Archive of Our Own ^beta

The drive to July will take days, you knew that going into this, prepared yourself for a long, arduous journey with a dangerous, most-likely reckless outlaw in tow.

Vash has finally decided to say something about the strained way you grip the handlebars, wincing and stiffening with every steep drop on a dune or jagged rock under the tires. The jarring shift in movement has you instinctively tightening your legs astride the vehicle, which in turn jolts fresh, static pain right up the entire left side of your body. 

Oh yeah, something’s definitely broken, or at the very least, fractured. 

You’re surprised he didn’t say something sooner, what with the way his hands are gently anchored onto the dip of your waist. Cuff-free, he’s able to keep a more respectable distance (you don’t fail to notice the way he actively keeps his chest from touching your back, or other, further down-south parts of him, for that matter), but you can’t stifle the full body tremors that rack through you every so often, and there’s no hiding something like that. 

“We should take a break.” Vash proposes, just loud enough over the hum of the strider to hear, just close enough that you can feel the damp heat of his breath against your nape. “You can’t keep going like this.” 

“I’m fine.” You reply, clipped. 

“You’re not, though.” He argues gently, “I can feel you. At this rate, you’ll pass out at the wheel.” 

“And what’re you going to do about it, Stampede?” You snap back, the pain and the heat and the exhaustion seeping into you like a poison to your mood. “Gonna magically heal all my wounds?”

You know he doesn’t deserve your ire, but the constant concern that colors Vash’s tone whenever he speaks to you is starting to grate at your nerves, and that makes you feel shitty all over again. The guy shouldn’t be as invested in your well-being as he is. He should be thinking of himself, because then you wouldn’t feel compelled to think of him, in return. 

What a selfish thing you are, you think bitterly. 

He huffs out a laugh that you can feel against your hair, but there’s no humor there. “If I could, I would, believe me.” Wistful, like there’s so much more packed underneath the surface of those words, and you’re compelled to dig at it, just so you can understand him a bit more. 

“Well, you can’t, so just drop it already.” Quieter, not so barbed.

“I can try, though! You have to have a first-aid kit, right? Being in...your line of work.” He trails off a little, as though afraid he’ll offend you with the facts. “Can I at least take a look at it? Make sure it doesn’t get infected? It looked pretty bad back there—”

“Fine!” You heave a sharp sigh, “if it’ll get you to stop bothering me, then fine.” Through the scuffed up lenses of your goggles, you see something in the distance; a small gathering of derelict structures. “Can you hold off on playing doctor long enough for us to get there?” 

Vash shifts a little, fingers tightening just marginally against your waist as he peers over your shoulder. He hums just a decimal higher than the strider does, as though he’s discerning whether or not you’re capable of driving that far. 

It fans the irritation within you, so much so that you fail to evade a sizeable rock dead-center of your path. The strider bounces over it, and you’re overcome with the pain, gripping the handlebars tight enough your knuckles blanch. Within that shift and rock of motion, Vash takes the initiative and scoots closer, reaches from behind you to clasp his hands over yours, steadying you out.

“I—urgh—I’ve got it.” You barely manage, stubbornly pushing back against him, inadvertently melding yourself so close to him that you’re connected flush from the cradle of his hips, to the bracket of his arms. “Would you just—”

“Let me help you.” He doesn’t give an inch, “there’s nothing wrong with needing a little help every once in a while.” And there’s a duality in his voice now, comforting and unyielding all at once, a contradiction in sound. 

It has you a little flustered, tying your tongue up against the roof of your mouth. 

“There, not so terrible. Backseat drivers get a bad rep sometimes, but we come in handy when it counts.” Vash jokes lightly, and you huff out a little breath tinged with indignation. 

As the seconds pass, against your will, your body loosens just enough that Vash, in turn, eases up on his grip over your hands—but he holds them, nonetheless. One metal, one flesh, both of them dwarfing yours in size, and yet so distinctly gentle.

How your shoulders ease downwards, back conforming to the conclave of his body, is blamed on the events of the day; weighing you down, melting you into a lax state of being that directly contradicts your entire nature. A bit like a skittish animal, lured into a strangers arms with the promise of comfort, easing into the moment more and more until you’re unsure if you ever want to leave again. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been so acutely aware of the pounding of your heart, before. Such a wild concept for a woman who’s spent her days hunting down outlaws—you’ve taken count of the beats before, slowed it down, felt it race through your veins, but never have you been so conscious of it’s thrum.

