Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Vash is gone. The Eye of Michael is in shambles. Nicholas D. Wolfwood is at loose ends. He is a loose end. It’s just a matter of time before someone remembers he exists and comes to bring him back into the fold or finally put him out of his misery.

He leaves while JuLai is still a smoking ruin, before Meryl has time to do something stupid, like suggest they try to find Vash or rescue survivors. Or thank Nicholas for saving her life. She probably needs someone to get her home safely and stuff, but God knows, Nicholas isn’t that person. Better to leave it to someone else, someone who didn’t have a hand in causing all of it to begin with.

And so, Nicholas shoulders his cross, and he walks away. He doesn’t have a destination in mind. He half-hopes he’ll just die out there, where the wind and sand can wear away the evidence of his brief, misspent life until all that’s left is the Punisher as a grave marker.

But he’s never gotten that lucky. Instead, Nicholas finds a town. Then, he begins the impossible task of living his life with no orders.

As it turns out, he’s terrible at it. It’s the first time he’s ever had so much freedom, and the weight of it, like the endless, blue sky, nearly crushes him. He drinks and smokes his way through the meager cash in his wallet and then runs up his credit until no one will serve him any more. Then, he faces up to the fact that he has to do some actual work if he’s ever going to see another glass of whiskey or a cigarette again, and he needs those if he’s ever going to sleep through the night again. It’s a real conundrum.

Luckily, there’s a solution. Some old geezer croaks, and his wife sees Nicholas’s cross and offers him a hundred double dollars to perform the funeral rites. He’s started to develop a tremor by that point from the nicotine withdrawal, so he doesn’t even think twice about negotiating, just says yes.

If he’s being honest with himself (which he tries to avoid at all costs), Nicholas doesn’t remember what he says during the funeral. He remembers digging a hole with a borrowed shovel, a ragged scar in the dirt, wondering whether maybe he's supposed to lie down in it. He remembers a handful of people gathered around, looking solemn and real in a way that Nicholas thinks he might not be any more, if he ever was. He performs the rites, gets paid, buys a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of brown liquor, and walks on.

Nicholas gets very good at funerals. People are always dying, and their loved ones are always willing to shell out the cash for someone qualified to ensure their body actually makes it six feet underground and their souls make it to heaven or whatever. Even though the words are bullshit, he says them with authority, and he becomes an expert at digging holes, which it turns out you can’t bullshit. He never quite develops the same skill for taking care of himself, and he spends only slightly more nights in a real room than he does in a jail cell after a brawl.

He doesn’t realize it’s the anniversary of JuLai’s destruction until it comes on the radio in the bar where he’s whiling away the evening. He doesn’t realize it’s the second anniversary until the barkeep makes an observation to one of the regulars that he can’t believe it’s already been two years, seems like only yesterday. Nicholas, who can still see it when he closes his eyes and relives different parts of that experience most nights, is inclined to agree. He makes his next drink a double.

This town is barely a scuff on the map. He’s not planning to stay or even talk to anyone other than the barkeep and the owner of the inn, which boasts all of three sleeping rooms. So, it comes as something of a surprise to Nicholas when he finds his fist connecting with a man’s cheek and someone else punching him in the stomach for his troubles. It might have been that sixth drink that was the problem, he thinks while he’s on his hands and knees, trying to get his breath back. Then, someone kicks him in the head, and he doesn’t think of much of anything.

The next thing Nicholas hears is someone saying, “...any way for a bunch of grown men to be acting in front of a little girl?”

He’s still on the floor of the bar. It’s sticky. His head and his stomach are hurting, and he is very, very drunk. But no one’s hitting him any more, so he thinks maybe he’ll just stay there for a minute. A higher-pitched voice retorts, “Don’t call me a little girl, Eriks. Anyway, I’ve seen worse.”

Someone above Nicholas’s head says, “Lina’s started worse, and you know it.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” the first voice says, and it sounds like there’s a little bit of a laugh in there. It’s familiar. If only Nicholas’s head would stop hurting, maybe he’d be able to figure it out. He tries to open his eyes, but the floor tilts dangerously when he does, so he closes them again. The voice continues, “How did all of this even start?”

“Our comatose friend down there started spouting off some nonsense about the JuLai anniversary,” says a man that Nicholas thinks might be the barkeep. “When Harry tried to get him to pipe down, he just got louder, ended up punching Harry’s lights out. Started a whole mess of trouble.”

The voice above Nicholas adds, “I sent a runner for the sheriff. He can shout all he wants from his jail cell.”

The first voice is quiet for a moment before taking a breath. “We all handle grief in different ways. I think this man needs a little kindness more than the sheriff needs another name in his ledger.”

“Eriks, you can’t seriously be suggesting—” starts the voice above Nicholas’s head.

“You’re not gonna bring that madman home with you, are you? He’s probably a criminal!” calls out someone else

“Home, jail, hell, take him wherever you want as long as it’s out of my bar,” the barkeep says with finality. “Get his stupid cross out of here too, and I better not see his face in here again.”

“Lina, will you help me?” the first voice says, closer to Nicholas’s head than before.

The one with the high-pitched voice hesitates a second before asking quietly, “You’re sure about this?”

“I’m sure. But if you don’t want to, we can take him to the church instead.”

“It’s okay. I trust you.”

Nicholas tries to open his mouth to say that nobody better lay hands on the Punisher unless they want those hands taken off their bodies, but then he’s picked up by his arms, and things get a little tangled. By the time his head clears enough to speak, he’s being supported between two sets of shoulders, one much taller than the other, and they’re back out on the street.

The shorter one grunts, and he recognizes the high-pitched voice when she says, “He stinks. Granny’s never gonna let him in the house smelling like the inside of a thomas’s stall.”

The taller one laughs a little and answers, “We’ll shove him in the shower before she even realizes.”

“You sure do know how to pick your charity cases, Eriks,” Lina grumbles.

“Learned from the best, kiddo,” Eriks answers.

“Oh, shut up.”

Nicholas drifts for a while after that, his feet automatically trying to support him the best they can, though they seem farther from his brain than normal. It’s cool outside, now that the suns have gone down, and the chill is starting to sober him up bit by bit. As his stomach and head have begun presenting a list of grievances, Nicholas would really prefer to remain drunk, but judging from his hazy comprehension of the conversation in the bar, he thinks that might be off the table at this point. Shame.

Eventually, they all come to a shambling stop. The quiet voice of Eriks says, apparently to Nicholas, “Some stairs up ahead, friend. Gonna have to pick your feet up a little.”

He complies the best he can, and the three of them make their way onto a wooden porch. Someone unlocks the front door of the house, and they step into a warm, golden space. Nicholas’s head feels too heavy to lift, so all he sees is the lamp in the hallway reflecting off of the floorboards. It smells like home cooking, a reminder that he’s not sure when he last ate. Yesterday?

