December 2023 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

DECEMBER 2023 TDM

PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: A new group of arrivals find themselves lost in the frozen wilds and vulnerable to the dangers of nature. With luck, they make it to the town of Milton, and to a friendly face offering food, warmth and shelter — not to mention the fact they are not the first to come here.

PROMPT TWO — MISTY FALLS CAVE: The Interlopers go out in search of a hidden cave in the mountains found by Methuselah, which may still contain the hidden stash of a doomsday prepper. However, they get a little more than they bargained for when they venture inside.

PROMPT THREE — SERPENT'S BREATH: Interlopers investigate the mysterious cause of whatever is killing and poisoning the wildlife and vegetation of the area — and discover a supernatural creature is behind it.

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

WHEN: Mid-Decmber.
WHERE: Milton, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential animal attacks, potential injuries, potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk.

'You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.'

It’s the last thing you hear. A dark, deep voice. Impossibly ancient. You feel afraid. Maybe you’re dreaming, maybe you’re wide awake. You saw the lights, and then your world went dark. But you hear it in the blackness, you won’t forget those words.

You awaken. You are not where you were before. It’s different for everyone, there doesn’t seem to be much of a pattern in where you find yourself. You may open your eyes to find yourself in a cold, dim and dank cabin. The air is stale, dust hangs in the rays of weak sunlight that shine through the tiny windows. Someone lived here once, but they aren’t to be found. You look around, it seems like no one has been here in a long time. The fire is cold, the dishes in the sink are pretty mouldy. It is quiet. The wood creaks around you. Or perhaps you may awaken to find yourself shivering in the yawning maw of a cave, the freezing stone below you. Or maybe you’re unfortunate enough to sit up to find yourself lying in the snow, in the middle of the wilderness. Snow lies thick around you. It’s freezing out. You haven’t felt a cold like this before in your entire life. Cruel and biting. You have no idea where you are, and what’s worse — you are completely alone.

You may feel different, too. Any powers or magics you may have feel... absent. Disconnected. Things that may not have affected you previously now do. Something in you has changed.

You know you can’t stay where you are. You’ll need to move, try to work out where you are and how you came to be here. So you walk, head out into the unknown, in hope of finding a trail or a road. You’ll find one soon enough. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused. You’ll both need to keep going. It won’t be easy. You hear howls of wolves around you, and the terrain is difficult: slips and falls are likely. You’re completely vulnerable out here in the open.

It’s possible you may come across someone here. Another fellow Interloper, out hunting or gathering. They’ll likely offer help and get you into town. However, for the unlucky ones who don’t come across anyone, you’ll carry on until you see it: the lazy trail of smoke rising in the air. Fire. Not just one, but several. Civilisation…?

Follow it, and soon enough the way you’ve taken will certainly become a path or road. Unfolding before you in the mountainous forests, you’ll see the most welcome of sights: a small mining town tucked up in the valley. Battered, rusted road signs will direct to “MILTON, POP. 947”. You’re almost there, you keep going, and it looks like other people have had the same idea as you. In fact, you’ll hear the muffled sounds of life. People. In The town!

As you head into the outskirts and further into town, you’ll find it’s a little easier to walk but the cold has gripped you hard. You’ll find the buildings, both shops and homes, some are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up, some of them are occupied. People are going about their business, or stood watching from their tiny porches of their small, timber homes. For a town this big, there doesn’t seem to be many people.

Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the biggest of the smoke trail rises: a school-house of sorts, or some kind of community hall. Perhaps both. You’ll find more and more people all drawn to this place, each and every one of them in the same position as yourself (and your companion, if you’ve found one). Some are in worse states than others: some are bloodied, nursing bite wounds or cuts; others might have some other kind of injury sustained in the journey here from falls. Others may look as if they could faint from the cold at any second.

The door opens, and you’re greeted by the gnarled, wizened face of an elderly man, dressed in thick furs. He has a kind face. He smiles warmly, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.

“Ah, even more, still. Just as I thought.” he muses. “I wonder if this is perhaps the new status quo. I am Methuselah. I welcome you Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. You are not the only one, the lights are changing things. They bring more of you every so often. Come. Mother Nature has not been kind to you, but there are plenty here to help.”

The room is dim, lit only by natural daylight through the windows. A roaring fire sits at one end of the huge hall. It crackles, bright and cheerful…. and warm. Even as big as this place is, the room is pleasantly warm. You’ll also find basic cots set up down one side of the hall, places to rest for a moment and get your bearings, or just trying to recover from the cold. Down the other side are tables and chairs, and long tables with food, drinks and bottled water similar to one might find at a soup kitchen. Once again, Methuselah offers a feast, aided by some of the other Interlopers.

There are canisters with hot herbal teas and coffee, along with soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus grilled fish. There's also things like instant mashed potatoes, and tinned vegetables. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast, although newcomers will note from others who have been here some time that this particular feast is less bountiful this time.

Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks. He does not have much time to talk. More and more people seem to be coming in from the cold. He will not stop to sit and rest until everyone is seen to, taking up a place by the fire to gaze silently into its flames. He is troubled, thoughtful.

He will encourage newcomers to get warm and eat, and when they are ready to — they can explore the time and find one of the many empty homes to call their own. He will not speak much, but perhaps you might be able to get some answers from those fellow arrivals who’ve been in this place for some time now.

However, he will speak of something important, and will gladly share with others: “I have been looking for something for you all. There was once a townsfolk I knew of: Matthew. A suspicious, paranoid old miner who was interested in Prepping. He often spoke of the world coming to an end and strived to survive it. He often spoke of a cache hidden in the mountains, where he collected things of value. I have found the place, a hidden cave, but I am unable to get through, myself.”

… Well, he is an old man, after all.

“There are signs outside, so it is promising it is still intact. Perhaps the cache is still there. It might provide something useful for your growing numbers.”

MISTY FALLS CAVE

WHEN: Mid-month, onwards.
WHERE: Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: booby traps; claustrophobic situations; potential injury/maiming; potential hyperthermic situations; exploration horror;


Methuselah gives directions to those willing to check out the lead for the old prepper cache. Following the river up from Milton Basin will lead to rugged, difficult pathways up towards Misty Falls — a waterfall, the river source itself. Most of the river is completely frozen with the freezing temperatures, but it is not completely so the closer to the source you go. Misty Falls is certainly idyllic, or it would be perhaps on a fine summer’s day — good for a nice hike. But the place looks desolate in the eternal winter cursing the Northern Territories.

The half-frozen waterfall is a din of sound, but the water itself is incredibly fresh and cooling for those hot and tired from the hike up. Those paying attention might notice a small space between the water and rock, big enough to squeeze through to get behind the waterfall itself. In the small space, the entrance to a small cave can be found. There are faded handmade signs, all in the same hand, reading ‘DANGER KEEP OUT’ and it isn’t too far of a stretch to wonder if perhaps this might be the secret stash of the old miner that Methuselah spoke of.

Venturing into the cave will not be an easy task. It seems the old miner was keen to keep any trespassers out, and most of this comes down to the cave itself. The walls of the cave quickly narrow, with only enough space to walk in single file. Jutting stone will easily make those stumble and trip. Occasionally the cave’s passage becomes narrower, meaning one might have to stoop or even crawl to carry on through. Here and there, the uneven floor dips, and your feet will find themselves in shin-deep frigid water. It’s slow-going, even if the actual passage itself isn’t incredibly long.

But perhaps the worst of all is the pressing darkness. A darkness so black even with lanterns switched off, one’s eyes cannot adjust to it. It is smothering, pressing. The air is stale and damp, you feel small — and the cave itself still presses in on you. The miner also kept a few tricks up his sleeve in order to keep out intruders. There are dead-ends, making it easy to get lost. Trip wires are hidden in the darkness, causing small man-made cave-ins to fall upon unsuspecting heads.

It might be safer, saner to give up and turn back. But persevering will see the cave opening up once more, this time widening into a room. The place is fashioned into some crude shelter. There is furniture, lanterns to be lit.

With more light, the miner’s stash is revealed: the painstaking, time-costing work of a paranoid old recluse. Crates of non-perishable foods, MREs, and bottled water. Medicines and basic medical supplies, flares and tools.

A perfect supply of survival goods, ripe for the taking.

SERPENT'S BREATH

WHEN: Throughout the month.
WHERE: The entirety of the Milton area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions of dead animals; malevolent creature; snakes/serpents; poison/airborne toxins; potential poisonings; potential burn injuries; potential (temporary) blinding.


It’s noticed in different ways: perhaps a trail of dead animals stands before you, each one with no particular injury other than what appears to be burned hides and flesh — it is as if the wildlife simply dropped dead, for the most part. Perhaps you notice huge, tunnel-like grooves in the deepest parts of the snow, a few feet in width — as if something long and thick had made its way through to clear a path. More worryingly for some, they might notice trails of rot: destroyed trees, decaying plant life, as if the very earth itself has been scorched in the wake of something passing through, leaving nothing but destruction and devastation.

Something is destroying the flora and fauna of the world. There seems to be no pattern, simply the random trails all over the place. There appears to be no other tracks, other than the long, smooth tunnel-like pathways. Whatever it is, it must be stopped. Resources are so precious in this world, if the beast is allowed to continue then all who live here will soon starve due to lack of animals to hunt and plants to gather.

Following the tunnels is a sure-way to hunt the beast down, although these paths will lead far from town. It is best to go prepared. But soon enough, you may come across the slumbering beast, curled up on the snow or coiled underneath some jutting space of stone along the mountains. You’ll hear and smell it before you see it: the long grumbling snores as it sleeps, and the putrid stench of rot. Everything in you tells you to flee, much like when an animal senses something toxic, or poisoning.