Perhaps it’s the addition of another that makes it so, because his heartbeat echoes into you through your back, a steady, strong thump thump thump, and they sync, they align, they beat together. How strange. Your heart has never felt so...calmed. 

“Do you even know how to drive?” You question him, and the words pass your loosened lips tired and teasing. “Reports said you made your way around Gunsmoke on a Toma.” 

He breathes out a laugh, and you don’t realize you’ve dropped your head back against him until you feel the way his chest rattles you around. He is firm, and warm, and you’re wrapped up in that indescribable aroma he emanates once more, but you have the time to ponder it, now. 

When you were younger, before your life was shattered and you were left with the wounds of it all, you once visited a farm. It was the first and last time you saw color painting the land, and it was an oasis. They explained the miracle with science, told you that beneath the lively soil was a Geo-Plant, and she bestowed upon them their paradise. Flowers and trees, grass and shrubs, freshly cut wood, and they told you it was cedar. It came from the planet of your ancestors.

It suddenly clicks in your brain. 

He smells like cedar. 

“Let’s just say I’m more comfortable with reins than handlebars.” Vash replies, “almost there.” 

You don’t reply immediately, opting to let the electric hum of the strider fill the silence as you languidly ruminate over your current predicament: what you’ll do next, how you’re not even sure what comes after this, and how that revelation doesn’t bother you nearly as much as it should. 

Maybe, after he’s patched you up, and you’re not not melting into the embrace of his arms, and the space between you widens from a fraction to a chasm, you’ll come to your senses. You’ll tie him up and throw him on the back of the strider, and you’ll make your way to July. You try not to think about the disconcerting twist behind the cage of your sternum at the concept of never seeing him again. 

With a deep breath, you focus on the present, and like a persistent itch, you’re overcome with the way Vash smells just like that magical oasis in the desert. How his brilliant, red jacket reminds you of the flora that bloomed there. The gentleness he harbors like that of the farmers of paradise; reverent in their care of something fragile, knowing life is cradled in the palms of their hands.

You swallow thickly. “Hey.”

“Hm?” His chin brushes against the crown of your head, and you know he’s looking down at you. “What is it?”  

“You’re something else, you know that?” 

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” 

“Notorious outlaw, Vash The Stampede, makes his getaway’s galloping away on a fat, flightless bird.” You snort a little at your words, but it feels forced, “are you sure I didn’t catch the wrong guy?” 

A part of you wishes that were the case. 

“Nope, you got me good, hunter-lady.” He parries playfully, goes along with your needless banter so easily, “but you know...you’re pretty different, too. For a bounty hunter, that is.” 

Vash tacks on that last part like a disclaimer, and you try not to dwindle on that. There’s a great many things you’re trying not to see, and you wish you could cover your stupid, bleeding heart the same way you would cover your eyes. 

Heat stipples your cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

“Good,” Vash exhales, notably relieved, “because it was one.” 

 The town is abandoned, decrepit buildings like skeletons of a once living thing. Dust blows through the carcass of a run down saloon in a soft whistle, as though some higher deity is gently sighing a tune for the departed. 

It’s oddly peaceful. 

Strangely comforting. 

“Think there’s any food left behind?” Vash perks up behind you, then promptly deflates, murmuring “doesn’t look like it’d be any good if there were, though.” 

“I think you answered your own question.” You remark, absently. “We could probably hole up in one of these buildings for the night, though.” 

“Thought you didn’t want to waste time?” You can hear the teasing smirk he’s undoubtedly wearing. “July’s a good bit from here.” 

“Yeah, well...can’t ride all night. Don’t want you passing out and falling off.” You mumble. 

Vash doesn’t say anything in response, but the little rumble against your back tells you he heard you, cues you in that maybe you’re not sounding as stoic or callous as you’re shooting for—a first for you, as you’re normally a pretty damn good shot. 

The strider is parked beside a hitching post that looks two strong winds shy of falling over. Vash dismounts first, and as you go to follow along, you feel his hand press against the small of your back, the other halted in it’s pursuit of your legs by your fingers around his wrist. 

“I...” and then you hesitate, because what? 

