth, too small for what they meant. She wasn’t sure if she was making an excuse for finally letting herself spell out loud what she’d been thinking for years. “Didn’t have the guts. I always knew I should have.”

He was quiet for a moment. “So that’s why you’re going to November.” It wasn’t a question. “To finish it.”

She snorted. Summarized like that, it sounded so simple, almost comical. Like she was some instrument of swift retribution, striding into November with a steady hand and a score to settle. Like it would be easy. Like she hadn’t been lying awake for months, dreading the moment she’d have him in front of the barrel and her finger on the trigger.

“I’ll do my best,” she said.

The silence that followed was a different kind from before. Heavier; loaded with everything she’d just laid bare. Fucking great. If she hadn’t seemed like a murderous lunatic to Vash before, she was fairly certain she’d crossed that threshold now. Then again, anger management had never been her forte.

And yet, beneath the fury still scorching her veins surfaced a sadness she hadn’t expected and didn’t know what to do with. She had let him down; shattered whatever version of her his relentlessly hopeful mind had managed to build. But she couldn’t afford to think about what that version looked like; how much she’d wanted to resemble it. She wouldn’t allow that kind of feeling to take root: not now that she was this close. Her convictions were the only thing that kept her moving; she refused to let them erode for anyone. 

After what felt like two lifetimes of silence, Vash spoke without looking at her. “I know it’s not my place.” his voice carried a distant kind of sadness. “But I don’t think revenge ever really fixes anything.”

She turned on him. “You’re right,” she shut him down. “It’s not your place.” She inhaled through her nose, hoping the breath would steady her. “He got my father killed. So, I’m taking an eye for an eye.”

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. The sincerity was unbearable. Maybe that was exactly why it made her so much angrier.

“Be a pacifist all you want. Not all of us have that luxury. So, I’m going to November, and nothing you say is going to change that.”

She meant it. Every word. She wasn’t going to let whatever this was between them chip away at the one thing she’d held onto through it all. She had come too far. 

Vash nodded slowly. Something like resigned understanding settled over his face: somehow, that was worse than if he’d pushed back. “And after?” he asked quietly. “What's the plan? Keep running?”

“My life is none of your business.” She spat back at him. “Right now, we stick together because it’s convenient. If my choices don’t sit right with your conscience, you’re free to find better company.”

Vash didn’t reply. Maybe he’d finally given up. Over the argument, over trying, over her. Maybe this was where it all started to come apart. 

Good. That was good. She repeated it until it almost felt true. She’d never get to November in one piece if she let him keep getting under her skin with his principles and his infuriating habit of making her want to be someone she wasn’t anymore.

She watched him slowly recline into his seat and turn toward the window. No physical protest or dramatic sigh: he just… stopped. 

And as much as she tried to ignore him, it was impossible to pretend it did nothing to her. The silence grew too heavy to leave alone. “Sorry about this,” she said finally, earning a surprised glance from Vash. “Just… don’t try to talk me out of it. I made this choice a long time ago.”

He nodded, something bruised settling in his eyes. “Sorry for prying. I won’t bring it up again.”

“Thanks.”

The hours that followed were quieter than they’d ever been. 

The suns were sunk low over the horizon when she finally killed the engine, tucking the car into the shadow of the mountain chain where it wouldn’t be immediately visible from the road. She needed rest, but that didn’t mean pulling over in the middle of open nothing and rolling out a welcome mat for anyone passing through with bad intentions. Out here, carelessness had a habit of becoming expensive very quickly. 

She turned to Vash, with whom she had barely exchanged a few words since their argument. Enough time had passed now that she was starting to feel miserable about it, which was not a feeling she was comfortable sitting with. “I’m gonna stretch my legs,” she explained, waiting for an answer that didn’t come. “So, do you want to drive, or…”

Offering him the wheel, given what she thought of his reckless driving, was already a token of her goodwill. She wasn’t sure why it sat so badly. 

He smiled politely back at her and unbuckled his seatbelt, leaning against the inside of the door. “Road trips are exhausting,” he stated, as if that explained anything.

She raised a brow. “You’re not even driving.” 

“You don’t let me,” he pointed out.

“Not if I can help it.” She held his gaze just long enough to make a point.

Vash sighed, though the ghost of his smile lingered on his lips. Before she could read anything more into it, he pushed the door open and stepped out, stretching his back the moment his feet hit the sand.

“I’ll catch some Z’s if you’ll let me!” His voice came through the open door. She realized she was still watching when he ducked his head back in. “Do you want to camp outside?”

She’d done it before, more times than she could count. A moving vehicle with a roof was a relatively new luxury in her life on the run, which was precisely why she could barely contain her disgust at his suggestion.

“Fuck no,” she protested. “I’m done with that. I’d rather not have sand in my clothes for the next three days if I can help it.”

Vash tilted his head inquisitively, as if the concept had simply never occurred to him. Nuisances such as sand in clothing. The convenience of a roof over one’s head, the basic principles of survival in the middle of the desert. 

He was mindboggling. Sometimes, she wondered if he was even human.

His eyes swept over the car, with the backseat buried under supplies and the front barely more promising, with the look of someone doing very reluctant maths. “I don’t think there’s a lot of space.”

She sighed. “Ever heard of reclining seats?”

To prove a point, she reached for the seat handle, fully aware that the mountain of supplies behind her would put up a fight, which was a problem for after she’d won that argument. She gave it a firm pull. There was a sharp crack, and her hand swung back considerably faster than intended. She sat very still. Looked down at the handle, now entirely detached and resting in her palm. 

“I’m about to burn this piece of shit car.”

“Didn’t you want to sleep in it?”

She didn’t want to argue again; she really didn’t. But that stupid handle was the last drop in a glass that was already filled to the brim. She had no patience left.

“I’m not changing my mind,” her answer came out drier than she’d intended. “Feel free to sleep outside if you want.”

She slipped out of the car before he could retort anything, letting the door swing shut behind her before she stretched slowly, working through each limb. 

It was their first night stopping out in the open. They'd been lucky so far, always close enough to civilization that the question hadn’t come up. Had it been for her, she would have kept driving. She hated resting for more than an hour, rarely above the bare minimum for normal human function. She’d never been particularly good at listening to her body and was now well-versed in the art of ignoring what it was telling her until it became too loud to dismiss.

But the pull at her shoulder was harder to ignore than the rest. The wound was healing, yet it made its presence known at moments like these. She absentmindedly ran her fingers over the bandage, finding it strange to feel something close to nostalgia about a week she’d spent half-delirious with infection, pinned to a bed she’d have given anything to escape and inventing all sorts of excuses to leave, which had nearly killed her.

And yet, despite that she’d complained how bored she was the entire time, there had been moments worth remembering. The late nights in the living room with Vash, playing stupid games with even stupider rules. Watching him wash dishes and get berated by Rosaline for leaving the oven on. Growing comfortable at his side in a way that had crept up on her before she’d had a chance to see it, despite every bruised instinct she had screaming at her not to.

It felt like a different life now. Some part of her wished she could have a little of it back.

