#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?"

[punisheye]

It's cold. It's really cold.

His thin black shirt and shorts do little to protect him from it. The chill seeps through the tight fabric and into his skin, right down to his bones. The fog is dense. He's never seen anything like it before. Just read about it in books. Their planet didn't have water to evaporate and then bring back as rainfall, or to cover the sands in a haze.

It makes him feel damp. He wishes he was at home, away from this. Maybe it's just another test from Chapel. Maybe that old man is watching him, somewhere out of sight. If he could figure out what the test is meant to be then he won't be as likely to walk out of here with bruises on his ribs or a bullet in his gut.

His hands grip the gun too big for his body tight. He's shivering.

And then he hears footsteps. The boy jerks his head up, eyes wide and alert and—

Oh, it's just... some guy. He doesn't recognize him. Well, he kinda looks like him, but maybe he's just got one of those faces. Maybe he's part of the Eye, too, and they just never crossed paths. Nico had learned to keep his eyes down in the presence of the adults there, so that's what he does.

Looks down, looks away. His hands hold the gun tighter. He waits for the man to leave.

@punishercross

[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."

[punisheye]

"Nico..." He repeats, trailing off. Well, he looks a little like him and they kind of have the same name, which is weird. Could just be a coincidence, though, but he's a little too anxious to really think about it. It's probably nothing.

Nicholas pulls the jacket on. It stinks of cigarette smoke and— something else right underneath it. Warm. Like another person lingering.

"Miss Melanie's still there. I never heard of you n' I was there for a long time 'til..." This. Dropped into the hands of... something he doesn't understand at all.

The boy swallows.

Did she know? Does she worry about him? He hopes she's okay. Her and his little siblings. Nico sniffles, but does his best to put on a brave face.

"They said we'd be fixin' up churches," he says quietly.

"Come on, I didn't toss ya that 'cause I thought you'd make a fashionable coathanger." The kid still retained that politeness he knew was drilled into them, so he'd need permission to be able to feel like he could actually wear it.

"Come on, this way. Desserts out here - not warm this time'uh day, but better'n this shitshow." He didn't know the mist would follow them, but he started to walk in the direction he'd hope would lead them out of there, listening carefully for anyone following them.

"My name's..." Complicated, to say the very least. "Nico, Nico Watanabe. I'm a bit ahead of ya, so I expect ya don't remember me at all, but," a pause.

"Got recruited from the same place you did. Miss Melanie hangin' in there last ya saw her?" Better to connect them with an adult the kid trusts, he thinks.

And he hopes Hanabi wouldn't mind him borrowing her name.

[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'."

[punisheye]

The boy watches everything that this man does like a hawk. His hackles are lowering slowly, but he's still on guard. The trembling is less from fear and more from the cold now.

There's still a jacket in his hands. Part of him considers pulling it on to keep warm, but he can hear Melanie telling him that wouldn't be polite without permission. Maybe he shouldn't care about manners anymore, but...

He wants to hold onto some of the things he learned at home, at least. Chapel can't take everything from him.

"Where do I go?" Nico asks, hands bunching into the jacket. "Looks like there's nothin' out here for iles. And I'll..." Get lost. His childish pride won't let him admit it outright. "Where- where'd you even come from? You still ain't tell me yer name."

"No. I ain't." He wants to curse out the old man right here, but he's not sure just how brainwashed the teen is (or just how fucking terrified he is, or if he thinks this is a test).

"Listen, I ain't here as part of yer testin' or nothin'." He doesn't approach the kid, but he still scratches his chin, considering how to approach this. "He don't know 'm here, but 'm here t' help."

One hand up, he pulls his gun out of his holster. Ejecting the magazine, he pulls the slide back and ejects the loaded bullet, keeping it open and showing the kid. He's not gonna be pulling a gun on him.

"But either way, yer gonna freeze out here, kid."

[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.

[punisheye]

The coat is caught with one hand, even though as it's flying toward him he considers letting it just hit the ground. Curiosity, however, gets the best of him, so after some fumbling he pulls the sleeve back enough to get a look at the inside.

Maybe this guy thought it'd be a comfort, but another member of the Eye catching him out here alone and seemingly without his master's orders is just making him more anxious.

"Yer not gonna tell him you saw me here, right?"

He... doesn't know of any of Chapel's other students. This guy is a lot older than he is, so Chapel had to have been pretty young then, right? Still, he would think he'd be getting hit with an onslaught of comparisons to past subjects.

Ugh...

"...I don't know what he's gonna do if he finds out. Urgh... who are ya anyway? I've never seen ya."

"O-old guy!?" That travels up his spine with some measure of disdain as he points at the kid, teeth clenched around his cigarette. "Listen here ya little brat, ain't nobody else on this island know whatcha got t' do better'n me. Was trained by that old bastard myself - just ain't got the Punisher on me right now cause I don't need it, punk."

Now he's sounding like the priest, he can't help but roll his eyes behind his shades.

"'Sides, yer jus' freezin' out here in those shorts, an' ya ain't gonna get anythin' done if ya freeze." Clicking his tongue, he shrugs out of his own suit coat, tossing it to the kid. "Look on the sleeve there, an' inside. Gonna see the same shit ya recognize. Eye of Michael."

[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'."

[punisheye]

The boy tenses up when the stranger speaks to him. It'd be so much easier if he just left him alone and carried on and let young Nicholas figure out what he's supposed to be doing here on his own. But the guy mentions the old man, and Nico shivers.

"I don't know where I am," he mumbles. "Don't know why I'm out here. But I'll figure it out. I got to."

He's scared, and he's obviously trying really hard to hide that he is in a way only a frightened teenager would. Because he's trying to puff up, to steel his expression (and failing), to straighten his spine and keep going (but his legs won't move), but he's still sweating and his hands have a white-knuckled grip on that cross.

"Just leave me alone, old guy."

Despite the fact that the fog obfuscates his glasses, he keeps them on. Maybe he's just feeling odd, maybe it's the time of year, or maybe it's the damn mist of it all.

He's armed, but not with the Punisher. At least for this encounter he doesn't regret it, not entirely. The kid's wild eyed, but with a Punisher of his own, and given his own recent encounter with his own child self, that can only mean one thing.

"Ain't grown into that thing yet, huh?" The not-quite-yet-a-priest stands there, staring up at him for a moment, before averting his eyes. He feels bad for the kid, and almost wishes he had a spare set of shades to give him, with his own issues with eye contact.

His exhale turns into a whistle, and he keeps his gun holstered.

"Old man send ya out here?" If he's got the gun, if he's got that look in his eyes, if he looks that tired, then...

"Don't know why - ain't nothin' here fer us. No targets or nothin'."

[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."