You can walk by yourself? You don’t need him to carry you? You know that the instant you set foot on the ground, you’ll crumble to pieces, so why are you trying so hard to uphold this farce that you won’t? Headstrong to a fault, that’s what they said about you when you were younger. They were right, and they’re still right, but there’s some things you just can’t change. 

But Vash, no matter how tightly-wound you persist to be, seems intent on giving you that chance for growth; the space to loosen up, without ever making you feel as though you’re encroaching. What a conundrum he is, and furthermore, you, because contrary to your code, you can’t help but feel a touch unraveled.  

You swallow dryly. “My gear...there’s a kit in there.” 

“Oh! Right.” Vash nods dutifully, and retreats to the back of the strider. 

Leaning forward, you hiss quietly and roll your forehead against the dash. It’s caked in sand, uncomfortably warm. You feel the shift and jostle as he rummages through your belongings, and normally, the mere concept of a stranger sifting through your personals is enough to set your teeth on edge, but that irritation is nowhere to be found. 

You blame it on the increasingly aching pain in your leg. 

“Um...” You start, “there’s a sleeping bag, too—”

“Already on it.” Vash assures you. 

“And some rations. Bring them, too.” 

“Sure thing.” 

Before you know it, he’s back at your side again, sporting a genial smile and open, prompting arms. A flourish of heat crawls up your nape, and you have to look away from him as you resign to your fate, reaching out for him. Vash sweeps you into his arms with ease, pulls you close to his chest, carries you up the steps of the abandoned saloon as though you’re lighter than a feather. 

Using his shoulder, he pushes through the swinging doors and steps into the saloon, boots creaking and thumping hollowly against the weathered floorboards. A quick glance around provides a curious insight, as there’s still half-full glasses set on the tables. Cards and bottle caps and scraps of litter scattered around the floor. Assorted liquor lines the shelf behind the bar, sporting a thick layer of dust. 

“Huh. Weird.” 

“Looks like they left in a rush.” Vash comments, “wonder what happened here.” 

“Who knows. This place is big enough to warrant the use of a Plant...maybe it was stolen, or gave out.” You ponder aloud, “either way, it looks like they’re not coming back anytime soon.” 

Looking up at Vash, you offer a cheeky smile, “guess the room is on the house.” 

Surprisingly, he isn’t returning the gesture. Rather, his aqua gaze gives a pointed, rather serious sweep of the saloon, as though he’ll find the answer to this little towns mystery hidden in the splintered walls. Then, like he suddenly realizes you’re watching him, his expression shifts and he gives you that dopey, crinkle-eyed smile from before. 

It feels distinctly hollow this time around. 

“Heh, guess you’re right. Should’ve asked for the king-suite.” 

You may not know him well (or at all, if you’re being candid), but you know enough about him to decipher that crack in his carefree disposition. You also know enough about building walls from bricks of repression. You keep the questions that perch on the tip of your tongue at bay, and instead gesture to the wall of antiquated liquor. 

“Can I request a pit stop?” 

Vash’s brows furrow just slightly, “you want a drink, right now?”

He’s not blatant, but the insinuation is there: Drinking on the job, he’s supposed to be your captive, you should probably keep a level head, you hardly know the guy, the list could go on. It’s almost comical now, how his providence for others supersedes the care he should have for himself. It’s that transparent, credulous, caring nature of his that drives the sharp, pointed nod of your head. 

“Not now, but definitely soon.” 

Then his brows loosen, raise with understanding that seems to lighten the entirely of his face, making him look impossibly demure. “Ohhh. Yeah, that’d probably help, huh?” 

Without further prompting, Vash takes a detour around the bar, still carrying you with an ease that never falters, walking languidly down the length of the shelf so you can peruse the wares. 

“You strike me as a vodka girl.” Vash jokes, “what about that one?” 

He can’t very well reach out and grab it, as his hands are full with you, but you’re pretty sure he’s talking about the single, pastel pink bottle of vodka sitting lowest shelf, hidden away as though the past-patrons of the saloon were offended at the mere sight of it. 

You snort, “try again, Stampede.” 

“Aw, no little umbrellas or curly straws?” He pouts playfully, and you can’t stifle the little giggle that manifests in your throat. 

Christ, you can’t remember the last time you’ve giggled. 

“That’s a negative. Should’ve figured you’d have no good taste.” 

“Okay.” He straightens up, determined. “How’s about...whiskey, then?”