Blessedly, they don’t walk into a kitchen, which Nicholas knows he couldn't handle right now. Instead, they end up in a bathroom, where Eriks gently shoos Lina out and closes the door.

“Think you can manage a shower?” he asks.

Nicholas leans against the wall. When’s the last time he had a shower, he wonders? Much longer than the last time he ate. A shower actually sounds nice. “Yeah,” he says.

“I’ll get you some clothes to change into. We’ll see if we can’t get your suit cleaned up tomorrow.”

Nicholas barely manages to pick his head up before Eriks is out the door. He catches a glimpse of blonde hair, around chin length. A white shirt, suspenders, khaki pants. One of his sleeves seems to have something wrong with it. Then, the door is closed, and all that’s left is Nicholas and his strong need to throw up.

After that, showering takes up the little remaining energy Nicholas has. Eriks returns with clean, if slightly musty, clothes, and when Nicholas is dressed, he guides him to a simple bedroom, where the bed is nicely made up and covered in a quilt. “It’s not fancy, but it’s a place to lay your head,” he says.

Nicholas looks at him for a moment. Though throwing up and showering were exhausting, they did inch him just a little closer to sobriety, close enough to string two thoughts together without losing one of them immediately. Eriks is close to his height, and he has a small, round pair of glasses perched on his nose. Delicate jaw with a little stubble, desperately blue eyes. He’s cute, in a dorky way. The reason his sleeve had seemed wrong before is because it’s empty, his left arm missing below the shoulder. He’s so familiar, but Nicholas is sure he’s never been to this nothing town before. Before he can stop himself, he slurs, “You look like someone.”

“That’s because I am someone,” Eriks answers. “Get some rest.”

Nicholas falls into bed, and he’s passed out before his head hits the pillow.

—

In the morning, he wakes up with what feels like a concussion, some bruised ribs, an unrivaled hangover, and a sensation like he missed something important. There are still a handful of vials in an inside pocket of his jacket, which is laid over the back of a chair, but he’s not sure when he’ll get more, if ever. It’s been two years at this point, and he’s seen no sign of the Eye of Michael—unless you count Worms, but as Zazie the Beast is so fond of saying, Worms are the planet. It doesn’t necessarily mean that Zazie is spying on him, especially since they seemed more than willing to cut ties after JuLai.

Nicholas forgoes depleting his stash for a quick heal and instead stumbles back to the vaguely remembered bathroom of the prior night, where he throws up again. This somehow fails to make him feel better, but it is, at least, familiar. Some water from the sink actually does help a little, which is why Nicholas doesn't drink very much of it.

Afterwards, he wanders into the kitchen in search of answers. The house is smaller than he realized initially, but it’s neat and homey. The kitchen is full of light that lances straight through Nicholas’s eyeballs and out the back of his skull, it feels like. Still, it would probably be a nice house if he wasn’t so hideously hungover.

“Oh, you’re awake!” Nicholas turns, wincing. There’s a young girl behind him, red-haired and coltish, maybe twelve or thirteen. She holds a hand out and continues, “I’m Lina. We kind of met last night, only you were getting your shit knocked loose, so I didn’t catch your name.”

Slowly, Nicholas shakes her hand. “Wolfwood,” he says.

“Nice to officially meet you, Mister Wolfwood. Eriks is at work.”

“And Eriks is…”

“The guy that saved your ass last night, yeah, that’s him. Gave up his bed for you too,” she adds pointedly.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask him to,” Wolfwood mutters, looking away.

“You didn’t have to. Eriks just does stuff like that because he’s too nice,” Lina says airily. “And if you hurt him or disrespect him, I’ll chop your dick off, got it?”

Wolfwood stares at her. “Oh," he realizes out loud, "there’s something deeply wrong with you."

“Eriks is my family. You’re some brawler that he rescued from getting beat up, so you’d better thank him and then get on your way to wherever you’re going before you bring any more trouble on him. He’s been through enough.”

“I didn’t ask him to do that either.”

“If he hadn’t, you’d be counting your teeth in your hand.”

“That would have been my business, now, wouldn’t it?” Nicholas smiles unpleasantly at Lina, who smiles back with equal unpleasantness.

“You’re gonna go thank him anyway,” she says slowly, “because I’m the one who knows where your stupid cross is, and you don’t. Seemed pretty important to you, yeah?”

Nicholas reels back. He can’t believe he didn’t notice the Punisher missing. He should have taken one of those vials after all; hungover and concussed is no way to be when you meet an evil thirteen year old, and this is clearly an evil thirteen year old.

Apparently satisfied, Lina smiles. “Eriks works at the grocer’s. When you leave the house, go left, and the grocer’s is the third building on the right. There’s a sign, you can’t miss it. Now, beat it. I have to get ready for work too.”

“What are you, an enforcer?”

“No, stupid, I’m a delivery girl.”

She flounces away, leaving Nicholas with the second-to-last word, which is his least favorite way to end a conversation. With nothing better to do, he goes to the grocer’s.

—

It’s hot and bright, and Nicholas is grumpy by the time he gets to the grocer’s. Stepping inside, where it’s cool and dim, is a relief. Once his eyes adjust, he sees that there are a few shallow aisles of shelves, along with a counter along the back wall. “Thank you, have a nice day,” says a familiar voice to the left. Nicholas turns.

The front corner is occupied by a heavy desk with a huge cash register, in front of which a woman and her child are picking up their purchases. Behind the counter stands…

Well. No wonder Nicholas thought he looked like someone.

Nicholas’s damnation waves the mother and child out of the store with his right hand. His empty left sleeve is tied up, probably to keep it out of his way. When they're gone, he looks at Nicholas and smiles politely. “How can I help you?” asks his final crisis of faith.

He takes a breath and lets it out. He steps up to the counter and smiles with all his teeth. “Eriks, right?” Nicholas asks.

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember,” Eriks says, and that hollow smile is so much worse than the version in Nicholas's memory. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and the idiots in this town don’t even realize that they’re looking at an open wound with every greeting, every farewell, every stupid comment about the weather.

“How could I forget?” Nicholas asks. He curses himself; there’s not enough venom in it, not enough braggadocio. It comes out as a genuine question instead of a sarcastic quip. Hastily, he adds, “The little spitfire sent me to say thank you for intervening last night. She seems to somehow think that your mistakes require my appreciation.”

"It wasn't a mistake, friend."

"Wolfwood."

"Sorry?"

"I'm not your friend. It's Wolfwood."

"Wolfwood."

There's something not right in the way he says it. There's something not right in all of this. Slowly, Nicholas asks, "Do you know me?"

The front door opens, and a couple of old men enter, calling cheerfully, "'Morning, Eriks!"

"Good morning!" Eriks calls back.

