#punishercross 19

[blankticket]

@punishercross

Vash wakes up on a bed—(where? when?)—to a wet washcloth being pressed against his face.

Makes sense, because he's been filthy.

Unshaven and unkempt and feverish and streaked with sand and grime and dried blood. There's an inarticulate sound he makes that only gets as far as the base of his throat, his only hand blindly waving, barely pressing against someone else's chest. It doesn't do much to stop the man from cleaning away his tear tracks anyway.

Disoriented and starved and thirsty, Vash's mind conjures the thought of the original Plant, buried deep in the Earth centuries ago, and the excavation of it. Humans had breathed life back into that fossil, had decided she needed to live past death, and his mind is content to assume the same case for himself.

This way, his intuition tells him this was not a moment where he needed to panic, to comply to the next deal he's instructed to make. He's being helped. His hand falls away, resting across his own chest.

"Where." It's more a rough sound than a word, causing the Plant to clear his throat, cough, rest for a moment as the washcloth is pulled away from his face. He licks his lips; cracked and bled and healed and bled again. Eyelids try to open against the light, dulled eyes unable to focus for the time being.

"Where're. You?"

[blankticket]

Hearing it aloud, at once, calms him; of course, he believes him. Vash is sure that his boyfriend can feel the way taut muscles against him relax, can hear the way his breath slowly draws next against his neck.

In that quiet, he's trying to remember if he's ever heard that from him before. Is this truly the first time? It's too difficult to rely on his exhausted memories, and for that he resents the possibility he could have forgotten such an important thing. But regardless, hearing it now in this moment brings him a kind of happiness that feels so precious and new.

"I can't believe I ever…" Fingers tighten against Nicholas' side. "…Forgot how this felt."

—

In the morning Vash seems a nervous wreck, even after the most peaceful sleep he's had in weeks. The first thing he says is "sorry", and it takes him a while to steady his shaking hand. There's guilt expressed over breakfast; he can only manage a few bites, prompting him to try and convince the chef it isn't because any of it is unappetizing. The kisses help.

The directed drive over to where Vash was kept is uneventful. There is no chance encounter with an angel of vengeance, no ambush or trap in wait for them when they arrive. When the engine dies down and their footfall comes to a stop, they're greeted with only the same enormous silence of the desert that the dysfunctional Plant had become used to hearing.

It's a ways from the entrance town of Umber, though against the very same canyon wall—here, there's a split in the otherwise smooth face of it. Not quite a cave, but the gouge is still deep enough to be sheltered from desert wind, and camouflaged enough to miss from passerby-glance.

From up close now, the place is bloodstained and torn.

The lower half of Vash's bedroll is so concentrated with dried blood that it isn't immediately obvious it's been torn away. What was most likely his bag—and all of the clothes he'd packed into it—are scattered about in varying degrees of damage and bloodstain.

Off to the side, as if clueless about the violence altogether, is a neat collection of items untouched: his canteen, still half-filled with water; his phone, battery drained; his revolver, dusted with sand from disuse. His left arm is missing.

Before Wolfwood, still framed in glass, there is an old family photo partly sticking out from the sand.

Vash doesn't know where to start. He's climbed off the motorcycle easily enough, but even in his returned iconic red coat, the outlaw merely stands before the place, frozen with extreme unease.

The mug is put on the side table, set aside for later.

He doesn't move too quickly, or even too close at first, allowing the Stampede to choose the pace at which contact is initiated beyond what's already happening. He hears his name and reacts immediately, turning to the other and melding their bodies together.

Learning after a month how to perfectly fit into each other's arms. Relearning how to simply be, even if neither of them could ever be again. Not simple, in any case.

An arm wraps around to support the blonde against him, pressing his nose into mussed hair, breathing in the familiar scent that had long faded from the captain's quarters along with Vash's memories. And like those memories, returning all at once.

He can feel his jaw clench at the Stampede's words, his breath catch in his throat. Regret still hangs about him like a cloak, and he closes his eyes.

He allows his hands to rest around the Stampede, not pulling him tightly but simply allowing him to be there.