You smile. “Atta-boy.” 

You’re pressed so close to him that you’re privy to the little tremor that racks through his lithe frame, the faintest way his grip on you tightens, how the pale, long column of his throat works, clicking dryly when he swallows. 

“Heh, that makes a lot more sense.” His voice cracks, just a splinter. “Take your pick, it’s on the house.” 

You’re aware of it all, and from the glance you flick his way, you’re aware that he’s aware. The tips of his ears are tinged pink, that lively color blooming just so on the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks. You spare him (and you) the humiliation of addressing his very curious reaction, instead reaching out to pluck the bottle off the shelf by the neck. 

Clearing your throat and hoping it’s not nearly as loud and awkward as it sounds, you gesture once more, this time with the bottle, and towards the stairs.

“Let’s see what we’re working with, yeah?” 

He nods, and he smiles, and now you’re openly staring at him as treks onward. The faintest, tiniest little scar dashes along the cusp of his sharp jaw, beneath that single golden hoop that catches the scant light bleeding through the muddled windows. 

The afterglow of vermillion still brushes against his features, blending into the sun-kissed spots of him with the masterful strokes of a painter. Those ostentatious glasses that somehow suit him perfectly also obscure the true crystalline-blue of his eyes. There’s something else there, though—swimming beneath the cool surface, a depth that makes you wonder, once again, just who is this man? 

“I think I remember seeing something on a map.” Vash says as he ventures into the closest room, top of the stairs. It’s a double, two twin beds covered in dust and linens from a time long passed. “A town, just North of Jeneora Rock. I don’t remember the name of it, though.”

He approaches the bed to the right, furthest from the door, and proceeds to gingerly deposit you on it’s surface. It creaks, protesting it’s use after so long being vacant. He lets the satchel carrying your belongings sling off his shoulder, setting it down at the foot of the bed. 

“They did have a Plant here, I’m almost sure of it.” 

“Wouldn’t have been marked on the map, otherwise.” You say, shifting further onto the stiff mattress with a small hiss. “Something happened to it, otherwise we’d be paying full price.” 

At your sound of discomfort, Vash is at your side, so quick you’re rendered stunned for a moment, freezing up a little at the way he kneels beside the bed. The hand he lays on your knee is innocuous, yet you feel like it’s searing right through the tight fabric of your shredded pants. As though your body knows you need it before your brain, you’re unscrewing the cap on the whiskey bottle. 

“You shouldn’t move so much.” Vash chides you softly. 

“In my defense, this bed is atrocious.” You counter, and then you bring the bottle to your lips, knocking back a steady rivulet of searing alcohol that you know will go straight to your head. 

Not the best idea, but you’re on a bit of a roll, so no point in breaking your streak, now. You steal another swig, the promise of carefree bliss, of not second-guessing every single thing you do, is just enough to shed a layer of inhibition. 

He laughs lightly, reaching for the satchel and dragging it close before sifting through it. “Hey now, we got a pretty good deal here. It’s not so bad.” 

“Ever the optimist, aren’t you?” You grit out, cringing at the burn. 

The liquor is like fire on your tongue, flaring down your throat, igniting your belly like a furnace. It blooms, traveling through your veins and seeping to the tips of your fingers and toes, and you feel better. Sharp edges dulled, barbed words softened, guarded walls sinking into the sand enough that perhaps, if Vash truly wanted to, he could peer over the top and see the you that hides on the other side. 

A dangerous state of being, but you feel no threat within these decrepit walls. 

“I try to be.” He procures the kit, popping open the metal tabs, “what other choice is there, you know?” And he smiles again, that soft little curve of his lips as he digs through your meager first-aid kit. 

“You should really stock up.” 

“Mhm.” You hum absently, like you would do if you’ve known him for years, heard him chide you countless times; like you would if you were close. 

“Living life through rose-colored glasses,” you murmur, watching him set aside a half-used roll of gauze and a bottle of antiseptic that’s down to the last few drops. “How you’ve managed to stay alive is a bit of a miracle, Stampede.” 

His fingers hesitate just a fraction as he closes the kit again, then he breathes out a modest little laugh, his hand reaching up to rub against the nape of his neck. 

“Yeah, I guess it is a bit of a miracle.” 