The old men come up to the desk and start chatting, and Nicholas can't stand it. He slips out of the shop. He'll go track down Lina, tell her he said thank you, get the Punisher back, and go. It's not running away, he tells himself. This specter who looks like Vash the Stampede isn't driving him out; he was going to leave anyway. He'll point his feet any direction out of this speck of a stupid town and start walking, and if he finally dies out there in the desert, as has been his fantasy for two years, would that be so bad?

Nicholas finds Lina without even having to try too hard. She has a bag of mail that's nearly as big as her, walking from house to house and knocking on doors. He stops her between houses and says, "I said thank you to Eriks. Now, where is my cross?"

"I'm working," Lina informs him. "I don't have time to go home and unlock it. You have to wait."

"Then why were you so insistent I had to go see Eriks right away?"

Lina smiles at him. "Because it seemed like it would make you really mad."

Nicholas takes a second to remind himself that he likes children. There's a scream building up in his chest. Forcing his voice calm, he says, "I'm not mad at all."

"There's a vein sticking out on your forehead."

"It always does that."

He turns to find something to do that's not arguing with a child. As he's walking away, Lina asks, "Hey, why was that thing so heavy, anyway?" Nicholas stops walking. She continues, "I could hardly move it. Eriks had to pick it up. What's the point of it being so heavy?"

"Because it's full of mercy," Nicholas sighs. He keeps walking before Lina can say anything else.

Ideally, he'd love to find a bar, but he has a vague recollection that his little performance last night might have made him public enemy number one at the only bar in town. With few other options, Nicholas settles on a bench in the town square and lights a cigarette. The first drag is heavenly. He lets his eyes fall closed, though he keeps his ears open just in case. That's how he hears a pair of footsteps approach, slow, and stop a few feet away. Nicholas opens his eyes.

Eriks is standing there, watching him with an expression he can't quite parse. Then, it clears and he smiles. "Wolfwood. Mind if I join you?"

Yes, more than anything, Nicholas minds. But he scoots to the side anyway, and Eriks sits next to him. He's carrying a paper bag, which he opens and reaches into to pull out a breakfast sandwich. Nicholas's stomach reminds him simultaneously that he has a truly rowdy hangover and also that he hasn't eaten in a couple of days. He reminds it that he is the boss, and it gets fed when it gets fed, and he looks away to take another drag.

"I thought you might be pretty hungover, since you were so far out of it last night. A greasy breakfast sandwich is supposed to be good for that, right?" Eriks asks.

Nicholas looks back again to find the sandwich being offered to him. He stares. When it becomes clear that Eriks is waiting for some kind of reaction, he reaches out and gingerly accepts the sandwich. His heart is doing horrible, complicated things that he doesn't have a name for. "How much do I owe you?" he asks.

"You don't owe me anything," Eriks answers. He reaches into the bag again and pulls out a doughnut. He looks briefly peaceful. They eat in silence.

"I can't believe you're still so obsessed with sugar," Nicholas mutters when Eriks pulls out a second pastry.

"Hm?" Eriks asks around a mouthful of said pastry.

"Nothing. I thought you were working."

"Lunch break. I like to come sit outside for a few minutes. Did the sandwich help?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Anyway, I gotta get back to it. Bye, Wolfwood."

Eriks walks away before Nicholas can answer, so he says, "Thanks for the sandwich," to empty air.

Chapter Text

Nicholas is still slouching on the same bench hours later, when the suns are starting to set. It's not like he's got anywhere else to be, after all. So, he's right in the same spot when Eriks and Lina walk by, heading home. They're in the middle of an animated conversation, but Eriks breaks off when he notices Nicholas. "You didn't move all day?" he asks.

"Where was I gonna go?" Wolfwood shoots back, not picking his head up from where it's resting on the back of the bench.

"Must be nice not to have to work," Lina grouses.

"I can't say I recommend Wolfwood's method," Eriks tells her.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Wolfwood asks sharply.

But Eriks just smiles and says, "Come on, you hungry?"

For all his barking and snapping, Nicholas never quite learned how to turn Vash down cold. He tried. God knows, he tried. He stands up and follows.

They go back to the little house full of warm, golden light. Inside, it smells like home cooking again. There's the sound of bustling in the kitchen.

"Granny, we're home!" Lina calls.

"And we've brought a guest," Eriks adds. He and Lina head towards the kitchen. Nicholas stands there, feeling scruffy and out of place, until Eriks pokes his head out of the kitchen and prompts, "In here."

The kitchen is a little cozier than Nicholas prefers with four people in it, but he managed in that stupid news van for days. Lina's grandmother turns out to be a tiny woman who immediately sets him to work chopping vegetables. It's almost a relief to be told what to do again, especially when his instructions don't involve anything more dangerous than mincing garlic. Nicholas feels his shoulders relaxing.

“All done with those?”

Nicholas looks up, abruptly coming back to himself. All of the vegetables are chopped, and Lina and Eriks are nowhere to be seen. The kitchen is very quiet and calm. Lina’s grandmother is looking at him like she can see right through him. She continues, “Why don’t you sit at the table while I put this together?”

He’s not sure why he sits. He should really go find Lina, get the Punisher back, and get on his way. He could probably get at least a couple miles away before it gets too late. But Nicholas sits, and Lina’s grandmother bustles around the kitchen. After a moment, she asks, “What did you say your name was?”

“Wolfwood,” he answers. For no reason that he can articulate, he adds, “Nicholas.”

“Nicholas. I’m Sheryl. What’s the story with that cross of yours?”

“I use it for my work.”

“Are you a priest?”

“An undertaker.”

“And a drunk?”

“When I can get away with it.”

Sheryl’s quiet for a moment, then sighs. “My husband was a drunk,” she tells the pot on the stove. “He was a hard man to know. A hard man to love.” She looks at Nicholas, who swallows, feeling exposed. “You seem like a good boy. I’d hate to see you give away your life to the concept of who you think you should be instead of who you are.”

There are a lot of things that he could say to that, each one sharper than the last. But Nicholas is tired, so tired, of disappointing people. He stands, unsteady on his feet, then realizes he doesn't know why and blurts the first excuse he can think of: "I'm going to go find Eriks."

Sheryl glances sideways at him, like she can tell he's running away. Mercifully, she just says, "He's probably outside. Tell him dinner will be ready soon."

Nicholas staggers out of the warm, golden kitchen like a man barely escaping with his life. Outside, the first of the moons is just rising, and the temperature has dropped significantly already. Eriks is sitting on the steps of the porch, where the cheerful yellow porch light wraps around his shoulders like a blanket. Nicholas wishes briefly, absurdly, that he had brought a real blanket outside with him, but he shakes that off as a stupid fantasy. He sits down on the steps.