"Me too." He says, voice muffled.

It's the first time he said it out loud, and he hates that it took far too long to let his lover know how he felt. That there was a moment that he thought he could never get the chance to say it.

They might have fifty days or fifty years, they didn't know.

One of them could wake up with no recollection of the other.

But he had to say it.

"...I love you, too, Vash."

[blankticket]

Vash is too hesitant to insist on the difference of how bad one guy's been to the other, but… Concludes that either way, bad decisions have led to hurting the other guy, damaging the bond that they had together. Any ire that Nicholas has for him is warranted.

It's fortunate that Wolfwood is willing to see their partnership through despite it, that they both believe that they want to be at each other's side to heal and improve themselves.

His little joke gets Vash to smile.

…

"Tickles. Mmph." Vash is settling for an audible pout, since puffing a cheek or sticking out a lip would be rather unhelpful in this case. It's left unspoken, but it's nice to not have to handle anything resembling a knife on himself. He's proud of himself for not flinching after that.

…

The mug is weighty, but it's more due to the vessel than the content. Nicholas is conscientious; even though the mug's built for holding more, there's a modest amount of broth for Vash to sip away. He does, focusing step-by-step into the process instead of immediately responding to his boyfriend's words.

He pauses with the mug to his lips, letting the steam hit his face and noting how it smells. He draws a sip. He holds it in his mouth. He relearns how to swallow, focuses on the mild taste. He exhales slowly. And repeat.

After the mug is placed onto the bedside table, Vash turns to look back at Wolfwood. He thinks, I wish you weren't so good at this. He thinks, I called out for you, too.

"Wolfwood." It's tender; much softer than a scream. Vash reaches out to him then, moving closer to take hold of his shoulder.

Vash wants to reassure himself of the undertaker's existence, as much as he wants to reassure him of his own; he wants to prove that he still remembers how to be gentle, as much as the world could never take that away from Nicholas.

So he pulls slowly, tracing fingers at the other's collarbone before leaning in to press a kiss against his neck. His face stays buried there, slowly breathing him in. With his hand reaching for his lover's waist, Vash is careful to keep his volume soft.

"Missed you too. ... I love you."

"Yeah. Together."

His hand is on the Stampede's cheek when he starts talking again, and he shrugs. "I mean, 've been bad t' you. You've been bad t' me. I'm still kinda pissed at ya, but..." He trails off, thumb running across the blonde's face.

"...That don't matter right now. We can fight and make out later. And in a year, an' in two years." He snorts. "If ya don't mind."

...

Vash needed a shave sorely, and so did he. Sitting the Stampede on the toilet lid, he holds his chin again, this time to keep him still, "Watch it! Just 'cause ya got yer healin' back don't mean ya can be wigglin' like that." Shaving cream dropped off his face and onto the floor as he shaved Vash's first.

...

Back in bed, he brings up a large mug with a thick handle, "So ya can sip at it with one hand." Though he does sit in the bed next to Vash, holding the mug out, "Should be nice an' warm. Not too flavorful t' ease ya back in." He's still careful not to have too much contact too quickly, even if he's sitting near him now.

"Checked on Razra while I was lettin' it heat up. He's calmer now that we're both Home." A pause, he averts his gaze, "He missed you."

Another pause, and he sighs at his own diverted thoughts, feeling like he owed it to himself, at the very least, to be honest.

"I missed you. We missed you. We're glad you're home."

[blankticket]

"Together…" Vash echoes, considering; the sound of it sits strangely in his mouth. There's an irrational sense that agreeing to this is to use his own power to doom the both of them.

To be the force that damns them.

They're a pair of mass-murderers, blaming themselves for their brother's deaths. The Humanoid Typhoon's lengthy lifespan was meant to be spent in atonement for that. So, hadn't it been right of Vash to seek out his own punishment for those sins? To pay whatever toll in flesh was demanded of him? To try to save everyone from himself? Couldn't Wolfwood understand that?

And yet—he would never deny the other his blank ticket. And yet—Nicholas has only been honest and trusting, offering his hand even when there was every reason to retreat out of fear.

