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The hotel room is faded, dusty, and empty save for a single bed, a scarred wooden table, and two rickety-looking chairs, but it might as well be a palace after days spent on the road with nothing for company except the unrelenting sun and miles of sand.
Nothing but sun, sand, and a certain outlaw who wastes no time in beating Nick to the tiny bathroom and the shower inside, despite the fact that Nick had threatened bodily harm if he wasn’t allowed to wash off the road grime first. Clearly, his threats could use some work. Add it to the list, he thinks as he watches the door slam shut. With a resigned sigh, he drops his stuff next to the bed and leans the Punisher against the wall, checking the locks to make sure they look sturdier than the furniture.
Vash is humming in the shower loud enough that Nick can hear it through the closed door, the tune so off-key as to render it unidentifiable. Of course Vash the Stampede sings in the shower. He talks in his sleep, too, though Nick’s never mentioned it. He wonders if Vash even knows.
With nothing to do but wait his turn, Nicks drags out one of the chairs and opens the window. The panes open outward, like a shutter, creaking on hinges that are beginning to rust. Would they hold up to an attack? Hardly. If they’re lucky, they won’t have to test them tonight. Not that they’ve been able to count on luck much lately. With another sigh, Nick retrieves a slightly crumpled cigarette, lighting it and letting the smoke flood his lungs before forcing it out with a heavy exhale.
He’s halfway through the cigarette when the bathroom door opens, steam billowing into the already too-warm room. Vash steps out, towels secured around his waist and scarred torso on display, the day’s dirty laundry bundled in his arms. He pauses when he sees the cigarette dangling from Nick’s lips.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke inside the room,” he says, voice full of that false cheer that Nick hates so much. It rubs against his skin like sandpaper, leaving him feeling irritated and raw. Perhaps that’s why, instead of replying, Nick elbows the window open a little wider, pointedly blowing smoke into the evening air. For an instant, Nick could swear he sees a scowl cross Vash’s features - hopes for it, almost, can feel the fight itching along under his skin like a sunburn he can’t touch. But then that wide, empty smile is back, and Vash just says, “Hey, fair enough!”
Nick wants to grab him, to shake him and tell him to stand up for himself, even if it’s over something as inconsequential as cigarette smoke. He wants, but he stays right where he is, and it’s hard to tell if he’s more frustrated with Vash or himself. Instead, he watches Vash cross the room and drop his dirty clothes next to his bag to rummage for something clean.
“Don’t know why you smoke, anyway,” Vash says, tone light, conversational, like he can’t feel the charge gathering around Nick like a thundercloud (but he can, Nick knows he can, Vash is far more perceptive than most people ever give him credit for).
“Keeps me young,” is all Nick says in reply.
Vash laughs. “Didn’t realize you were getting old.”
“Must be my boyish good looks,” Nick drawls, taking out another drag. Vash has turned his back to him and Nick is transfixed by a bit of ragged scar tissue that drags across his lower ribs and wraps around into three long claw-like marks in the front. Hardly the worst one in the collection, but for some reason Nick can’t pull his eyes away from it, the way Vash’s skin pulls taut around the edges as he moves. He wonders how old it is, how long it took to heal, if it’s still raw. If it ever still hurts.
Straightening back up, Vash pauses when he turns around and realizes Nick’s eyes are on him.
“Anyone ever tell you it’s rude to stare?” he says, still keeping his tone light even though his shoulders have crept up ever so slightly towards his ears, body turning defensive almost on instinct.
Nick just shrugs. “It’s quite the collection you’ve got there. Hard to look away.”
Vash’s hand twitches, though he holds his gaze. “Don’t tell me I’ve offended your delicate sensibilities, preacher man.”
“Hardly.”
For a moment, all Nick can do is continue to stare at the scars that litter his body, a collection of the terrible damage the years (and the people) have wrought. No part of him has been left untouched, it seems, his skin a testament to the relentless anger of men he’d never met and wouldn’t see again.
Finally, Vash clears his throat, clutching a little tighter at the towel around his waist as he says, “Do you mind?”
Nick does mind - he minds very much, in fact - but he turns his head back to the window anyway, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder when he hears the towel hit the floor behind him.