She shook herself out of it and reached into the backseat for her bag. She changed quickly, ducked behind the car, then spent an unreasonable amount of time coaxing what remained of the seat handle into cooperating. Somehow, against all odds, it worked: the seat gave way to a half-reclined position, not quite lying down but far enough from upright that she wouldn’t spend the night folded like a deckchair.

She rolled the window down and heard Vash climb back in behind her, settling into the passenger seat and adjusting it to match. He pulled his door shut. They hadn’t said anything since the handle, which was fine; she was used to silence. 

What she was less used to was the way the car seemed to have shrunk in the dark, the space between them much smaller than it had previously seemed. She wasn’t looking, yet was very aware of him; in so many ways she wished she wasn’t. The proximity, the warmth bleeding through despite the open windows, the quiet, steady sound of him breathing next to her. 

Oh, this was going to be insufferable, wasn’t it? She’d half-hoped the argument might have quelled her unnamed attraction toward him. But by taking in her body’s reaction, she quickly realized that it hadn’t. 

They went to sleep. Or at least, that was the plan. Vash had other ideas, such as making himself comfortable, which apparently required a great amount of shuffling, shifting and general rearrangement. 

“It’s cramped in here,” he announced as if delivering breaking news. What next? The sky is blue. 

He shifted again. Her patience lasted approximately four more seconds. “Do you ever stop?” she groaned, turning to look at him.

“Hey!” he raised his hands defensively. She noticed he’d removed his glasses and his coat. She’d have preferred not to turn around. “I’ll have you know that some people are tall!”

She sat up slightly. “Excuse me? Are you calling me small?”

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth pulling up. “Depends. Do you want me to?”

She stared at him for a moment. The tension from earlier was still there, somewhere beneath the surface. But it was harder to reach it when he looked her up with those eyes. 

She recognized his smugness for his own attempt at some form of truce between them, to which she was not entirely opposed. She’d never apologize outright, and he wasn’t the type to hold a grudge. And now that the topic of murder and revenge had been replaced by sleeping arrangements and legroom, it was considerably easier to breathe alongside him. They weren’t going to reconcile on the things that actually mattered, but their current predicament made ignoring each other impractical. And that was enough for now.

“Small people are very comfortable in this car, actually.” She settled back pointedly. “You’re just jealous.”

He whined, which she took as a win and closed her eyes. Her peace lasted approximately forty seconds before the commotion started up again to her right. 

She opened her eyes to find Vash in the process of attempting to lift his legs through the window, an endeavour that was going about as gracefully as one might expect. He was half-twisted in the seat, one elbow braced against the dashboard, trying to find an angle that would accommodate both his legs and his back. 

“Vash, what the fuck are you doing?” she shouted.

“Adapting the space!”

“Oh, you cannot be serious.”

Eventually, through what could only be described as sheer stubbornness, he’d managed to pivot far enough that his legs hung out the window. The bad news was that his back was no longer against the seat, but facing her. Which meant that if he lay down, he’d have the centre cupholder straight on his spine.

And his head on the middle of her lap. 

As he turned his head to assess his makeshift arrangement, he seemed to arrive at the same realization. His cheeks coloured, barely visible in the dark. “Uh…” His gaze darted between her face and the space in question about three times, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it out loud.  She was fairly certain her own face had gone the same shade as his coat. 

He could have slept outside like he’d wanted to. This ordeal was partly her fault; she’d been the one to shut him down. And yet she couldn’t help but turn over the fact that he’d chosen to stay with her, even after everything that had transpired that day. Absurd didn’t begin to cover it, and she had no intention of examining what it meant. 

She took a breath she hadn’t realized she needed. “Goddamnit,” she sighed in defeat. “Come on. And put something over the cupholder so I don’t have to listen to you complain about your sore back all morning.”

He laughed nervously and reached into his bag, pulling out a shirt that he folded and laid over the hard plastic with more care than the situation warranted. Then, as he looked up, their gazes merged, and neither of them moved away. The question of whether this was a good or the worst idea hung between them, unanswered. 

Remaining silent, Vash turned around and lay down, his head settling onto her lap with a care that was almost comical given the circumstances. She gritted her teeth and shut her eyes firmly, as if it would squeeze the embarrassment out of herself. It didn’t, and they now both basked in the uncomfortable silence of their new arrangement. 

“Thanks,” she heard him say, somewhere below her. She kept her eyes on the ceiling. 

His gratitude somehow landed differently than it should have. Weeks ago, when he’d been flirting with her at every turn as if it were reflex, she’d have dismissed the request with a jab to his face. But this was something else: raw, honest. Stripped of the performance he wore as a mask.

It made her wonder which sides of him were real and which ones were merely a façade for something. When exactly she’d gotten good enough at reading him to know the difference. She wasn’t sure liked the answer.

“Don’t shuffle,” she declared instead, her voice aimed somewhere at the ceiling. “I’m not above throwing you out.”

“Noted,” Vash chuckled quietly as if he was already half-asleep.

He was dozing off before long, far sooner than she could ever hope to be. Without thinking, she watched him as he rested on her lap, noticing how different he looked when not animated by his usual restless energy. He seemed so much softer, unguarded in a way he rarely was when awake. Like the weight of everything he carried had simply lifted the moment he closed his eyes.

Still. Earlier, they’d reached a crossroads; a point of fracture she hadn’t been able to talk her way around or ignore into nonexistence. Their convictions were pointed in opposite directions; soon, the distance between them would become impossible to bridge. She didn't know when or how, but it was bound to happen; as certain as the suns rising tomorrow or November waiting for her at the end of the road. She dreaded the unavoidable schism and how much it unsettled her. Yet she dreaded even more that she was thinking about it as his lead lay on her lap. 

The acceptance was the hardest part. The quiet knowing that she would have to be okay with losing this, whatever this was. She wasn’t going to change her mind on the outcome of her journey, not after everything. And yet, she didn’t want Vash to shift his outlook for her either. 

In the end, she still didn’t know what shaped him, what made him so desperate to protect every life within his orbit, even at a cost to himself. He still carried so many secrets she hadn’t been invited to look at: she was probably still so far from discerning the full Vash. And yet, even incomplete, full of gaps she had no map for, she found herself thinking he was exactly as he should be. His principles, his gentleness, his maddening refusal to give up on others. To give up on her. Deep down, she didn’t want any of it gone.

She stole one last glance at the stillness of his face, at the way sleep had smoothed everything out of it. And despite it all, she smiled, hoping he’d stay exactly as he was. 

Chapter Text

Against all odds, that first night of undisturbed sleep in the belly of the sweltering desert had passed without incident. The darkness had held nothing but stars and silence; no sudden ambush cutting through the black, no bounty hunter materializing with a gun and a grudge. Which, at this point in their harrowing journey, would have been less of a surprise and more of a formality. 

Still, the desert had no intention of granting her a gentle escape from sleep, because she was violently wrenched from it at the crack of dawn when Vash stirred in her lap, flung out his arm, and slammed his palm straight into the steering wheel. Right on the horn.