You press on, finally stumbling across the beast: a long, serpent-like dragon, with tremendous horns and fangs, coloured with muted grey scales and huge, glowing, flamed eyes.

The element of surprise will work in your favour to try and kill the beast, but it will give up a good fight. It will take several rounds of fights with it before it will finally be taken down permanently. It moves quickly, with scales like steel. Its eyes and mouth are its weakest spots, as is the soft underbelly of its body — fire will work well on harming this beast, especially with a well aimed shot into its mouth.

Its open mouth is where it holds its most powerful weapon. Not the fangs, no. The very reason why the air smells of rot, why the wildlife lay dead, why the earth decays at your feet: its breath. The beast’s breath is highly toxic, it will burn the skin of those it comes into contact with. Breathing in the fumes will poison those who breathe it in, and will cause a weakening, sickly illness. The breath may even temporarily blind.

These injuries are not fatal, and will heal with time and the basic medical attention available in the world. Victims will require rest for at least a week, depending on how severe the blast of the serpent’s breath. But killing the best will ensure its havoc is brought to an end.

FAQs

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

1. Arrival threads can be treated as game canon.

2. Items characters have brought from home can be found either strewn around them when they awaken, or in the community hall — as if someone left them out for them to collect. Methuselah will not know how they got there, and will be quite bemused by the happenings.

3. Reminder that all characters are now depowered upon arrival. They can choose not to notice it at first, or can immediately sense something is different about them.

4. If asked any personal questions, Methuselah will smile and say "Oh, you don't want to know about an old man like me. But I have lived all over in these parts for all my life." He will be more concerned with trying to help Newcomers, and is genuinely concerned for them and their well-being. Other Interlopers will say much of the same — there's little to know about him.

5. More information about Milton can be found here.

MISTY FALLS CAVE

1. Tools found would be basic survival/camping tools one might expect: knives, hand axes, rope, handsaws, torches, batteries, etc.

SERPENT'S BREATH

1. The Stoor Worm, or Mester Stoor Worm, was a gigantic evil sea serpent of Orcadian folklore, capable of contaminating plants and destroying animals and humans with its putrid breath. Assipattle, the youngest son of a local farmer, defeated the creature by flinging still-burning peat into its mouth. As it died its teeth fell out to become the islands of Orkney, Shetland and the Faroes, and its body became Iceland.

2. It is possible the harvest the beast once it is killed, particularly for its fangs and skin. The skin/scales will provide ample protection to try to use it for armouring themselves. The fangs would provide useful for crafting knives or weapons.

3. It is... technically possible to eat the meat of the beast. Care should be taken in butchering, however. And it is not advised to eat the head.

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

Comments

[lastdecember]

[ He's so confused. Vash slaps his hands over Wolfwood's mouth to stop him talking, then takes him by the arm to drag him away, and Wolfwood lets himself be dragged, although his attention never turns from Knives the whole time. There is another Vash here, one with this Vash's blond hair, and Wolfwood can't tear his eyes away from the unlikely duo until his Vash pulls him into the kitchen, and they're lost to view.

Only then does he spin back to stare at Vash, eyes so wide they're burning and bright, and he locks both hands onto Vash's arms, in parallel of the grip Vash has him in, to hold the slippery bastard still. ]

Knives is here.

[ He'll keep his voice low, understanding the need for secrecy in battle – because this is battle, because out in the next room is the monster who's killing the world! Or who killed the world. He's never had much of a poker face, and his face contorts with fear and worry and rage in cycles. He's never felt so lost. ]

Spikey, you're wrong. You're wrong, you're dead. You fought Knives, and you both died. You're dead.

[ That has to be what happened. Knives bloated himself with every plant on the planet's surface, becoming huge beyond comprehension. Wolfwood had seen him a handful of times during Vash's imprisonment, and every time the sight had chilled the blood in his veins and left him trembling. He'd been unstoppable, and Vash had gone to stop him.

That they're both here only makes clear what must have happened. Why can't Vash see that? ]

We're all dead. That's why we're here.

[ He stares searchingly into Vash's wet blue eyes, and god. He never thought he'd see this face again. Part of him wants to just lean forward, wrap his arms around the man, hold him tight and breathe him in and let the horrors of the last day or so drain away. His friend. The man who'd come for him, who'd saved the orphanage when Wolfwood hadn't been able to, who'd risked the whole world to see him one last time. What stupid thing had he done now, to end up here? Was it to follow his brother, to keep that psychopath contained for all eternity?

Wolfwood's breath catches in his throat and he chokes around the thought, hands clenching tighter around Vashs's. ]

You idiot.