The whole day, Nicholas had debated with himself about how much Vash knew, how much he remembered, if it was even really him. He made arguments and counterarguments the entire time he sat on that bench and never came any closer to resolving the first two questions. But sitting next to him right now, Nicholas would know this man blind. The way his shoulders hunch when he's tired, the sound of his breathing, those eyes like the endless, crushing blue sky. He knows him. Nicholas decides to take a chance: "I thought you were dead."

"Should I apologize that I'm not?" Vash asks.

Nicholas is staring out into the night, but he can hear the smile in Vash's voice that means he's trying to make a self-deprecating joke, and he's not having it. "No."

"Oh."

“I wasn’t sure you remembered me.”

“How could I forget?”

Nicholas closes his eyes against the feeling in his chest, hearing his own words spoken back to him. They're both quiet for a moment. He lights a cigarette. He hears Vash breathe in. He asks, "How'd you end up all the way out here? Long way from JuLai."

"I dunno. I guess I walked."

"You don't need to be sarcastic; it was a serious question."

"I'm not. It's just…" Vash trails off for a moment, choosing his words. "I don't remember. I don't remember most of…that. Or how I ended up here."

Finally, Nicholas looks at him. Before, Vash had those orange sunglasses to hide behind. Now, his eyes are obscured by his long hair, the same result by different means. Without all of his layers, he looks different. Softer. Nicholas smothers an insane urge to brush Vash's hair out of his face and keeps his hands to himself. Quietly, he asks, "What do you remember?"

“Getting to the tower. I remember when you left.” Nicholas swallows. There’s no censure in Vash’s voice, but he still has to go back to staring into the dark as Vash continues, “Everything after that is just…flashes. The first clear memory is…Lina. She found me and brought me here, to the house. It was hard to remember who I was for a while. I didn’t know about JuLai until I heard them talking about it on the radio. But I knew…something bad had happened, and it was because of me.”

“You tried to stop it,” Nicholas says, because he has to say something, because Vash sounds so hollowed out, like he left something important in JuLai, and he’ll never get it back.

“Yeah,” Vash answers. There’s a long pause before he asks, “Is Meryl okay?”

“Last I saw her.”

“And when was that?”

“After JuLai.”

“What about Roberto?” No answer. “Oh.”

“He was dead before all of the shit that went down. For what it’s worth.”

Vash doesn’t say anything. He pulls his knees up to his chest, curling in. He feels everything so deeply, Nicholas knows. He doesn’t have any protection against the world, no shield to put up between him and the things that hurt. A man who loves humanity enough to let them destroy him, enough to fight back against his own brother, the most powerful being on this godforsaken bitch of a planet. Except that Vash is sitting here, and Knives isn’t. And Vash is the one carrying the burden of all of those lives lost, Roberto and those soldiers and everyone in JuLai, people he never met who were just unlucky. Despite his best efforts, Vash is staggering under the weight of all his ghosts.

Nicholas flicks his cigarette butt away. Then, haltingly, he scoots closer, until his right shoulder is pressed up against Vash’s left. Vash leans into him, and it’s just more comfortable for both of them if Nicholas wraps his arm around him, so he does it. They sit, leaning on each other, for a long moment. Very quietly, Vash asks, “Will you stay a little longer?”

He should say no. Instead, with no input from his brain, Nicholas’s mouth says, “As long as you want.”

“Oh, don’t promise me that,” Vash almost laughs. Nicholas feels the thing in his chest stretch close to breaking.

The door opens behind them. Lina says, “Eriks, dinner’s rea—oh.”

Vash doesn’t pick his head up from Nicholas’s shoulder, just says, “We’ll be right in.”

“Okay…” she says, and the door closes again.

They stay there for a second, and then Vash sighs and sits up. “I’d like to talk more later.”

“I’ll be around,” Nicholas says. He watches as Vash stands up and rolls his shoulders, but it’s Eriks who walks through the door into the house. Nicholas stays where he is for a moment, lets the old fantasy play out in his head. He pictures himself walking into the desert, like he’s pictured a million times before, walking until he falls to his knees between the dunes and doesn’t get back up again. But he doesn’t know how to die; his body, in all its ugly tenacity, always rebels. And if he lived, what then? Spend the rest of his life wandering, unmoored, knowing that the closest thing he has to an anchor any more had asked him to stay, and he’d declined? He sighs and goes inside.

Dinner is a surreal affair. Nicholas can't recall the last time he sat around a table with other people and shared a meal; he's out of practice. Sheryl and Lina and Eriks talk about their day, while Nicholas abstains due to his day consisting of throwing up and sitting on a bench. They talk about things that have happened lately in town, which Nicholas knows nothing about because no one's asked him to perform a funeral. Lina keeps darting curious glances between him and Eriks like she's trying to puzzle out the connection between them. Good luck to her, Nicholas thinks sourly. At least the food is delicious. A small, fragile pleasure warms his stomach at the thought of helping to make something good.

When the meal has been eaten and the conversation has reached a lull, Sheryl asks, "Will you stay another night, Nicholas?"

They all look at him, Lina waiting for him to say no, Eriks waiting for him to say yes, Sheryl just waiting. It's unexpectedly nerve wracking. With care, Nicholas answers, "Only if it wouldn't be an imposition…"

Eriks smiles. It's true that his fake smile is worse than Nicholas remembers, but it's also true that his memory could never do justice to one of the real smiles. His whole face lights up. Nicholas catches Sheryl noticing. He also sees Lina's frown.

She waits to confront him until he's washing dishes. Eriks had volunteered him for it, but Nicholas only put up a token protest, more for the look of the thing than anything else. So, it's just the two of them in the kitchen when she quietly demands, "What are you doing, sticking around? I thought you wanted to leave!"

Nicholas puts aside a clean plate and answers simply, "Eriks asked me to stay."

"Bullshit."

"Does your grandmother know you use that kind of language?"

"Why would he ask you to stay?"

"You'll have to ask him."

"Ugh!" Lina stomps one foot on the floor in impotent rage and then points a finger at him. "You better not hurt him." She turns to stomp out of the kitchen and adds on her way out, "And get your cross out of my closet, or I'll turn it into a…a bookshelf or something!"

Nicholas smiles at the bowl in his hands. Feels good to win an argument for once, even if it's with a kid. Sheryl wanders in a moment later and says dryly, "Judging by Lina's mutterings about a stupid cross, I'm assuming she was talking with you, yes?"

Nicholas shrugs. "She had a couple questions."

"I'll admit to having one or two myself." She sits down at the table with a heartfelt sigh. "You're a friend of his?"

"Starting off with the hard questions," he sighs. "We used to travel together, a long time ago. We didn't part on the best terms."

"He's clearly very fond of you."

"That's because there's something wrong with him."

"You seem to be rather fond of him as well."

"There's also something wrong with me."

Sheryl is quiet for a moment. Nicholas finishes with the dishes and looks at her. Finally, she asks, "Are you going to take him away?"