He was… special. Vash has been wrong to take it all for granted. And it worries him to doubt himself, to be left wondering if he'd still make the same stupid decision if his memories had returned in time.

But if he's going to promise anything from here on out, it had better be completely heartfelt—no matter if the Plant felt that he knew what was best. Even if he believed Wolfwood deserved better than to settle for him, the undertaker's own will could not be overlooked; he's chosen to try again and again and again with Vash, even if Nicholas himself doesn't understand why.

"Together." For a moment, a sharp focus returns to Vash's eyes; it's the strongest he's sounded in a while. Then, softer: "…I've done you wrong, Nicholas. Been bad t'you. Won't make you feel like that again."

He's exhausted, and he's frustrated, but neither of those feelings are directed at the Stampede over this. Really at all right now.

He avoids touching Vash too much too quickly. He makes sure his voice is gentle - and there's nothing forced about his tone or manner. Hands forced to kill but with no desire to, a lamb in wolf's clothing - his skin is shed and his gruff demeanor is nowhere to be found.

Any soap chosen doesn't have any strong scent to it, nothing too overwhelming with temperature or noise.

He knew how it felt when every cell in your body screamed against being touched or cared for. Being thankful that at least there was no wound care to further extend it all.

Vash kisses his hand, and he feels his chest tug, body reflexively moving closer, as though to curl around the Stampede.

A confession, silence. And then:

"Alright." Is what he says in response, hand curling up to cup the Plant's face. A priest taking a confession - no, a lover hearing the loved's greatest fear: rejection.

Even if he is certain the Stampede didn't have as much a hand in what he said he caused - as much as he knows that the man's twin was certainly involved more than Vash will admit - he allows the partial lie he can feel in his marrow.

(His hands could shake later with the sheer breadth of power the two wielded to be involved with something like that. An event that defined his entire existence.

It was awe inspiring.

It was terrifying.)

"I think I killed my coworker." A confession for a confession. A way to bare his own chest and show his own broken morality. He doesn't know if it works, but it's what he can do right now.

Even further than that, even as he continues to hold the Stampede, his own ugly confession being evoked by the next question.

"I don't know."

Three words he felt at the very depth of his being. He didn't know. With what had happened earlier that night, there was every chance that Millions Knives was right.

But more than that,

"...I wouldn't want to. But if yer gonna go anyway, at least let me be the one who guides you." Evoking images of Point Zero, their quiet ascent, their good-bye.

A thumb moves gently across the Stampede's face.

"Maybe...Together we can figure out somethin'." Advice from their older counterparts, seemingly meant for the Punisher, but maybe something they could both heed.

"If we're both damned either way, may as well be damned together."

[blankticket]

For a time, Vash settles into silence. He's still sure to communicate in the ways he can manage: a hesitant nod, holding onto the other man as he's guided into the bathroom…

The constant worried observation of Wolfwood's face, now that he can see more of it.

It must be frustrating to deal with him. It must be exhausting. It takes Vash a while to ease his body into the bathtub once it's drawn, and it isn't because of the temperature. His hand is too tightly gripped against porcelain to effectively wash himself at first, or do much of anything for that matter. And if anything, he tenses further with gentle instruction.

But the Punisher never punctuates his words with threat or pain.

So, slowly… Together…

They fight against the distress that the Plant's instincts have grown against the nearby presence of someone caring for him, guiding him.

…While the water drains, Vash reaches for his boyfriend's hand, and kisses it. It must be an horrible texture: his lips chapped and wet and trembling, half of his moist face nudged into the palm to lay the kiss in, for Nicholas to hold it.

And then, against that palm, he confesses:

"The Big Fall… It was my doing."

It's a hideous secret, and a half-truth.

Still, the very weight of it—of confessing to be the source of the irreversible whole of humanity's suffering in their world, Wolfwood included—that should be persuasive enough, shouldn't it?

Livio's death, the Eye, every life cut too short for not being meant to live on that desert planet, every single bit of pain there ever was to be felt there; there's an easy culprit for it, a cowardly one who has only ever confessed it to Nicholas D. Wolfwood.