“Holy sh-” she shrieked, every muscle in her body lurching as if she’d been jolted by a live wire. Her heart hammered against her ribs, eyes wide as the world crashed back into motion.

Vash snapped awake just as violently, springing upright from whatever contorted position he’d been folded into and nearly launching himself over the cupholder. For a suspended moment, they sat rigid and breathless, every sense straining, until the indifferent silence of the desert seeped back in, carrying with it the quiet assurance that nothing was coming for them. Not yet.

Her gaze drifted to the steering wheel, tracing the chain of cause and effect with dawning clarity before cutting sharply to Vash. “I will actually kill you,” she hissed, voice still ragged with adrenaline.

He turned back to her with an infuriatingly apologetic grin. “Good morning, I guess,” he laughed, and despite every fibre of her body mourning those stolen final minutes of sleep, the absurdity of the whole thing unravelled her last shred of composure. A laugh broke out of her before she could stop it. 

As their laughter faded into the dry morning air, she couldn’t help but really look at him. There he was, after a full night spent sprawled across her lap no less, hair a hopeless wreck of gold strands wildly messed by sleep, his cheek still faintly creased where it had rested against her. And yet his eyes were already wide open, catching the light; that sun-rivalling smile of his fully in place and bright enough to make the desert glare feel modest in comparison. As if he hadn’t just spent the night crumpled into the front seat of their car, limbs folded at angles no grown man should be comfortable in.

She resented him for it, deeply and sincerely, and couldn’t bring herself to look away.  

The morning after was much the same, and so was the one after that. The desert looked identical each time; the same bleached expanse, the same pale sky pressing down, and the same thin light fragments of gold across the dashboard before the heat had a chance to turn cruel. 

Their ease with each other crept back in quietly, as if the argument had simply burned off in the night the way the cold did. Vash clearly harboured no anger toward her, though he was deliberate about steering clear of anything tied to the road ahead or where it led. She was deeply grateful for it: she had no intention of a rematch of their disagreement, even if she suspected that it would find them again sooner or later. For now, they were headed for Hope’s Ford. That was answer enough. 

By his side, she swung between irritation and admiration and a dozen other things she couldn’t quite name, emotions that slipped through her fingers every time she tried to examine them. She came to enjoy the long hours of driving and the ridiculous games Vash somehow managed to rope her into. And yet, her heart would betray her at the smallest provocation. The way his eyes would cut to her sideways before the rest of him followed, like she was always the first thing he checked on. The absent way his hand would rake through his hair when he was thinking. The broad line of his shoulders when he stretched after hours of stillness. 

The mornings, when she woke up with her cheek marked by where it had fallen against the window or the headrest, where she always found him still there, breathing, his weight settled into her lap. The small relief moving through her involuntarily, of knowing he was still there. She’d even grown accustomed to him sleeping on her lap as it became, with the slow logic of the road, the only arrangement that made sense.

The dread softened gradually, as she surrendered to the truth: she stood no chance against herself. And so she settled into her quiet fondness, savouring its smallness and hoping, with everything she had, that it would be enough. 

They finally reached Copperglen after two relentless days on the road, the afternoon suns hammering the sand and baking the desert in harrowing heat. Just as Vash had told her, the town was unmistakably abandoned, swallowed by silence. This hadn’t been some paltry settlement either, she realized; concrete skeletons of buildings and fractured roads sprawled across the sand, crumbling and sun-bleached, the corpse of what must have once been a bustling haven now picked clean by time and neglect. 

The tires ground over sand and shattered masonry, crunching between the skeletons of forgotten homes and announcing their arrival with irreverent noise. For a place that had known nothing but silence for years, even their battered car sounded like an intruder. Vash shifted closer as they rolled into the desolate streets.

“Warm welcome,” he whistled, eyes lingering on the gutted ruins beyond the window. 

She huffed. “Yeah, I’m not holding my breath for treasure here.”

They parked beneath the fractured shadow of what had once been a general store, its sign dangling by a single rusted chain. Wind funnelled through empty doorways and broken windows, carrying the faintest scent of scorched metal and dust.

“Alright,” Vash broke the silence and opened the passenger door. “Do we check what’s left of this place first?”

She frowned, scanning the hollowed building. “It’s probably been picked clean since, but it’s worth a try.”

He nodded, indecisive. “Or we split up, cover more ground?”

She shot him a look. “Right, because nothing says ‘good idea’ like splitting up in a ghost town.”

He grinned. “Just trying to be efficient.”

She rolled her eyes, hoping it would be more convincing than the flicker of a smile at the edge of her mouth. “Let’s stick together for now. By the state of this place, I figure we won’t be long.”

She killed the engine and opened the door only to be struck by a waft of scorching air. As she stepped out, her boots crunched on grit and broken glass, and she was soon joined by Vash, stretching stiffly, one hand shielding his eyes from the desert light.

Her arm adjusted the strap of her bag as she glanced toward Vash. “Ready?”

He flashed her a grin. “After you.”

But before they could even get their bearings, Copperglen’s brittle silence was shattered by the low growl of an engine. Instinct snapped them to attention as they whirled toward their own car, scanning for the source; yet it was instantly clear the sound wasn’t theirs.

Someone else was here. And they were closing in, fast.

Vash’s head jerked up, his body tense as he scanned the horizon with urgency and soon turned on his heel to face the approaching threat.

“We’ve got company,” he stated, and she spun to see for herself.

A battered vehicle lumbered down the dusty road, its paint scoured by desert winds and probable years of rough survival. It rattled forward, unhurried but relentless. And it was obviously heading their way. 

She frowned, uncertain. They hadn’t come across another living soul since leaving Aniya Town two days ago, let alone a car. Who the hell could this be? Had Roberto tracked them all the way out here? Or was it someone else entirely?

Maybe, just maybe, it was another lost traveller, someone desperate for directions or simply grateful to see a human face. Someone harmless who wouldn’t try to kill them.

She didn’t believe it for a second. But hey, a little positivity had never killed anyone. Hopefully. 

There was no use hiding; whoever was behind the wheel had obviously spotted them. The street was too wide, the ruins too sparse to offer any form of cover. There was no way out for them; she braced herself, fingers curling instinctively around her holster. 

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath.

Vash’s voice was a low murmur at her side. “You think they’re friendly?” Despite the casual words, his body was coiled and ready, eyes never leaving the advancing car. 

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

The car rolled to a stop a handful of meters away, engine idling before cutting off with a shuddering cough. They held their breath, nerves strung tight, as the new visitors let the silence settle theatrically; then, at last, they stepped out to face them.

Two men emerged from the car almost in unison, one from the driver’s side and the other from the passenger. One the left was an older man, hair dark but streaked with resilient gray, a thick unkempt beard framing his weathered face with watchful eyes. Opposite him stood a dark-skinned man, hair cropped close to his scalp, gaze veiled by dark narrow glasses. His paint-splattered jacket hung loose over his broad shoulders, and a mischievous smile hung at the corner of his lips.

“Don’t provoke them,” Vash whispered at her side.

She arched an eyebrow, shooting him a glare even as his own eyes stayed locked on the strangers. “Why the fuck would you think I’d do that?”