He wishes suddenly that he had more dishes, any excuse to not look at the old woman sitting at the table. Vash has a home here, people who love him. He has stability for the first time in a century and a half. If Nicholas stayed, he'd ruin it or go crazy or both. Would Vash leave with him? Would he want to? If Nicholas asked…

"I've never taken him anywhere he didn't want to go," he answers, and damn if that isn't a truth that sits in his stomach like his filthiest lie.

Judging by Sheryl's expression, she's no happier with that answer than Lina, or even Nicholas himself. But she just nods and sighs. "Thank you for your help with the dishes," she says as she stands up. "I assume you'll be here for breakfast in the morning?"

"I'm planning to be."

"You'll be responsible for making the eggs."

She leaves to the sound of his protests, which they both know are insincere, but Nicholas has a reputation to uphold. Once he hears the door to her room close, he goes looking for Eriks. He finds him in the room where Nicholas woke up this morning; belatedly, he remembers Lina mentioning that Eriks gave up his bed. Nicholas’s heart makes an aborted attempt to climb out of his throat before he shoves it back down again.

He wants to say thank you, to express genuine gratitude in a way that he was too hungover and fucked up to do this morning. What comes out of his mouth is, “You’re not giving up your bed again for me.”

Vash glances sideways at him, frowning. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re being ridiculous. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Wolfwood. You’re a guest here. I’m not letting you sleep on the floor.”

They’re gravitating towards each other, Nicholas realizes, and it’s not a large room. But he’s got an argument to win, so he challenges, “I’ll do it anyway, whether you sleep in that bed or not. Try me, needle noggin.”

Vash goes still, practically nose to nose with Nicholas, staring at him. His face goes on a complicated journey, including a brief detour to glance at Nicholas's mouth. He swallows and says, quieter, "Gonna have to come up with a new nickname."

"Why?" Nicholas asks, matching his volume. "Got a perfectly good one already."

"I really don't want you to sleep on the floor."

"Would you rather share the bed?" It's half a joke, half a challenge. Vash glances at his mouth again.

"It would be a tight fit," he hedges.

"Still more comfortable than the floor or the couch."

Vash sways an inch closer—this close, it really is a game of inches—and then steps back. "Alright, fine. Then we'll share," he says.

Nicholas briefly considers grabbing him by the front of his shirt and kissing him, if Vash won't do it himself. But he's already turning away to change clothes, and the moment passes.

When they both eventually run out of reasons to procrastinate, they climb into bed, and Vash turns off the light. There's a brief moment of silent negotiation as they figure out how to share space again before they both settle. They're touching as little as possible, but under the shared blanket, Nicholas remembers that Vash runs warm, like a little sunbeam that keeps bumping against his elbow every time one of them shifts minutely. It’s nice. Comforting. Nicholas falls asleep before he even realizes that he’s tired.

—

The thing about being part of the Eye of Michael—one of the many things, really—is that one doesn’t have the luxury of being a heavy sleeper. Nicholas has never been quite sure if it was a consequence or a prerequisite. Either way, some time in the middle of the night, he transitions from asleep to awake with no discernible middle range and no idea why.

The reason becomes evident after a moment, when Vash twitches and makes a choked off noise. It’s not a nice sound. It’s a hurt sound. It’s a sound that conveys a wish to scream and an inability to do so. Nicholas sits up.

Vash is lying on his side, facing away. His breathing is ragged. Nicholas touches his shoulder hesitantly, but it doesn't seem to make any noticeable difference. He twitches again, a thin, animal whine escaping his throat. The sound sets Nicholas's teeth on edge, bounces around in his ribcage like something trapped.

He wraps a hand around Vash's shoulder and shakes him, murmuring, "Hey, wake up. Vash. Wake up."

Vash sits up so fast that Nicholas nearly gets his teeth knocked out, and for a second, Nicholas swears that his eyes catch and reflect the moonlight filtering through the window. Then, he seems to fully come back, looking around until he catches sight of Nicholas. His shoulders sag. His limbs lose their feral tension, and he takes a shuddering breath. "Nico," Vash says very quietly. He tries to smile, immediately self-effacing. "Sorry. Did I wake you?"

Nicholas stares at him. It takes all of half a second to decide he's not going to dignify that with an answer. Instead, he asks, "Do you have nightmares a lot?"

Vash shrugs, running a hand through his hair. "I dunno, what counts as a lot?"

"So, yes, then."

"Only about as often as you do, I'd guess."

It's so pointed and unexpected that Nicholas can't immediately come up with a retort. He tries, but all that he can manage is a weak, "How'd you know that?"

Vash looks at him. It's dark, his eyes no longer reflecting like ghost lights, but Nicholas still knows exactly what his expression looks like. Vash always had a talent for looking Nicholas in the eye and laying bare his secrets, as though Nicholas had plucked them from where they tangled around his heart and held them up on a plate. "Just a feeling," Vash says.

Nicholas lets out a breath, aware that he dodges a bullet every time Vash lets him off the hook and strangely disappointed to have done so. "Do you want to talk about what you dreamed?" he asks, even though he can guess.

"I think it's JuLai," Vash answers, looking down at his one hand on the bedspread. "I felt like I was…frozen, like I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. And bad things were happening all around me. Meryl was crying…" He swallows, trailing off, trying to follow the thread of a memory even though he won't like what he finds at the end of it.

Giving into temptation, Nicholas reaches out and brushes Vash's hair back out of his face. Vash looks at him, eyes wide and unguarded, and Nicholas wishes he was any good at this at all. Wishes he deserved the trust Vash still has in him for some reason, this willingness to let a viper share his bed. Soft, he says, "It's in the past. Don't chase it. For once, don't be in such a hurry to put yourself in the way of pain, okay?"

“Okay…” Vash whispers, still staring.

“Good. Lie back down.”

Vash lies down like someone in a trance, letting Nicholas nudge him until he’s lying on his side again. Then, Nicholas lies down as well and wraps an arm around him, his chest to Vash’s back. When they’re nestled together, Nicholas gives voice to his uncertainty: “Is this okay?”

It takes a second for Vash to answer, long enough for Nicholas to fear that he’s made a massive mistake. Finally, he takes a shaky breath and lets it out, and all of the tension goes out of him with the exhalation. “Yeah,” he answers. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me. Just get some rest.”

Chapter Text

The bed is empty when Nicholas wakes up in the morning, sunlight streaming through the window. He can’t begin to guess how Vash got up and left the room without waking him, but he supposes that shouldn’t be surprising; if you spend enough time with ghosts, you’re bound to pick up some of their habits.

This seems like a good time to berate himself, so Nicholas does. He’s just finished calling himself an idiot for thinking it was a good idea to cuddle with Vash the Stampede because of a stupid nightmare and begun enumerating all of the other ways that he’s a complete dickhead when the door opens and Vash walks in. He’s carrying a glass of water and doesn’t have those silly little glasses that he doesn’t even need. When he sees that Nicholas is awake, they both freeze.