"Would you do it?" Vash asks, swallowing hard. His voice stays weak.

"If he asked for you to bring me to him again. "If I ... If I asked you t'do it?"

He doesn't respond right away, instead walking to grab the cup of water on the nightstand and holding it up to Vash's lips, putting a hand under him to help prop him up so he can drink.

Quietly, he lets the Stampede drink if he wants to, not too quickly, as he considers what to say in response. Guilt settles just below anger, both sitting ill in his stomach.

Kneeling by the edge of the bed, he's at eye level with the Stampede now.

"...I'm still pissed at ya."

His voice is quiet, and he avoids eye contact, clearly uncomfortable with the level of vulnerability after over a month of not being together, even when the Stampede was here, but he still remains physically close without touching.

"Rememberin' like that - I'd've almost rather you stayed forgettin'. That ain't...Okay. None of it was. Is. An' I know ya know that but fuck, nobody deserves that. Nobody."

Finally looking directly at the Stampede, Nicholas opens his mouth to speak, closes it again, seeming to think about what to say next. Eyes search the other's face, and he finally speaks aloud, voice hardly a whisper:

"...If ya regret it, stay. We'll figure it out."

He hardly believes it himself, but it's all he has to hang onto. It's the closest he can come to what he really wants to say.

"I should go make ya somethin' t' eat. Well, drink. Like I said, broth's good to reintroduce food..." He trails off. No, perhaps this is the closest he can come to what he really wants to say.

An offer for care. His own version of an olive branch. A way to make amends for yelling and acknowledge the Stampede's pain.

Domesticity, mundanity. A hopeful absence of trauma and of pain, at least within these walls. Together.

It's how he expresses that he-

"We do gotta bathe ya tho. Ya stink, needle-noggin'."

[blankticket]

Fine.

"When I remembered you, it was when he— …" Vash tries, but it's as far as he goes before his emotions get the better of him, leaving him in dreadful speechlessness. This awful vulnerability.

How the hell was he supposed to say anything in a state like this? What words were best to continue the rest of the sentence, anyway, with what he's implied already?

There's no way to explain how it made him feel to remember, much too late, everyone and everything he'd left behind—all in the middle of what his brother was ordering him to do to himself. He hasn't even made up his mind, whether it was worse to relive the bad memories or the good ones. He doesn't even know what he's missing.

It wasn't as though he was living it up without everyone, or even happy to make the decision in the first place. It was hell; it was a lesser hell he thought he'd willingly suffer if it was just him. Too bad.

The tears still won't come (not like they'd save him anyway). Even after a pause, Vash's throat feels thick; he pushes the words forward anyway.

"I was wrong." Hard to breathe. Hard to see Wolfwood, but he keeps looking anyway. "And I regret it. And I'm sorry."

"Bullshit. I'm callin' bullshit on all of it."

He rubs his forehead, closing his eyes. "Ya can't even answer me straight, jus' tryin' t'convince me of yer point." The edge of irritation in his voice quickly becomes a note of exhaustion. "First, yeah I don't gotta do shit. Ya lied to me, yer still tryin' t' bullshit me, so honestly no, I don't gotta do anythin' for ya. But I wanna. For some god damn reason."

He put up one finger, followed by a second, "An' second - that's thomashit an' ya know it. He came here with you. Handed ya over to me with a fucking knife to yer throat. He ain't gonna stop, he ain't lettin' you go an' he ain't lettin' me go. If ya think that me being physically hurt is the worst thing yer brother can do to me, you haven't been fuckin' listenin' to me."

Turning to Vash, he steps back toward the bed. "I made deals with him and his too. They promised Livio'd be left outta this if I complied, became their killer and did their dirty work - an' Livio's dead," a pause at that, his voice cracking for a moment, "I brought you to JuLai, an' that was also supposed to be the end of it, and now he's dumpin' yer dumb ass back here with me, demanding I take care of ya and, guess what, bring ya back to him. Didn't hurt me, but threatened you an' I get to be the one who kneels." He knows his voice is raising, but his frustration is eating at him, and apparently being quiet didn't matter anyway, so fuck it, really.