Vash’s grin flickered. “That’s kind of your thing.”

“Oh, is it now?”

It seemed their new friends weren’t willing to let them bicker in peace, because their exchange was cut short by a crunch of footsteps on sand and a voice slicing through the tension. 

“Well, look what the desert dragged in.” The older man’s words carried easily across the empty street. 

No one replied. The silence thickened, stretching between them with suspicion and the anticipation of trouble. Both sides watched, sizing each other up, weighing threat against curiosity. 

The dark-skinned man finally broke the standoff with a dry scoff, tipping his head toward his companion. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He said, gaze dragging slowly back to them. To her. “Good call, Pierce. Didn’t think this dump would turn up any familiar faces. Desert’s full of surprises, huh?”

Before the other man could answer, a car door slammed behind them. Another set of hurried footsteps approached, scattering grit across the pavement.

She watched as the figure sprinted to catch up with the newcomers, eyes darting with confusion and face flushed from running. Black-and-yellow jacket. Ashen blond hair.

Aiden.

A groan escaped before she could stop it. 

Ain’t no fucking way this is happening.

“What the fuck, guys?” Aiden puffed, still fighting for breath. “You couldn’t bother to wake me up for this shit?”

The dark-skinned man shot him a look, equal parts amusement and challenge. “Sorry, Sleeping Beauty. You looked too peaceful in Dreamland.”

“Stanley, knock it off,” the older man cut in. 

Aiden took a moment to collect himself, wiping sweat from his brow. Then his gaze found the pair. Or rather, locked on her, eyes widening in comic disbelief as recognition unmistakably flickered. 

Was he about to say something? Would she have to explain, right now, the mortifying night back at the bar in Aniya Town? Her stomach twisted, but survival triumphed over embarrassment; she’d swallow her pride if it meant keeping them alive. 

Aiden held his tongue as well. Instead, it was Stanley, still grinning and finger pointed squarely at her, who broke the spell. “Hey, Aiden!” he roared. “Isn't that your runaway sweetheart?” 

Vash’s gaze landed on her like a physical weight, yet she refused to look his way. So much for keeping that under wraps. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aiden muttered, trying and obviously failing to sound indifferent. His frown deepened, and his unwavering stare did little to help either of their cases. 

She figured disgrace was inevitable now. So, knowing very well that belittling a man in front of his mates was the worst thing she could inflict upon them, she mustered a smirk just for Aiden. “Wow, you were really wasted,” she shot back. “Or is puking your secret move for getting out of awkward goodbyes?”

The two men erupted, nearly doubling over in laughter. Aiden didn’t so much as blink. Vash’s stare burned a hole in her side.

Fantastic. Could this get any fucking worse?

“Man, this one’s got jokes!” Stanley bellowed, flashing a grin at the blond behind him. “With a mouth like that, she’s wasted on the run. Too bad the payout’s better than the company.”

Bounty hunters. Of course she had to nearly hook up with a bounty hunter. 

Her gaze swept over them, sharper now, cataloguing every detail. The telltale Guild badges were stitched proudly onto their jackets, glinting on their shoulders like a warning. And suddenly, she knew this was about to become even worse of a shitshow. 

She knew the Guild, or rather the threat they posed to her. A syndicate of bounty hunters, all chasing the biggest payday. Most bounty hunters on Gunsmoke preferred to work solo, but a Guild membership came with tangible perks, such as supplies, reliable intel, places to rest and the kind of backup a lone hunter could only dream about. The Guild promised what the wild couldn’t: prestige, reputation, and a kind of power that was respected across every lawless stretch of the desert. 

Morality wasn’t part of the creed. The only loyalty demanded was to the Guild itself, to its ruthless hierarchy of ranks and bounty shares and to its rules enforced with brutal precision that left no room for mercy. It was relentless, coldly efficient, and infinitely more formidable than any scattered badge or broken law. 

In other words: they were fucked. 

“Hey, pal!” Vash called out cheerfully from her right. “Sorry, but nobody’s for sale here!

She fought the urge to punch him. Was he seriously cracking jokes at a time like this? Did this idiot even know what they were pitted against?

“Don’t play dumb.” Pierce’s reply was cold, his eyes hard as steel. “Your poster was pinned right next to hers.”

Unbelievable. She shot Vash a glare, who merely shrugged with that infuriatingly innocent smile. 

Her attention snapped back to the bounty hunters, whose hands hovered a little too close to their weapons. “Alright, tough guys,” she shot back, “what’s your plan? Because we’re not about to march off to your headquarters on a leash.”

“Sure you are,” Stanley smirked. “Or we put you in the ground.”

“Oh, but you won’t.” She mirrored his grin. “I know how you Guild types work. Don’t the people upstairs claim most of the bounty if you kill the targets?”

Stanley’s laughter died instantly, and his jaw clenched. “You don’t know anything,” he spat. 

But she did. This wasn’t her first run-in with Guild hunters, and she doubted it would be her last. These days, they were the only ones bothering to police the Savabridge region; the rare cops she’d met in Skullpeak were just drops in the ocean of Guild operatives sweeping through. They were drawn to lawless places and big rewards, making them far more unpredictable and dangerous than any official badge. 

She’d crossed Guild hunters before, even fought off some. So she knew the rules: Eighty percent for a live capture; less than half if the target was dead. The Guild’s prestige came with its own strings attached, and sometimes, those strings turned to nooses.

Yet, they were not certain to make it out alive. With three hunters in front of her, she racked her brain for a plan, any escape, anything that wouldn’t end in a bloodbath. It turned out that Vash beat her to it.

“Actually!” he piped up, drawing everyone’s attention. “I’ve got a proposal.”

The bounty hunters didn’t move, hands still hovering near their holsters. She kept her eyes locked on Vash, praying he’d say something brilliant for once.

“Let’s have a shooting contest.” His smile was disarmingly bright. “If we win, you let us walk away and forget you ever saw us. If you win, we’ll go quietly. No fuss.”

She gawked at him. Was he trying to get them killed faster?

The hunters just stared, sharing looks with their brows raised, as if Vash had started speaking in tongues.

“Come on!” he added, undaunted. “Three against two, you’ve got the numbers. I hear the Guild only takes the best shots!”

She buried her face in her hands. This was never going to work. This couldn’t possibly-

“Okay.”

…it worked?

Her gaze zapped incredulously from the bounty hunters to Vash in a quick succession, as if she couldn’t believe the words had reached her ears, that her mind had simply dreamed them up. Seasoned bounty hunters from an organization as prestigious as the Guild couldn’t possibly accept such a foolish offer, could they?

Yet Pierce nodded, and neither of his men protested. Maybe they thought dragging bodies back to headquarters for less than half the reward wasn’t worth the effort. No matter how threatening they were, Guild hunters were always chasing the biggest score, and that greed was their weakness.

“But here’s the deal, blondie,” Pierce said, voice slow and grim as he stared Vash down. “Since you want to play games, you shoot. Your girlfriend gets to watch.”