“I…” Vash starts. He looks down at the glass of water in his hand before holding it out to Nicholas. “Here. You don’t drink enough water.”

Nicholas accepts the glass, still looking at him. Quietly, he says, “Thanks.” He doesn’t drink it, waiting for Vash to spit out whatever thought he’s clearly chewing on.

After a moment of Nicholas’s open scrutiny, Vash cracks. “Thank you for…for talking with me last night and the…yeah. Thank you.” He’s blushing a little as he stumbles over his words, sneaking glances at Nicholas between inspecting the ceiling, the floor, and the curtains. Mumbling, he adds, “It helped.”

Watching him, Nicholas can’t help but agree. Vash’s eyes are clearer, his shoulders less bowed. And Nicholas realizes that he’d slept through the night without needing a drink to help the process along, almost unprecedented in the past two years. One night of rest probably isn’t enough for either of them to be considered normal, but it was a relief. It’s a relief to be around someone who knows who he is and doesn’t flinch from it, even though that would be the logical reaction for a regular, healthy person to have. He takes a sip of water and says, “Don’t mention it.”

“That’s it?” Vash asks, raising an eyebrow. “No snappy remark?”

“I’ll add it to your tab, needle noggin,” Nicholas answers, rolling his eyes.

“That’s what I thought.”

Nicholas looks sideways at him. Vash is smiling, satisfied, as if he forced some concession out of him, and it’s too much to bear. Setting the glass aside, Nicholas stands up. He doesn’t even have to step closer because Vash never stepped back after handing him the glass; he’s immediately in his personal space, and Vash slides from satisfied to nervous in the blink of an eye. “I’m going to kiss you,” Nicholas tells him firmly. “This is your chance to say no.”

Staring, with his mouth hanging slightly open, Vash says nothing. Nicholas closes the distance between them slowly, deliberately, giving him time to object if he’s going to, but Vash stays very still until their lips meet. His mouth is soft, and his little intake of breath sounds loud in this quiet room. Nicholas lingers long enough to memorize the way it feels, the novelty of another man’s stubble prickling against his chin, the sweet way their lips fit together, and then he pulls away.

It’s a little gratifying that Vash follows an inch or two before remembering himself. He opens his eyes, his expression unfocused the same way it had been the night before, when Nicholas touched him. “What was that for?” he asks.

Nicholas shrugs and answers, "How the hell am I supposed to know? You were just standing there with that dopey grin on your face, and I wanted to."

The dopey grin returns full force at that, and Nicholas has a moment to worry that he might be further gone than he realized. Before he can find out exactly how far that is, Sheryl calls out from the kitchen that they'd better both be awake. Vash gives him a quick peck on the lips and says, "I'll tell her you're on your way."

He's out the door by the time Nicholas can form any kind of a retort, rendering sarcasm useless. Nicholas sighs, drinks some water, and starts getting dressed.

Somehow, moving on becomes less of a priority. Not planning on staying becomes one more day couldn't hurt. Eriks brings Nicholas back to the bar and supervises his apology to Jake, the barkeep, who grudgingly tells him not to worry about it. Nicholas and Lina continue to snipe at each other until Eriks observes that they behave exactly like siblings, at which point they both direct their ire at him rather than each other.

Then, someone dies. He's some family acquaintance, not a close friend, but the house goes quiet when they find out. And Sheryl looks at Nicholas and asks, "You're an undertaker, aren't you? Could I introduce you to his family, make sure he gets a proper service?"

Eriks takes a breath to speak, looking deeply concerned, but Nicholas is quicker: "Yeah, of course."

The dead man's family recognizes him by his cross, which he's carried everywhere like a security blanket since getting it back from Lina. They're so grateful to have someone experienced that they hire him on the spot. Nicholas is just relieved to get out from under the weight of their grief when he steps out of the house. Eriks waits for him on the street, so he takes his time lighting a cigarette.

"I know what you're thinking, needle noggin," Nicholas says. "I can hear you trying to find a way to say it without being rude."

That almost gets a smile out of him, but not quite. "This town is small and poor," Eriks says. "A twenty thousand double dollar invoice would sink that family."

Nicholas sighs, coming to stand in front of him. He holds his arms out a little and asks, "I look like a man who's making twenty thousand per funeral? I'm lucky if I make two hundred." Now Eriks is smiling, like Nicholas admitting he's not a complete piece of shit who takes advantage of grieving families is cause for celebration. He snaps, "I gave you that invoice because I found your face incredibly annoying, which is just how I'm finding it now. Stop looking at me."

He starts walking away so he doesn't have to deal with that stupid smile. It's been a week of sharing a bed and casually touching when they're near each other and kissing when Nicholas is feeling particularly fireproof, but he still can't handle that smile. Maybe because it's the thing that got him into trouble in the first place. It made him feel shivery and insane then, and if anything, it's gotten even worse since.

There's something else too, an itch building under his skin, like it doesn't quite fit. He can't remember the last time he stayed in one place for more than a couple of days, and it's starting to grate on his nerves a little. Sheryl and Lina are fine, but they're so…normal. They talk about normal things and worry about normal things, and sometimes Nicholas has to restrain the urge to scream just to shake things up.

And as if that weren't enough, there's Eriks, who's so mild-mannered and unassuming that Nicholas could puke. He's living in a fantasy, and he knows it, and how does he think it's going to end? Lina grows up, Sheryl gets old, everyone ages but him, and he just stays working at the grocer's? Yeah, right. Nicholas doesn't talk on the way back to the house.

—

The funeral is held at the modest cemetery on the edge of town the next day. Nicholas has dug a hole, an orderly thing. When the coffin has been lowered, he intones, "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name."

There are plenty of people here; the man was well-liked and had a large family. They all look at Nicholas with trust in their eyes, believing him to be who he says he is and not an abomination in the eyes of a God that he doesn't even believe in. "Please accept this man, Jameson, into your Kingdom as a child of your love. Forgive him his sins and count his good deeds in this world, his love for his family and the kindness he showed to his neighbors." He refuses to look at Eriks, focusing on some point above everyone's heads. "Provide for his family at this time as you provide for all your lambs. Fill their hearts with your Spirit, that their grief may become joy in Jameson's memory. And when we all join him at your table, we pray that you will set a place for us and welcome us home."

The words taste sour in his mouth, as they do whenever he says them. But there's no lightning strike, no divine retribution. Everyone disperses, and he grabs a shovel to start filling in the hole.

After a minute of stubborn silence, Nicholas asks without looking over his shoulder, "What do you want, blondie?" He doesn't need to look to know when Vash is close by. Feeling mean, he adds, "You gonna help me fill this hole with one arm?"