Eying him curiously, his laugh tapers into a tentative little, “uh”, still wearing that demure, crinkle-eyed smile, and you quirk your head at the way he abandons his neck in favor of gesturing toward your legs. 

“I don’t know if you want to...um, you know. If you have another pair, or if you’re trying to save them, but I need to...It’s just that, they’re kinda tight, and it’s either we cut them up, or...” He trails off, leaves the rest for you to fill in. 

It takes a second. 

“Oh.” You say blankly, then again, “Oh!”

You don’t, in fact, have another pair. You’d actually intended on treating yourself to some custom tailored clothing with Vash’s bounty, and now you’re getting ready to take off your clothes for Vash. 

Granted, it’s entirely for clinical purposes, but still. 

Irony, what a joke. 

“I can just—” a blush stipples your skin, a feeling of nervousness swooping around in your lower belly, churning around the liquor there, and honestly, it’s both thrilling and absolutely infuriating in equal measure. “I’ll take them off.” 

“Sure, okay, that’ll work,” Vash agrees, and the hesitancy in his own voice is downright palpable, “do you want me to look away? I can look away. Actually, I’m going to look away—”

“Don’t worry about it.” It feels like you’re telling yourself just as much as him. You bring your fingers to your belt quick enough to stave off a double-thought, “just a body.”

God, how did you fucking get here?

You may as well compare yourself to a blushing virgin with the anxiety that twists around within you, and it’s damn annoying—you’re annoying yourself at this point—but you can’t help it. The quiet that shrouds this room, this saloon, this entire town, it forces the reality of your isolation. It reminds you that it’s just you and him, surrounded by hundreds of miles of desolate sand. 

Anything could happen, and were he anyone else, your guard would be iron-clad, fierce, twisted at the top with barbed wire. Your belt clinks noisily, and then you’re shimmying your pants down quicker than you can rationalize the rapid-fire of your tipsy thoughts. 

This is a mistake. How do you know this won’t turn sideways? 

No, you trust him. 

But why? Why do you trust him so damn much? 

You just do, there’s no tangible explanation, and God isn’t that just naïve of you? 

You were sure you abandoned that doe-eyed, naïve little girl in the past, but she’s still here, living inside your body like a ghost in your skin. She’s feeling something, do you get that? She’s feeling something for the first time in a long, long time, and that’s terrifying. 

There’s a tug against your right foot, a coaxing little thing that barely registers in your frazzled mind, but it’s enough. Pants caught on the swell of your hips, you realize that Vash has moved to the foot of the bed, working the straps and laces of your boot. Your entire body goes ridged, your ribs a shuddering cage around a heart that beats to the tune of that dreamer from long ago. 

“Ah, sorry!” He reels back, ostensibly at the bewildered look you’re scrutinizing him with, “guess I should’ve asked first, right? That was a little weird, I definitely should have asked, I just figured you could use the help and—”

Nothing wrong with needing a little help.

“It’s okay.” You blurt out, like your brain has suddenly stopped filtering your words, short-circuited. “You’re right. I’d be wrestling with them for hours, otherwise.” 

Vash’s high, tensed shoulders ease a bit at that, but there’s still a concerned knot between his brows, a dejected softness in his eyes. “I totally made this weird, didn’t I?” 

“Maybe.” You attempt to joke, but the tension threatens to drape over you both no matter how light you try to be. You notice the way he sinks into himself, and quickly tack on, “or maybe I did. I was pretty eager to take my pants off, after all.” 

Vash huffs a laugh, the sound catching just barely in his throat. He tosses your way a look of gratitude, a glimmer in those cerulean eyes that say ‘thank you for taking pity on me’. A pregnant pause balloons in the air, and you’re hyper-aware of the way your pants are shucked down enough that your underwear is showing, the way he just kneels there, waiting for something to snap. 

“Are you okay? With me helping you, I mean.” 

“Yeah, sure.” You’re trying so hard to keep the inflection out of your voice, to remain passive, something you’ve always been so apt at before—but a gun in your face seems like a cake walk in comparison to now. “Thanks.” 

And so he helps you. He dutifully goes about unlacing your boots, loosening them thoroughly so he can just slide them off your feet, sacrificing time in favor of a meticulous type of tenderness. He places them at the foot of the bed neatly, with far more care than you’ve ever had for them, and once he’s settled back onto his knees, he peers up at you. 