She took a step forward. “Correction: not his girlfriend,” she hissed between her teeth, barely able to conceal the heat she still felt creeping up to her face. “And if you’re so scared, let me show you how a girl handles a gun. This isn’t fair, and you know it.”

Stanley only laughed, flashing her a wide grin. “Life’s not fair, sweetheart. You want your shot at freedom? Those are the terms.”

“Oh, give me a break!” she shot back, voice sharp with frustration. “Three against one? That’s not a contest, it’s a setup.”

Aiden shrugged, barely bothering to look at her. “Rules are rules. Your boy wants to play hero, then he takes the shot. Otherwise, we’re done talking.”

Anger twisted in her chest, and the urge to fight back surged in her. But before she could spit out another retort, Vash’s hand landed softly on her shoulder. “It’s alright.” He nodded, his voice quiet but steady. “I’ll do it.”

Their eyes locked for a beat: they were out of options, and they both knew it. If the hunters hadn’t agreed to the contest, bullets would already be flying, and the last thing she wanted was another firefight with her shoulder still healing. She clenched her jaw and gave Varsh a defiant nod. 

“Alright,” Pierce cut through the moment with a chuckle. “Let’s play, then.”

The absurdity of it all barely registered. Her fate, and Vash’s, now hung on a contest and a prayer. Three against one; how were they supposed to win? 

And yet, a memory surfaced: Vash in Skullpeak, sniping a lantern chain from across the street in the dead of night. The astonishing precision, the utter calm as if he’d never doubted himself for a second. The way he made the impossible look like the easiest thing in the world.

Suddenly, she wasn’t quite as terrified as she should have been.

Reaching a fragile truce, the group arranged two neat rows of twelve bottles each along the jagged remnants of a ruined wall. For reasons best chalked up to the rampant alcoholism endemic to Gunsmoke, a sack of empty bottles had been rattling in the back of their car, dusty glass rolling for who knew how long, waiting for a moment like this. 

She watched Pierce set the last bottle in place in the distance, far enough that even a practiced marksman would have to fight for every hit. Meanwhile, Stanley and Aiden lounged nearby, trading jokes and laughter as if their victory was already assured. To be fair, the numbers were on their side; their smug confidence made this obvious. 

Her gaze flickered to the makeshift shooting range, from their targets and Vash’s: two parallel lines of glass glinting in the desert sun.

She felt a knot in her stomach as she did the math; it was anything but promising. 

Her feet took her to Vash’s side, finding him preoccupied with counting a mismatched handful of bullets fished from the depths of his coat pockets. The nonchalance of this man never failed to astonish her. 

“You’re really doing this,” she murmured, low enough so that only he could hear.

He rolled his shoulders and looked down at her, eyes calm behind tinted lenses with an unreasonable confidence that made her heart stutter. “I’m really doing this,” he replied, cracking his neck with an enthusiasm that bordered on insulting, given the circumstances. 

She let out a sharp breath. “If we die over a shooting contest-”

“We won’t,” he cut in gently.

“You can’t possibly know that.”

A crooked smile tugged at his lips. “I kind of do.”

She folded her arms, ready to argue, but a pointed cough drew their attention. Pierce, impatience etched into every line of his face, beckoned them closer.

“Alright, kids,” he announced. “Here’s how it works: twelve bottles, twelve shots each. Whoever hits the most wins.” He huffed, a smirk carved in his features. “Simple enough.”

Her brows furrowed as she took a step forward. “Hey, hold on,” she interjected. “Shouldn’t you split those two shots between the three of you? Four shots each?”

Pierce studied her for a moment, letting the silence stretch between them. Behind him, Aiden muttered to Stanley, but she couldn’t catch the words; she almost regretted not putting him down back at the motel.

“We’re already giving you a chance, little lady,” Pierce said flatly. “Don’t waste our generosity.”

She was halfway through a retort about fairness and their collective lack of decency when Vash interrupted her. “It’s fine,” he said, unwavering. “We’ll play by your rules.”

After backing up the length of a city street away from the targets, the bounty hunters insisted on leading the first round. She knew better than to argue.

Stanley went first, shattering three bottles with noisy bravado, his rough technique echoing more brute force than finesse. Judging by their builds, she figured he and Pierce were the muscle of the crew, accustomed to handling criminals with their fists. But her assumption faltered when Pierce took the second round, dispatching five bottles with methodical precision. 

Five out of twelve; almost half. He moved with the calm assurance of a man who shot for blood, not sport; his experience was etched into every steady motion, more than the lines on his face. 

Then, it was Aiden’s turn. She glared as he squared up to the remaining targets, cocky smile still in place. His shots rang out, and three bottles exploded with shards splintering across the sand. Which left only one bottle, a brown one teetering on the crumbled wall, rocking slightly on its base from the percussion around it. 

Eleven out of twelve. Between three people. At a distance where most couldn’t hit even one.

The men cheered boastfully, congratulating each other on their self-assured victory. She caught the flicker of Aiden shooting her a look from afar, flashing her a presumptuous grin once he noticed she was looking.

She didn’t even bother replying.

Her gaze flicked anxiously to Vash, who stood apart, examining his gun with calm detachment, as if the gravity of their predicament hadn’t even fazed him. He turned the weapon over in his hands, checked something she couldn’t name, and glanced at the makeshift range: twelve untouched bottles glinting dully in the flat desert light. His eyes darted to the hunters’ lone remaining target, still taunting them from afar. 

“That one’s still standing,” he observed calmly. 

“We know, asshole.” Stanley retorted with an annoyed grin. 

“Should I…?” He gestured vaguely. 

“Just shoot.”

“Right.” He paused, asserting the situation, “All twelve, or just-”

“Just shoot.”

And so he did.

There was no rush in his performance, and that’s what made it so uncanny. Vash moved with deliberate calm, each motion impossibly fluid. He took his time in a way that should have felt slow but somehow didn’t, because between each pause was a shot, and between each shot was another bottle splintering down on the sand below. He didn’t flinch, didn’t shift his stance, didn’t even narrow his eyes at the distant targets.; what the three hunters had accomplished together, he nearly made it look effortless.

Her eyes couldn’t look away from him; every shred of her attention was drawn to the focused set of his shoulders, the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his brows knit in concentration as he lined up each shot. There was a rare, almost lyrical precision to the way his fingers worked the revolver, reloading his second round of ammo with a graceful dexterity. Watching him was almost hypnotic, each movement purposeful and charged with an intensity that left her breathless. And she knew she could have gotten lost in the sight of him for far longer. 

There was no better word for it: she was inescapably entranced by this man, even if she wasn’t ready to admit it. And when the final bottle shattered, it dawned on her that she’d forgotten to breathe.

Twelve shots. Twelve bottles. Alone.

Vash lowered his arm with the audacity to look mildly pleased, as if he’d just won a card game. The wind howled silently for a while. Then, out of instinct or showmanship or something else she couldn’t decipher, he slipped a single additional round into his revolver, raised the gun without even looking, and shot the brown bottle from the hunters’ row. 

The glass erupted. Vash spun his gun and holstered it. 

“So,” he said brightly. “We’re good to go?”