"So instead of admittin' yer wrong - that I was wrong too when I thought he or that blue haired freak would actually make any deal - yer gonna try an' push me away. 'S'though it didn't hurt that ya weren't here in the first place. Do you even know-"

He cuts himself off, feeling his own breathing hitch. "I don't wanna put shit on you. Yer in bad shape, an' ya need to recover. But you make it so fuckin' hard when ya decide that yer sufferin's any help at all."

Shoulders slump, "So says the guy who brought ya to yer brother in JuLai in the first place. Fuck me, right? So go on an'," a brief pause, he's glad nobody can see his expression, "...Ya don't need my blessin' to go. Wouldn't matter if I asked ya to stay. Right?"

[blankticket]

Wolfwood deserves an apology. He's deserved it the moment that Vash broke his promise. And Vash does regret everything that this has put his lover through. He's well ashamed, preemptively, for the damage control that's yet to come. But…

The thought is held on pause when the undertaker runs through pragmatic plans of action—none of which sound particularly appealing—but it brings a wave of disbelief to hear it. He's too good for him if he doesn't even wait to hear a single "sorry", instead going on ahead and treating Vash with gentle care. Maybe it's Vash pressuring him to go through with this.

The Plant rolls himself to the side, using his arm to help himself sit up. He's leaning most of his weight against the headboard when he pulls his legs in closer to himself. This has all been more care than he deserves. He's only half-sure he's really here, and not out in the desert bleeding and deluded for respite.

"Nicholas," he whispers in the dark. "Y'don't have t'do this."

Yes, he remembered him. Remembered how they were, here.

But he's hiding saving the thought for now, and offering Wolfwood yet another out in hopes that he'll take it.

"He can't touch you if I'm…" It's hard to find the words. "Not here."

His hands curl back instantly when Vash flinches away.

Like as not, you wouldn't find a more understanding person than Nicholas the Punisher when it comes to these things.

Especially right now, right here. Given what Vash had been through, it's clear he likely wouldn't want to be touched by anyone.

And given the undertaker had just gotten upset with him, he's not surprised that he's no exception. He'd likely feel the same if the roles were reversed.

"Guess you got yer powers back." He murmurs into the darkness, putting the first aid away. He doesn't want to ask if he remembers anything, but it'd be selfish not to. "Do ya remember anythin'?" Looking over the clotted blood, and given the lack of wounds, letting the Stampede bathe would probably feel better on sore muscles.

But his plans are caught short at the request: "Go to where where ya-..." He sighs, rubbing his face, feeling his overgrown stubble itch against his hand. Too many thoughts on too little sleep for both of them, but there's still more to be done. Too much water too fast would be bad, too much solid food too fast would be worse.

"Alright, yeah, first thing's first. We gotta bathe ya. An' I got some ingredients downstairs t' make broth, which'll be better on yer stomach for at least the next day startin' tonight."

He doesn't want to bring Vash back where he was, but he won't be leaving him alone. "Razra's a little shaken up, so I'll drive."

He looks back at Vash, noting where the cuts are, closing his eyes and sighing. He wants to talk about this, he doesn't want to talk about this. They both knew enough about torture to last multiple lifetimes.

"But yeah, I'll go with ya."

There's no such thing as miracles, after all.

[blankticket]

It isn't Wolfwood's fault in the slightest. But when he moves to try and apply first aid to Vash, something about the touch makes his body flinch away.

"No! No, I—" Markings fade away, as though to give less of a guide to Wolfwood. Vash tries to relax, hates himself for his reaction. "I'm healed."

It's the truth. His regenerative ability has been back, old clots of blood marking myriad dotted lines where Vash had been instructed to cut.

This wasn't supposed to end. He'd never meant to force Wolfwood into taking care of his body again, to see and treat the new damage it's willingly incurred. But now there's no hiding any of that, is there?

Nicholas helps him drink water. It's hard for Vash to stop himself from drinking too much at once, but his partner has the smart idea to cut him off before then. Still, it aids greatly in restoring his senses.