You find yourself ensnared within the gentle, questioning ardor there. 

“Still need help?” 

It’s such an innocent question, and perhaps you’re riling yourself up, exaggerating the gravitas of this situation, but damn if you don’t feel like you’re going to burst right into flames with how hot your face is feeling. You’ve reached a point where blaming it on the liquor feels like a downright lie. 

“Okay.” You practically croak. 

If he notices the fractured state of you, he doesn’t comment, and you have to believe that that’s just another display of his endless altruism. 

Without another word, Vash raises up on his knees and reaches out for you, hooking his fingers beneath the waistline of your pants. His knuckles brush dangerously close to the crux of your thigh and hip, one set warm, the other devastatingly cold, and gooseflesh stipples your skin in response. 

“Think you can lift your hips up a bit?” Vash coaxes you just above a whisper, breath felt like a wafting, sun-warmed breeze against your legs, and you do. 

With a little hiss you raise your hips, feel the warmth of him above you, the brush of his jacket that falls either side of your body, the drag of his fingers down the length of your legs. 

Once he’s passed your knees and you’re practically exposed from the waist down, he hesitates. You peer out from under the forearm you’d draped over your face, instinctively hiding the heat you know colors your cheeks. 

“This might hurt a little.” He sounds rueful, offering a strained smile, “I’m sorry.” 

The fabric sticks to your legs with the dried blood there, shredded fibers embedded into the gashes that mar your skin, and you can practically feel the way they tear free from the flesh; individual little stabs of pain, metastasizing into a searing, white-hot flourish that makes your fingers fly out and fist into the sheets at your back. 

All those whimsical notions that flutter around in your heart are rendered to pieces, the dreamer crestfallen by pain all over again, the liquor nothing more than a paper-thin barrier between you, and fucking agony. 

“Fuck—fucking h-hell!” You writhe, back arching and twisting, and Vash pulls them free from your legs, maneuvering through your flailing and enduring your pain induced ire all the while. “Jesus fuck!”

“I’m sorry!” Earnestly, urgently, “I know it hurts, just bear with me, okay?”

From your knees down, it feels as though he’s peeling away your skin just as well, lovingly flaying you until finally, finally the fabric bunches and catches on your trembling ankles. He’s damn near reverent with care as he works your pants off entirely, proceeding to fold them up and set them aside like they aren’t blood-soaked and shredded beyond repair. 

“’Hurts’ is a fucking understatement, Vash.” You snarl, your voice stilted and thin, “if I could, I’d kick you in the fucking face.” 

“I’d let you,” he says softly, “it’s my fault you were hurt. I deserve it.” 

Your heart clenches, stalling out your revving anger. Glancing down the plane of your heaving chest, you see him sitting back once more on his haunches, no smile to be seen. His hair falls over his face—but you can tell he’s fixated on your legs. The fact that you’re half-naked doesn’t even register; remorse radiates from him like a tangible thing. 

“Stop that, already.” You say sharply, but the anger dissolves as the seconds pass. “It’s not like I was the one held at gunpoint. I knew what I was getting into when we ran, so stop blaming yourself, okay? Just...patch me up, doc.” 

He breathes in deep through his nose, chest expanding and falling with a visible shudder as he exhales. Grabbing the antiseptic and the single, not entirely clean rag, he smiles once again. Just like before, it’s entirely hollow. 

“You didn’t have to, you know.” He readies the rag, dampening it. “I meant it back there. You’re not heartless like you want people to think...otherwise you wouldn’t care about me. Not like you do.” 

Your face burns. 

“Who says I care about you?” It sounds so weak, lacking conviction that answers your own question. 

Vash smiles, “you don’t have to say it. I like that about you,” and he says your name, soft and maddeningly sweet, “you care so much it drives you mad.”

“The only thing driving me mad is you, Vash.” You utter out, feeling flustered and scrutinized and entirely seen. “You’re infuriating, you know that?” 

“I know.” He shifts a little on his knees, giving you a constrained little quirk of his lips, “you’re about to be even more mad at me.” 

“Oh, I’m sure.” You roll your eyes; it juxtaposes the return of that damn fluttering sensation in your gut. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Another shot, for the nerves?” Vash gestures toward the whiskey bottle you’d abandoned at your side. 

You blindly reach for it, unscrewing the cap. “Yeah, for the nerves.”