No one uttered a word. She swept her gaze over the hunters’ faces, tracing the flickers of bewilderment and irritation that warred with disbelief. Even after witnessing Vash’s almost inhumane display, she knew.

They were not good to go.

She’d known it the moment Vash proposed the contest: men like these weren’t the kind to honour the terms they’d agreed to while they were so confident in their victory. Even if the contest had felt like a way out, it was now just a way to a different problem.

“You asshole.” Aiden hissed at Vash; he wasn’t smiling. “That was a trick.”

“It wasn’t,” Vash replied without flinching. “It was a shooting contest. Which we just won.”

“You cheated.”

Vash tilted his head, genuine confusion creasing his brow. “With what? It’s a gun. How do you possibly want me to cheat?”

She caught the flicker of Aiden’s hand sliding toward his holster, the motion sharp and distinctive, and her own fingers twitched at her side, ready to draw. A tense stillness settled over the ruins, in which everyone seemed suspended in the same weary breath, each waiting for someone else to be stupid enough to make the first move.

Predictably, Vash had proven the best at filling that position. “Actually,” he said lightly, “something just occurred to me. If you’re in the Guild, you must know Salezhar Vorcus, right?”

The name meant nothing to her, purely because she wasn’t privy to the Guild’s tangled politics. Her confusion mirrored Aiden and Stanley’s, both men blinking as if Vash had suddenly begun speaking in another language.

But Pierce went very still, as if a switch had been flipped. 

For a long, loaded moment, he didn’t move. Then slowly, he nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “I know Vorcas. What’s she to you?”

Vash chuckled, raking a nervous hand through his hair. “God, it feels weird saying her full name. I usually just call her Zharia. Anyway, we’ve got some kind of rivalry, I guess you could call it that. She’s staked a claim on my bounty, apparently. Whatever that means.”

Her brows rose, silent questions darting across her face. She’d heard rumour, half-truths whispered in the desert, about the Guild’s rigid ranking. Top hunters claimed bounties and left lesser hunters in the dust; the higher the rank, the greater the authority.

By the look on Pierce’s face, she quickly deduced that this Salezhar was one of the Guild’s upper echelons. Her guess was confirmed when he stepped forward, wordless, and clamped a hand on Aiden’s arm. 

“We’re done here,” he declared, finality ringing in his tone. 

Aiden jerked away. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he snapped. “We have them-”

Pierce bent close, whispering something low and sharp she couldn’t catch. Whatever it was, it cut through Aiden’s defiance; his jaw clenched as he gave a bitter, reluctant nod. Stanley’s expression shifted from confusion to discontent, but he offered no protest as he headed off toward their vehicle. Pierce followed without a backward glance, moving like a man closing a door he intended to open again someday. 

Aiden lingered, casting one last scathing look over his shoulder. “We’re not done,” he declared, to no one in particular, or maybe both of them. “Not even close.”

Then he strode to the car. The engine snarled to life, and the vehicle vanished into the maze of ruins and dust, leaving behind only shards of glass and a stillness ringing in her ears. 

She could barely believe it. The confrontation, the contest, Vash’s impossible performance, the way the hunters fled at the mere mention of a name. It had all happened so fast; her mind struggled to keep pace, her heart still pounding with the residue of adrenaline slowly fading away. 

Just another secret layered onto the enigma that was Vash the Stampede. Her travelling companion and the most frustratingly fascinating man she’d ever met. 

The silence pressed in, thick and heavy, until she finally turned to him with her arms folded across her chest. “Salezhar Vorcas,” she repeated, trying out each syllable as if testing the weight of a curse. She’d seen the look on Pierce’s face, how it had been enough to send the whole crew packing. That name held power, and it most likely rhymed with danger, too. 

Vash looked down at her nonchalantly. “Mh.” The casualness of it made her want to throw something at him.

“You’re fucking with me,” she hissed. “They acted like they’d seen a ghost when you brought her up.”

“She tends to have that effect.” He shrugged with a distant smile.

She glared, undeterred. “Vash, who is she? Why does she have a claim on your bounty?”

“That’s a really long story.” He considered her for a moment, his smile never fading. “She’s actually an old friend. The claimed bounty is just a convenient cover.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the accurate one.” He was already moving away, hands in his pockets, as he hadn’t just ended a standoff with a name instead of a gun.

“Vash.”

He paused. “Hm?”

She blinked, once, twice. “How do you even know someone like that?”

He slung his backpack over his shoulder, turning to her with a smirk and a glint in his eye that told her she wouldn’t get the full story today, and maybe not ever. And damn him, he clearly found her exasperation mildly charming. 

“Like I said,” he replied. “Long story.”

She stood there in the ruins of Copperglen, between shattered glass and tire tracks, speechless in a way she hadn’t been in a long time.

She and Vash had long ago agreed not to pry into each other’s pasts. That truce had served them well, with only the occasional crack: his infamous name and the guilt he carried from Prospector’s Worth’s destruction, her own ghosts resurfacing through Roberto about the trial and her father’s murder. A lot had already been revealed, yet so much remained hidden.

There were still so many gaps in the riddle that was Vash.. So many unanswered questions and tangled secrets: his existence was a puzzle that never quite fit together.

But she was no different; a guarded soul, her own history sealed behind tight lips, wandering the desert with burdens of her own. Vash never pressed, out or respect or something deeper she couldn’t name. All things considered, maybe his ties to a Guild’s infamous legend weren’t hers to untangle; or at least, not yet.

She let out a defeated sigh. “You’re going to have to tell me someday.”

He just smiled, mischief flickering in his eyes; equal parts promise and evasion. “Probably.”

She watched him turn away, the question still echoing between them, and wondered if she’d ever truly unravel the mystery that was Vash the Stampede. 

Chapter Text

The fringes of Copperglen were quiet, cloaked in the peculiar stillness that haunted all forsaken places: a stillness so absolute it seemed to consume sound itself. Whatever clamour the town once boasted had long since been devoured by time and the merciless desert, leaving behind a silence reserved only for places that had once mattered. 

Truthfully, she didn’t mind it much. Given the choice between the crumbled ruins and the endless, exposed dunes that comprised most of their route, she’d take whatever shelter she could get over standing out alone for miles and being an easy target in the open. Years of hardship had taught her to sleep almost anywhere, under circumstances far worse than this. 

After resuming their supply run, since they’d been rudely interrupted by unwelcome visitors before they’d so much as opened a door, Vash steered the car off the road, tucking it out of sight along the town’s dusty edge. Nightfall descended with indifferent finality, urging them to rest before continuing onward. She sat in the passenger seat with the door open, her legs dangling outside as her gaze wandered, listening to Vash rummage through the odd corners of the car’s cluttered interior. 

She remained silent, letting the stillness of night settle over her, absentmindedly tugging at the edge of her tank top to check on the wound beneath. The skirmish with the police back in Skullpeak seemed like a distant memory now, even if it had been just over a week ago, assuming her math was right. She could barely believe how, in such a short span, her entire world had turned upside down: she’d gone from resenting her new travelling companion to saving his life in a heartbeat. Then, forced into convalescence, she found herself navigating the precarious first threads of trust and reluctant alliance woven between them. They’d played games, endured Rosaline’s scoldings, sparred over vengeance and guilt and the right to drive. They’d promised to have each other’s back, however long this uncertain partnership might last. As long as the road kept them together.