"…Come with me?" he asks, "Tomorrow. T'where I was."

Vash wasn't returned to Home with everything he'd brought out to Umber. Really, he still wanted to spare Nicholas the experience, but it clearly wasn't an option to run away there again alone. Not unless Wolfwood declined now; and God, what a miracle that would have to be.

He's annoyed with himself for not keeping his feelings to himself for now more than he's annoyed with Vash for provoking him, even accidentally. It's not unusual - they bite and gnash and do this bloodied dance and yet still treat each other's wounds.

Still, the Stampede won't be getting up - it's obvious enough - and even as he tries to do so, he ends up exhausting himself further. The undertaker sighs, moving back to washing Vash, murmuring "I'm right here," when he sees the Plant squint, trying to find him in the dark.

He's glad for the dark, so at least his own expression can't be seen.

(I hate seeing you like this. Letting people hurt you.)

And yet hands meant to kill are gentle, ensuring the cloth is warm and his movements are slow.

They sit there silently for a while, the only sound is Vash's haggard breathing. He wants to ask why he'd let himself be hurt, and why he'd leave, but he knows in the back of his mind why.

("Nothing will change how he chose me over you.")

His mouth is pressed together in a thin line as he bites his tongue. Everything he wants to say is wrong.

I missed you.

I wish I could have killed him for this.

I needed your help.

Why didn't you let me help you?

Do you know how hard it was to ask you to stay with me? For me?

Did you think about me?

Instead he murmurs that he'll be right back, changing out the bloodied and dirty water for something fresh, and pulling the rest of the first aid kit with him as he settles on the bed next to Vash to get a better angle on anything he hadn't caught before.

[blankticket]

You know what I meant, Vash tries to say, but in the end it's only a half-hearted thought, feelings paling in the following rush of righteous contempt from Wolfwood.

He's left without feeling him there when the cross-bearer moves to put the washcloth down, arm limply staying aside so as not to get in his way. The lights stay on.

Tears exhausted during his abuse, Vash can't physically bring himself to cry, so luckily there isn't anything to stifle. It's still frustrating, being unable to more coherently word his defense.

Uncomfortable and unhappy with his own skin, disgusted at himself for being cared about anyway, the Stampede tries to twist his body sideways in order to push himself up, to physically refuse the care.

...It's largely unsuccessful. His sense of balance is off, and soon enough he returns to resting on his back, panting heavy in the dark. Eyes squint, trying to look for Nicholas anyway.

"...You don't get to ask me to do that."

He hates how his voice sounds in the dark room, the anger seeping in unbidden. What he had just gone through. Alone. In this house. Trapped.

What he had just been told, no-

Ordered to do.

"Your brother," the word is venomous in his mouth, he knows it. "Your brother and his lackeys tortured me for more than half my life. They took a boy who believed he was being blessed and turned him into a monster."

He puts the washcloth down. "One of their best monsters."

He's mad. He's angry. He's hurt.

More than anything he's hurt.

"You run away and think nobody else catches the strays. You lied to me. You knew you were lyin' to me too, didn't you?" He can feel his voice cracking, he hates it. The hurt seeps in. "Now yer back, an' only 'cause yer brother decided I'm the best caretaker for ya. Because I'm a monster he made, so it's fer the best we stick together, right?"

With shaky hands, he goes back to cleaning. To his task. He can hear his own breathing shake.

"...Did you think I just sat here? Safe 'n sound? That I didn't look for you? That I didn't hunt down everyone goin' after that bounty?" He remembers shooting Klaus, the sword in his stomach, bleeding out in the alleyway before limping away, bitter taste of medicine in his mouth.

"...You didn't do this. You don't make a deal with the devil t'keep yer people safe 'cause you've got other options." A pause, he closes his eyes. "...You an' I are two peas in a fuckin' pod.

...An' maybe neither of us can change."

[blankticket]

"Don't hate him."

Vash knows Wolfwood is angry; it's a testament to his patience for bothering to take care of him now, when if anything this traitor should have been left to waste away out there.