Vash is fully covered when he moves back into Nick’s line of sight, pants and long sleeves despite the heat of the night. Clothing as armor. It eats at Nick that Vash thinks he’s someone he needs to protect himself from (especially because he’s right). Toweling at his hair, he drops into the chair opposite Nick, letting out a small oof as the wood creaks under his weight.
Nick’s cigarette has burned down almost to his fingertips, and he taps the ash off the end before stubbing it out in the chipped ashtray. It leaves his hands empty, and with nothing to distract himself, the quiet weighs heavier than before. His fingers twitch against the table, unable to keep himself from fidgeting.
“What are you thinking about, preacher man?” Vash says, using the familiar nickname for the second time in as many minutes.
Maybe that’s why Nick opens his mouth, and instead of the usual line of bullshit he would spout off to diffuse the tension, he says, “Why do you let them do it?”
Vash had been looking at him already, but now he freezes, expression turning equal parts puzzled and wary as he seems to be taking Nick in for the first time.
“What do you mean?” he asks, sounding confused. Is he playing dumb? Maybe. Probably. Nick’s not in the mood to let him get away with it, though, and he leans forward to grip Vash’s arm, feeling the pucker of scar tissue beneath the sleeve. It’s certainly not the first time they’ve touched, not by a long shot, but it’s never felt loaded like this before, like a flint to tinder. Vash starts at the touch, eyes darting down to Nick’s hand, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Seems like everyone you meet takes a piece of you with them,” Nick says. Vash’s eyes are still fixed on the hand on his sleeve. “And it seems like you’re happy to just let it happen. Why don’t you fight back?”
“I fight back sometimes.”
“You oughtta fight back every time.”
Vash just shakes his head, finally looking up to meet Nick’s eye. “Why? I cause enough damage as it is, there’s no reason to make things worse.” He lets out a breathy, hollow-sounding laugh. “Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? It’s not like they could kill me.”
“They could hurt you,” Nick snaps, hating the plaintive, vulnerable tone hiding beneath the anger.
Vash just slaps that empty grin back on his face. “At least they’re not hurting each other, right?”
The anger grows from a dull hum to steady roar, thrumming through his ears like the rush of blood. Nick’s not a hero. Never has been. He knows this about himself because he’s also not a fool. All his life, he’s only ever managed to protect himself and the children in his care, and to hell with anyone who would interfere with either. And that was enough, until suddenly, it wasn’t, and every day he has to fight off the temptation to grab the man next to him and run, to the far corners of the earth and the hidden places where nobody would find them unless they wanted to be found.
Only, those places don’t exist. There’s nowhere on this godforsaken dust bowl of a planet where they could hide, no way for Nick to keep either of them safe. Nick has nothing to offer, not to the man in front of him and not to the people who exist to see him suffer. He’s not even brave enough to say the things he wants out loud, let alone act on them.
A better man than him - a braver man than him - would cut off these feelings at the source, gouge them out and pack the empty space with gunpowder, seal the edges so tight that they could never break back in. But he won’t, even as he knows it will probably damn them both in the end.
His fingers twitch against Vash’s arm, drawing his gaze back down again. Feeling bold, Nick slips two fingers beneath the cuff, and Vash sucks in a breath at the feel of Nick’s skin against his.
“I just think you deserve better than that.” It’s the wrong thing to say, because something in Vash’s expression shutters closed, and then he’s pulling his arm away.
“I’m not sure that’s true,” he says, drawing the cuff of his sleeve down further until it slides over his wrist. Nick takes a breath, but before he can speak, Vash tells him, in that infuriatingly friendly tone, “The shower’s open, if you want.”
Whatever conversation they were having is obviously over. Nick’s overplayed his hand, and now he’s being dismissed, and all he can do is push up from the table, grab a change of clothes, and lock himself into the bathroom so he can beat himself up in private.
When Nick emerges from the shower, Vash is in bed, covers pulled up to his chin like he’s actually cold. On other nights, they might do the whole who takes the bed and who takes the floor song and dance, but Nick’s too exhausted to bother tonight. Instead, he takes the side of the bed left conspicuously empty, turning onto his side so that he and Vash are lying back to back. They very carefully do not touch.
“You better not kick in your sleep,” Nick grumbles.
“I won’t if you won’t,” Vash replies, and Nick makes a disgruntled noise as he reaches over to turn out the light.
The bed is empty when Nick wakes up the next morning, but if he stretches out his arm, he can feel where the sheets are still warm.