And, as if fate were mocking her, she’d developed the most mortifying, gut-twisting crush on this impossible man, her cheeks flushing at every teasing quip and her nights invaded by dreams she couldn’t will away. Sometimes she wondered whether she should be grateful or furious for the way her life had turned out. 

Her attention drifted back to her wound; she lifted the edge of the cloth with cautious curiosity, hoping for at least a sliver of good news amidst the day’s relentless trials. She wasn’t a medical professional by any stretch, but from her vantage point, the stitches seemed nearly done. The edges drawn tightly together and the skin around them tingling with a prickling dryness all seemed to be positive signs. 

“Vash.”

He grunted in response, nothing to look up from rummaging through the backseat.

“Do you know how to remove stitches, too?”

Finally, he lifted his head, pausing mid-search as the back door swung full open. He sidestepped around the car, peering at her with mild interest. “Is it time for that already?”

“I think so? It looks fine, at least from where I’m sitting.”

He crossed over, leaning in as she peeled the cloth back from her shoulder. He studied the wound for a moment, brow furrowed, and then nodded in approval. “Yeah, looks ready to me,” he confirmed, voice more certain than before. 

“Do you want to do it now?” she asked, shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat. “Might as well get it over with.”

He considered her for a heartbeat, then shook his head. “Not in the car. There’s barely enough place to breathe, let alone do surgery.”

She arched a brow. “Then where? I’m not exactly eager to get sand in a freshly closed wound.”

For a few seconds, he just surveyed their surroundings, the endless desert, the ruins and the battered vehicle. Then, a spark flickered in his eyes. “Top of the car?”

She stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

But he clearly was. “Think about it. It’s flat up there, we’ll stay out of the sand, and the roof gives us the moonlight. Inside a building, the walls will just block it out. I’m not exactly sure how it’ll turn out if I go around poking at you in the dark.”

Every instinct screamed at her how ridiculous this was, but she found herself nodding anyway. The only alternative was admitting she didn’t have a better idea, and she wasn’t about to hand him that victory just yet. 

And so she climbed up, palms prickling at the lingering warmth the metal had hoarded from the suns’ relentless blaze. The heat bled through her skin as she hauled herself up, feet fumbling for a foothold on the car door frame. 

“Need a hand?” Vash called, amusement curling in his voice; she didn’t have to look to know he was smirking.

“I’d rather fall,” she shot back 

She managed to hoist herself onto the roof, settling cross-legged in the center, back straight and fingers pinching the hem of her top in anticipation. Vash clambered up a moment later, carrying the battered kit they’d been carrying since Tantrails. He set the kit down next to him and sat across from her, his expression shifting to quiet focus.

Vash raised an eyebrow. “Ready for your big moment?”

She rolled her eyes, letting out a breath. “Would be weird if I chickened out now.”

“Little late for second thoughts. But you can complain if it makes you feel better.”

Her grin carved itself on her lips, tension slipping from her shoulders. “I probably will, then.”

Then, his eyes widened. For a moment, he just stared, silent long enough that she wondered if his brain had glitched out completely. 

“Well?” she prompted. 

He cleared his throat, gaze darting anywhere but her. “I, uh… need more room to work. So… your shirt…”

She blinked, matching his fluster with her own. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.” He managed to sound both apologetic and exasperated at once. 

She studied him for a moment, the silence thickening, expanding to fill every inch of space between them. He was close, far too close, just inches away; she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks and spreading with such speed she wondered if she’d get through this without passing out. If she died right here, in the middle of the godforsaken desert on the roof of a stolen police car, she decided it would be entirely his fault.

Still, she knew he was right, and couldn’t muster a comeback, let alone a half-hearted insult. With a sharp exhale, she pulled her shirt over her head and sat utterly still, unable to meet his eyes.

Vash seemed just as rattled, his gaze glued to her wound as he reached for the scissors and brought them close to the stitch line, careful not to brush her skin more than necessary. 

“Hold still,” he eventually whispered.

“I am holding still.”

He didn’t bother arguing, instead bending to his methodical work with a focus sharpened to a fine point. She remembered the first time, back in Tantrails, how pain had twisted her up so badly she’d barely registered any of it. Now, with the sting dulled, she could actually see how his hands moved, steady and deliberate. 

It struck her as absurd that the same fingers so recently wrapped around the trigger of a gun could coax thread from skin with such precision. There was something fundamentally contradictory about Vash: capability and chaos sharing the same space, each amplifying the other instead of clashing. 

She forced herself to concentrate on the deftness of his fingers as the scissors slipped beneath the first knot, doing everything she could not to dwell on the fact that their knees nearly touched, that he was so close she could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. 

“This morning,” Vash’s voice finally broke the quiet. “That blonde guy. You knew him?”

She let out a laugh before she could stop herself; after everything else, she’d nearly forgotten her short-lived history with Aiden. She’d expected Vash to ask right after, so she’d managed to shove the memory aside until now.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Almost hooked up with him once.”

Once didn’t mean three days ago. While Vash was across the street, anxiously waiting for her back at the motel. She could let the timeline remain blurry.

“Right,” he said, eyes fixed on his hands. “How long did you know him?”

“Between when I met him and when I walked out after he started puking?” She paused, considering the timespan. “About thirty-five minutes.”

He paused, hands stilled mid-motion.

“He bought me a drink,” she added, as if that was a sound explanation.

She’d expected him to go silent at that, either out of judgment or plain discomfort at having her admit to her shamefully dull sex life while she sat half-naked, two inches away from him.

But instead, he laughed, loosening his shoulders beside her. 

“Good to know that’s all it takes to win you over.”

She rolled her eyes, unable to stop the smirk. “Don’t get any ideas.”

He managed to look innocent. “Me? Never.”

“Forgive me for not trusting you.”

He chuckled again, and she could hear the grin without even looking. “I just think it’s useful information,” he retorted calmly, “for anyone who might need to know.”

She groaned, covering her face with her hand. “Well, no one needs that information. Just-” she stopped, finding no way out of the predicament she’d dug herself into, “just drop it, alright? Sometimes I get drunk, make questionable choices and forget about them in the morning. That’s all this was.”

He went quiet for a beat, then she felt his gaze. When she finally made the mistake of looking, he was watching her, brow furrowed and honestly puzzled.

“Make questionable choices to…?”

It took a moment to find her voice. “Have sex, Vash.” She stared at him. “I told you before: only when I’m drunk.”

Something unreadable flickered in his eyes; disapproval or pity, she couldn’t tell. “I remember,” he said quietly, leaving a heavy pause between them. She braced herself for the question she knew was coming. 

“Why?”

But then, she wasn’t even sure she had an answer for herself, let alone for him. The truth had always been more of an observation than an explanation, a patchwork defence she’d never dared to unravel. She had her suspicions, most of them circling back to the bastard she planned to put in the ground when she got to November, but none of it sounded sane outside her own head.