Not that Knives would have let him, anyway—he had always been a step ahead, giving him just enough minimal care to ensure his brother wouldn't find an escape in either Last Repose or Abyss. …So why had he stopped now? Why had he willingly handed him over to Wolfwood? Did Vash fail to satisfy his demands? It's just him worth blaming, worth hating.

I shouldn't be here.

For now, the thought is too exhausting to manage beyond that much. His tongue feels heavy, glued to the roof of his mouth. After a brief struggle of thought and muscle, he explains:

"It was… Just me. Who did this."

Knives hadn't hurt him, either. But even all of that, away from everyone's eyes but Knives'—it was nothing, he's sure, to the hurt he's caused all of those who cared for him. His predecessor's anger, Wolfwood's anger, it was all warranted.

Especially since Vash still felt the urge to run away again the second he could manage it.

"Our..." his voice trails off as he pauses, eyes searching in the dark for an answer. He's too tired to question what may be an end to the Stampede's amnesia, particularly if the cost of it was this.

"...Yeah."

He'd rather have Vash forget him entirely than have to go through this to remember their time together.

(He hates both of these lines of talk.)

"No, 'm not hurt." Physically, at least. He continues to clean the Stampede, illuminated by the light emitting from Vash, he's without his glasses, in his pajamas. And given how little he tended to wear to bed, it's clear that his body is hale and whole even in the din.

But his unshaven face and deep bags under his eyes betray him as turns to rinse and wring out the washcloth in warm water near him.

"He scared Razra good, but didn't hurt either of us."

A pause.

"...we're glad yer Home."

He's angry.

But he can't be angry right now.

Not at this moment. Tomorrow, or the day after he'd let himself be angry. Every cell in his body is screaming.

Only one of the twins lied to him, and it wasn't Millions Knives.

Because Millions Knives meant every deranged thing he said.

"...Didn't wanna hurt yer eyes. Or scare ya with the tub runnin'."

[blankticket]

"Our room?" he reflexively croaks back, before needing another moment to gather his thoughts. Vash's mind feels like it's working on a delay, struggling to catch up to even being present alongside his immediate surroundings.

He's aware of the way his thoughts must seem even more incoherent coming out of his dry mouth—so it's all the more notable for Nicholas to understand and respond accordingly to a shriveled Plant, intuiting what his boyfriend had meant with only a few delirious words.

He wants to hold him. Vash's fingers find their way to hold onto the wrist finishing up the cleaning of his face—just to hold onto him.

"…'Re you hurt? Did he...?" Vash's voice makes it sound worse than it is (really, he'll be okay). Anxiety tells him it's dark because his brother had managed to mutilate the cross-bearer, despite their thoroughly negotiated agreements. So he wants to see him.

His body is listening again; its Plant patterns slowly light up in the dark, starting from his eyes, his face... And trailing down his body from there. The usual thrum of energy that comes at the touch is, unsurprisingly, weaker than usual. But it's present now, all the same; restored, unlike the last time the two had been here at Home.

Every part of him wants to scream, but instead he focuses on the task - the man - in front of him.

Torture, it's obvious. Given his experience - and recent reminder - of the methods employed by Millions Knives and his worshippers, he's not surprised. He expected it.

He didn't want to see it. He had been right - the drape was less to respect the mangled man in front of him and more to shock the Punisher when he uncovered him.

Too injured to be submerged - and being submerged would be terrifying in this delirious state and given what he's been through - the undertaker can only gentle use a cloth with warm water to start wiping away the reminders of what had happened to the Stampede the past few weeks.

When the blonde starts to stir, pressing a hand to his chest, he pauses for a second before continuing. When the man struggles to open his eyes, the undertaker takes a moment to shut off the bright overhead lights, moving back to sit near him in the din, using his voice to guide the other man to where he was.

"It's me." He doesn't know what to call himself right now, his mind roiling like a sand storm, with the two of them at the center of it.

"You're...Home." His voice cracks, but he continues the gentle work he'd deny his hands were capable of. "Captain's quarters."