"Ouch," Vash answers lightly. Nicholas glances over his shoulder and confirms that, yes, Vash is wearing that bland expression that makes Nicholas want to shake him until his teeth rattle. "I was gonna ask why you've been avoiding me, actually."

"We got out of the same bed this morning, didn't we?" Nicholas asks, dropping another shovelful of earth into the grave.

"You know what I mean, Wolfwood."

"I don't know what to tell you. Maybe I'm getting tired of both of us only being half of who we are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Nicholas drops the shovel on the ground and stalks over to him. "You've been lying to yourself, and I'm getting real sick of it," he hisses. "And you're lying to everyone in this town that thinks you're someone you're not. And sooner or later, they're gonna figure it out. Or they're all gonna get old and die, and you won't, and you'll be equally pathetic about that."

Quietly, Vash says, "You'll get old and die too, you know."

Nicholas almost laughs, but the start of it comes out so ugly that he throttles the rest. "You really think I'm gonna live that long? Please."

Vash flinches at that, just a little, just enough for Nicholas to pause. After a moment, he answers, "I wish you wouldn't say that like it's a joke. It's not a joke to me."

Softer but no kinder, Nicholas says, "Baby, I should have been dead a hundred thousand times by now. I should have been dead before I ever met you."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Vash asks.

His head is down, his hair covering his face. Gently, Nicholas reaches out and places two fingers under his chin, tilting it up so Vash will look at him. "Honesty doesn't make anyone feel better," he says. "But you know when I lie, so I might as well say what I mean. I can't keep watching you live this sugary fantasy of being normal. We should both get out before it shatters."

Vash takes a shuddering breath and lets it out. He sounds the way he did after that first nightmare when he says, "I needed…to recover. I needed to not be me, because if I was me…I was just too tired to keep running. I think I would have let someone kill me." He swallows. "If Lina hadn't found me first, I was thinking about finding you and asking you to do it." Nicholas hisses a little between his teeth, but Vash pushes on, "I didn't mean to stay. But peace is addictive, isn’t it? It was nice not to accumulate any new scars for a couple of years…"

Nicholas brushes his thumb over Vash's cheek, and Vash leans into his touch. Some of the anger dissipates. "I'm not asking you to put the coat back on," he says, choosing his words with some care. "Hell, if you want me to keep calling you Eriks, I can do that. Just as long as I don't have to watch more people you care about turn on you because they're too sad and stupid not to."

"You don't know that they would," Vash protests, but he doesn't sound like his heart is in it.

"Lina and Sheryl probably wouldn't. But the rest…"

Vash is quiet for a moment. He's not naive, even though he pretends to be. Nicholas can see him waking up from the dream, coming to terms with stepping back out into a world that's scarred because of him. There's a little part of Nicholas that's more than happy to point out his own hypocrisy; Vash doesn't want to go, and the world is arguably safer without him blundering around in it, which only leaves Nicholas's own selfishness as the driving factor in this argument. Still, he really does hate how much it breaks Vash's heart when all of that love he gives to people is thrown back at him. Vash can't help it, can't help doing the same thing over and over again any more than humans can help being scared of what he represents, a power they don't understand and that loves them so much and refuses to die. So just this once, maybe Nicholas can protect him from something, be selfish for the both of them so that he doesn't have to watch Vash break pieces off of himself and force himself to smile when those pieces get destroyed.

Eventually, Vash says, "I'll go talk to Lina and Granny."

It was what Nicholas wanted, but it doesn't feel like much of a victory. He answers, "Well, you know where to find me if you need me."

When Vash is gone, Nicholas returns to filling up the grave. He almost wishes that he was going along too just so that he can receive the brunt of Lina and Sheryl's anger up front instead of after the fact, but he has work to do.

By the time Nicholas gets back to the house, the suns are starting to set. He opens the front door, and silence blankets him. No sound of Sheryl bustling around in that no-nonsense way of hers. No sound of Lina clomping through the house in her too-big boots. The loudest thing is the soft click of the door closing behind him, followed by a quiet sniffle from the living room.

Nicholas walks to the doorway to find a tableau that he's not sure he expected: Eriks, Lina, and Sheryl stand in the middle of the room, holding each other like survivors in a wreck. They both barely come up to his chest, so he has to lean down a little to rest his chin on top of Lina's head. She's crying but determinedly silent, aside from the occasional sniff.

"I'll come back," Vash promises, because he doesn't know how to not make desperate promises and because Lina needs him to.

"What if you don't?" Lina asks, finally sounding like the child she is.

"Well, then, you'll still know that I love you. No matter what."

Finally, slowly, Lina pulls away, and finally, she sees Nicholas. The fact that she's still crying does nothing to deter her from narrowing her puffy eyes at him and hissing, "You."

"Me," Nicholas agrees. He leans the Punisher against the wall, waiting for retribution.

He doesn't have to wait long. Lina stomps over to him, shrugging off Eriks' hand on her shoulder, and pokes Nicholas in the chest. "It's your fault he's leaving."

"It is," Nicholas agrees, graciously allowing her to keep poking him.

"You just had to come along and ruin everything!"

"I did."

"Why couldn't you have just gone away and let us be?"

"You know why."

She stops, staring up at him. She's just a kid. Loud and opinionated, but at the end of the day, still so young. But Nicholas was young once too, and youth lasts longer than naivete in this world. Fresh tears well up in her eyes. Shakier, clearly maintaining her composure through sheer force of will, she declares, "You'd better take care of him. If you don't…"

"You'll chop my dick off, yeah, I know."

"You better believe it, pal."

Sheryl snorts, and Eriks gasps, "Lina!"

It's enough to break the bubble of tension in the room though. Sheryl dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief. She looks at Nicholas like she's wishing he'd never come along, but all she says is, "You boys obviously aren't leaving tonight. We'll have a farewell dinner, and you can go in the morning."

Dinner, apparently, involves an impromptu trip down memory lane. Nicholas isn't sure how much Eriks actually explained about his past until Sheryl says lightly, "So, Nicholas. Traveling with Vash the Stampede. How does an undertaker meet a wanted gunman?"

He darts a glance at Eriks, who returns it without expression. Of course he's not going to help. And of course Nicholas can't tell the truth. Instead, he grins wide at Sheryl and tells her, "His little friend hit me with her car, and then we got eaten by a Worm."

"You're lying!" Lina immediately accuses, but she sounds more shocked than angry.

"Why don't you go ask the Worm about it?" Nicholas simpers back.

"It's true, actually," Eriks cuts in. "Wolfwood saved the day, in fact."

"You guys are messing with me," Lina says, crossing her arms and pouting.

"I would never," Eriks answers, his hand over his heart, the very picture of sincerity.

"You mess with me all the time!"

Now that no one's lying to each other any more (except for Nicholas, all the time), the evening could almost be described as fun. They keep the conversation light, which does require steering away from most of the events that took place after Nicholas came along. Still, even with that consideration, it's like getting to take a deep breath for the first time in days.