“I don’t know,” she exhaled at last. “Wanting someone… It’s just never happened to me. It feels impossible, and I’m not sure it exists for people like me. Drinking just makes it easier to pretend I’m normal, and it’s easier to forget people that way. Feels safer.”

Vash was silent, mind clearly working. She couldn’t believe this was the conversation they were having, now, of all times. 

She’d never craved intimacy, never needed companionship; she’d taught herself to live without it, especially after learning how dangerous it was to want someone. The last time she’d let herself care, she hadn’t even understood what she was feeling until it was too late and everything had shattered. Since then, it had been better to keep people nameless and fleeting, to use closeness as a shield rather than an invitation. 

But that dream back in Aniya Town, and the way her skin burned with Vash sitting so close, made her question every conviction she’d built to keep herself safe.  

Not that she’d ever admit it. 

“I see,” he hesitated, returning his focus to her stitches. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have pushed.”

She looked away. “Doesn’t matter. It’s all old news anyway.”

The silence that settled between them was thick and uneasy, stretching wider than the empty miles beyond the car, despite how close he sat. The desert was now swallowed by darkness, save for the moons hanging low on the horizon, their pale glow barely enough to outline the ruined edges of the town. She felt the temperature fall all at once, like a cold that seemed to creep right through her skin. Vash’s prosthetic fingers moved in careful sweeps over her shoulder, the chill of metal mingling with the night air and raising goosebumps along her arms. 

She needed to say something, anything, to fill the hush before he decided to pry deeper, before the silence invited questions she wasn’t ready to face.

“What a shitshow today was,” she muttered at last, yet immediately wishing she’d stuck to something safe like the weather.

“You tell me.” He kept working, fingers steady on the last few knots. “I warned you: trouble’s got a way of following me around.”

She shot him a look, the moonlight catching the angle of his jaw before she glanced away. “Vash, if you’re about to apologize for your bad luck again, I swear I’ll shoot you myself,” she protested before he could add anything. “Those assholes were after me, too. If you hadn’t pulled that contest stunt, we’d either be in cuffs or leaking blood back on that street.”

He actually laughed. “I’m sure we’d have figured something out.”

“Yeah, well, my version of a plan was to start shooting ankles and see who dropped first.”

“I guess that’s one way to go about it.” He met her eyes. “But if there’s a way out that doesn’t involve violence, I’ll always try to take it.”

She arched a brow. “With that shot of yours? Seems like wasted talent to me. Where’d you even learn to shoot like that, anyway?”

He smiled at something distant, and somehow she figured it was neither her nor her wound. “Lots of practice. When people are always after you, you've got to learn quickly.”

Well, she couldn’t exactly argue with him there. Except running hadn’t turned her into a sharpshooter, just into a restless soul wandering the desert with a gun and grudge. “I bet.” She smirked at him. “Are shooting contests your usual way of resolving tension?”

“I’ve tried it a few times. But mostly, it’s as much of a failure as you’d expect. They usually just start shooting and skip the contest part entirely.”

She laughed, easily picturing how this could go sideways about nine times out of ten, which, all things considered, were generous odds. Vash chuckled too, yet with a distant edge to it this time.

“I’ve been doing this a long time, you know. Running.“ His voice was quiet. “Trouble follows me everywhere. That’s why I was worried about you getting caught up in my kind of mess.”

She knew she couldn’t let this slide, not after everything she’d seen from him. “Vash, I don’t care how long you’ve had a price on your head, or what kind of trouble you’re tangled up in. I attract assholes with guns and empty wallets just as much as you do. Don’t start acting like you’re ruining my life just by sticking around.”

He didn’t look up, just kept severing the thread. She let the silence stretch, her patience thinning. “And in case you don’t remember,” she added. “You saved me today. Again.”

For a while, he seemed to weigh her words, probably running through all the potential arguments: that she could’ve handled herself, that his bounty made him the bigger target, that she’d be better off without his complications. She was ready for every excuse he might throw her way.

But she was done letting him wallow in guilt. Done watching him act like he was some walking disaster for simply being flawed, for trying and sometimes failing. She was done with him trying to keep her at arm’s length in the name of protection, as if she couldn’t handle herself. 

It infuriated her that he still didn’t see she was capable of standing her ground, just as much as it infuriated her to watch him isolate himself out of fear that he might hurt someone. 

But to her surprise, he said no such thing. “Yeah,” he sighed. “I know.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, making sure he was listening. “Good. Because I’m done repeating myself.”

“I know.”

She felt the final stitch pull tight and hissed, a sharp jolt of pain flaring along her side.

“Shit,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

Vash’s hands froze instantly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry ab-” She turned to reassure him, but the words died on her tongue.

He’d jerked back in response to her pain, but now his face was far too close, close enough that she could see the flicker of moonlight tangled in his eyes. Her breath caught, suspended somewhere between her ribs and her throat, and for a moment that stretched like two eternities combined, neither of them moved.

He was staring at her in a way that felt like both a question and an answer, a gravitational force neither seemed willing nor able to resist. But then his gaze slipped, just for a heartbeat, over the rest of her and her bare skin shivering under the night wind. 

She wondered if it was possible to faint while still technically conscious. 

His cheeks flushed, colouring to match her own. “I, uh…” He cleared his throat, retreating several inches while his attention flickered awkwardly from her wound to somewhere over her shoulder. “I think I’m done. It… It looks good.”

She swallowed, unsteady. “Right.”

Another tense moment dragged by before Vash abruptly turned away, collecting the medical kit with more haste than care. “I’m going to bed,” he announced. “Come down whenever you’re ready.”

“Right,” she echoed, mortified by the tremor in her voice. Never in her life had she wanted so badly to melt straight through a car roof. “Uh, yeah. Go ahead. I’ll be there in a second.”

He glanced at her one last time. Then he climbed down, his footsteps thudding softly against the sand below. 

She remained frozen, unable to coax her body into motion, her shirt forgotten at her side. The desert pressed in, vast and silent, the chill of the metal roof biting through her skin while the moons kept rising overhead.

There were no words for what just passed between them; nothing she could name, nothing she dared. Vash had her spellbound in a way that unravelled logic and rewrote every rule she thought she understood. But in that suspended instant, something had shifted. Something that added a dangerous variable to an already unreasonable equation.

He had looked at her. Really looked. That fact alone sent a flush of heat through her, lingering even after he’d gone. 

Almost unconsciously, her fingers reached for her wound, warmth in the cold of night somehow still burning from where his hands had been. She traced the edges lightly, half-expecting the sensation to fade, but it lingered stubbornly. Over the heat, he’d left the softness, the memory of his careful hands, the way he’d looked at her as if she was worth saving. For a moment, she let herself be carried by it, a fleeting admission that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as immune as she’d hoped to be. 

Then suddenly she blinked, pulling her hand away.

Get it together. This can’t happen. 

Exhaling sharply, she pressed the back of her hand to her cheek, still flushed with leftover heat. And for the first time in perhaps forever, she wasn’t entirely sure she’d make it to November in one piece.