Eventually, all things end. They sit around the table later than usual, but when Lina starts yawning every other minute, Sheryl declares, "Alright. Bed time."

"Granny, come on, just a little longer?" Lina pleads.

"We've put off the inevitable long enough."

They disperse, and Nicholas escapes into the room he's been sharing with Eriks. It's a coward's gambit, but he can't take Lina's big, sad eyes or Sheryl's resigned serenity. Once in the room, of course, he has to face his own thoughts, which is actually worse, but Nicholas has been handling that for significantly longer.

It's a little while before Eriks comes in, long enough for Nicholas to go through his whole nightly routine and make himself comfortable sitting in bed. They both look at each other for a moment, until Nicholas pats the bed beside him. Eriks sits facing him, and he sighs. "I still don't want to go. Is that crazy?" he asks.

"You'd be crazy if you did want to," Nicholas answers honestly.

"That thing you said about still calling me Eriks…did you mean that?"

"If you want me to."

"I think…yeah, I think I'd prefer that. At least for a little while."

"You just tell me when you want me to stop."

Eriks leans until his head is resting on Nicholas's shoulder. Quiet and relieved, he whispers, "Thank you."

That night, with the lights off, Nicholas twines around him like vines, like something simultaneously protecting and destroying, and Eriks relaxes, or surrenders, and they both sleep.

—

There's a little time between the first sunrise and second. Historians, if anyone listens to them, say that humanity's old home only had one sun, and this is the time of day when No Man's Land most resembles Earth. Travelers say it's the most auspicious time to begin a journey. Nicholas, having begun journeys at every conceivable time of day, thinks that's a load of bullshit. Nevertheless, they're all standing on the front porch as the first sun makes its debut alone.

"You'll write to us, won't you?" Sheryl asks.

"Of course," Eriks answers.

Sheryl looks pointedly at Nicholas. "And you too?"

Nicholas shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable under her heavy stare. Looking down, he mutters,"Yeah, sure, when I remember."

"Good. Did you boys remember everything? You have the food and water?"

"Yes, Granny, for the hundredth time," Eriks confirms with a teasing smile.

"Well, then, I suppose there's nothing else for it. Lina, give Eriks a hug."

Lina's been quiet so far. She steps up and gives Eriks a quick, impersonal hug, and then quickly steps back again, not looking at him. Eriks exchanges a glance with Nicholas and Sheryl. "I think I forgot my glasses inside," he says, casually folding his glasses and slipping them into his pocket. "Could you two look for them for me?"

Sheryl and Nicholas step into the house and close the door, giving the others some privacy. The house feels different, now that they're leaving. Older, sadder. Quietly, Sheryl says, "You will take care of him, won't you?"

Automatically, Nicholas answers, "He doesn't need anyone to take care of him."

"Now, you and I both know that's not true."

Nicholas pauses for a moment, imagining the shock that she and Lina would have experienced the first time they saw Vash's scars. Probably not dissimilar to Nicholas's own shock, he'd guess. "Yeah, I'll take care of him," he says.

"I'm glad to know he'll have someone watching his back. And that you'll have someone watching yours."

"I'd have thought you'd hope I would fall in a deep hole the first chance I get."

"When I saw how he looked at you, I knew he wasn't going to stay with us. We were always going to be a detour along the way."

"I…you weren't a detour." He's not sure why he says it, just that he needs to say it. At Sheryl's questioning look, he explains, "Temporary isn't the same as meaningless. There aren't a lot of people that would welcome him back, you know? You're important to him."

She blinks a couple of times at him, and then she smiles. "I hope you'll both come back and visit."

Nicholas is saved from further honesty by the front door being flung open and Lina running past. He and Sheryl frown at each other, simultaneously turning to look at Eriks, who looks similarly nonplussed. His only response to their questioning looks is a helpless shrug. As the quiet stretches, Nicholas starts, "Are you gonna…"

He's not sure how he intends to finish the sentence, but Lina's abrupt return saves him having to figure it out. She's carrying a bundle of black fabric, which she silently thrusts at Eriks, who accepts it gingerly and lets it unfold, hanging from his hand. Nicholas remembers Vash's red jacket, the shape of it and the texture of its surface, the way Vash could never remember which pocket he put his stupid sunglasses in. He also remembers, vaguely, seeing Vash in black in JuLai, while he and Meryl were running for their lives, though he didn't give it much thought at the time. Looking at it now, it's clearly the same jacket, but fundamentally changed in a way Nicholas didn't witness and may never fully understand. It feels like a fucking metaphor, and he hates fucking metaphors.

Apparently unable to take the silence any longer, Lina says, "You were wearing that the day we met, you remember? And I said I could patch it up for you, but you said to just get rid of it instead."

"I did?" Eriks asks.

Lina doesn't hear him, or ignores him, continuing in a rush, "It seemed stupid to throw it away, and it…just didn't feel right. So, I fixed it and washed it, and I just put it away. I don't…do you want it back?"

Eriks stares at her while she shifts nervously on her feet. Then, he pulls her into a tight, desperate hug, which she returns immediately. "Thank you, Lina," Eriks whispers. "Truly, thank you for finding me."

"You have to come back, okay?" Lina answers, her words muffled against his shoulder.

"I will."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

They say their final goodbyes. Lina and Sheryl stand on the front porch to wave them off, Sheryl with her arm around Lina's shoulder and Lina periodically swiping at the tears on her cheeks. Vash’s black jacket is carefully folded and tucked away in his bag like something too precious to risk. The second sun is just rising as they walk out of town.

“We’re gonna have to get some wheels,” Nicholas observes. “Can’t just wander around the desert on foot.”

“Why not?” Vash asks.

“Takes too long.”

“Not like we don’t have plenty of time, right?”

“I was thinking a motorcycle would be cool.”

“You're gonna have to knock me out to get me on a motorcycle."

"That can be arranged, needle noggin."

Vash huffs a laugh. "Could we go find Meryl, once you have my unconscious body strapped to your motorcycle? I'd like to apologize to her."

"She might be tough to track down. I haven't run into her once in the last two years."

"All we'll have to do is follow the trail of wrecked cars."

Nicholas snorts. Vash has the face of an angel with the sneakiest sense of humor, and it's something he'll never admit to loving. "You're right. Should be easy if we do it that way."

Vash smiles, then goes quiet for a moment. "Hey, you remember the thing you said yesterday about how you won't live long enough to get old?"

His tone has changed. Nicholas glances sideways at him, and instead of making a joke, he just answers, "What about it?"

"I don't want that to happen."

"Well, then…I'll just come back. Okay?"

It's an absurd thing to say, and they both know it. Still, Vash flashes him a smile, grateful to be indulged for once. "That sounds much better."

"Then, that's what we'll go with."

"Thank you, Nico."

"Don't mention it."