[amo]

[ There's a little bit of relief when Vash manages to wrangle Wolfwood into the kitchen while his composure is hanging on by a thread. As the door falls shut, he's prepared to let it snap, to give in to the urge to throw his arms around Wolfwood, hold on tight, and just let the waves of well-worn grief pour out of him to create space for the joy of impossible reunion instead. Vash doesn't get the chance. Wolfwood spins and grabs hold of his arms before Vash can lift them, can barely even react, and he quickly realizes he needs to keep it together a while longer to at least try and explain some parts. Wolfwood looks so lost and afraid, Vash's heart breaks for him. He wants nothing more than to soothe his fears and worries, take them all away, make him see that the war is over. At ease, soldier.

Vash hardly ever mourns the loss of his powers, but he does in this instance. He wishes he could take one of his feathers, press it against Wolfwood and let him know and feel the truth in an instant. There would be no need for fumbling words and clumsy attempts at explaining anything. Vash doesn't even know how to start articulating that Knives isn't a threat anymore — quite the opposite, he takes such good care of Vash now, his devoted attention can be almost suffocating, and he hasn't lashed out at the people here. Nothing he says is likely going to sound believable. Simply showing the memories would work so much better.

But even if he still had his powers, he never had a say in what memories and feelings he sends across and there are things Wolfwood is better off not knowing. Things Vash would rather not share with anyone, not even his dearest friend. He has to try and do the human thing of speaking even though there's a lump in his throat making that seem impossible. It's not at all helped by Wolfwood calling him an idiot. Vash never would have thought he could have missed being insulted this much. He just wants to laugh and cry.

He can't. Not yet.

He has to take a shaky breath, letting the tight grip Wolfwood has on him be the thing that holds him together as he blinks hard to fight against the tears clinging to his lashes. When he opens his mouth to speak, he lets the words fall out in a tight babbled rush without thinking too hard on what to say. There is only the desire to reassure leading the way. ]

Shh, it's okay. I'm not. I promise you, I'm not. He never could kill me any more than I could kill him.

[ That is to say, for all that they had sworn to kill each other, they never could. Knives had held him captive on the ark for months with ample opportunity to be rid of Vash for good whenever he pleased and yet he'd never done it. In their final battle, when it came down to it, no true finishing blow could be delivered. At the start and at the end of things, all they had was each other — brothers, twins, two sides of the same coin — and neither could let go. Someone had to leave of their own accord and it wasn't Vash who had done so. ]

Knives saved me in the end. It's over. I made it out alive, the world is fine.

[ Worse for wear, perhaps, but recovering and surviving as No Man's Land has always done. There is still life, there is still hope, humanity continues on. He has no proof to show Wolfwood, only earnest words coming from his trembling frame, hands desperately squeezing like his grip might do a better job of conveying all he wants to express. ]

I know it doesn't make any sense right now, but trust me. This is just Milton.

[ There really isn't anything "just" about it, but it's not the condemnation that Wolfwood believes it to be. For all that this place might seem like Hell occasionally, Vash doesn't think Hell would let him experience such fierce joy by returning his brother and his friend to him.

Something in his frantic composure finally cracks, the first fissure appearing as the tears spill over and Vash laughs, helpless and breathless, voice cracking and splintering under the weight of his emotions. ]

Welcome to Earth, Wolfwood.

[lastdecember]

[ I made it out alive.

Knives saved me.

Welcome to Earth.

Wolfwood's knees want to buckle under the weight of so much information. He sways, grip tightening on Vash's arms until he's sure to be leaving bruises, holding on not just for his own stability, but for dear fucking life. Nothing that Vash is saying makes sense, but at the same time, he knows this man. He can hear the honesty in every word out of him, can feel his earnestness in the trembling beneath his palms. Vash is telling the truth – or he thinks he is, anyway. He's alive. Knives is forgiven.

This is Earth. ]

We're on Earth.

[ He can't seem to catch his breath, and his mind is swimming with too many questions to be able to put them all into words. This is Earth? This frozen place with its single pale sun is the distant paradise he'd dreamed of as a child? This place? The cradle of humanity, the great fertile world brimming with life and technology? This miserable ice cube is the original Eden? ]

How?

[ It can't be. It's not possible, it can't be Earth, and as he fights to reconcile that idea, that somehow they've traveled years through space, that Vash survived, and more, that Knives did too... as he struggles to understand how in the fuck Vash could have convinced the Earth forces to send himself and Wolfwood and Millions Knives back to Earth, he realizes that there's one death that Vash hadn't assured him about. ]

Am I dead?

[ He hates how small his voice sounds, hates it as much as he hates the grave dirt still clinging to his collar, Milton's mud embedded thickly beneath his nails. He hates the question itself, and how there's no answer that will bring any comfort. Either he's alive, either he was miraculously saved from certain death after he'd thought himself gone, was rescued and revived and shipped across the galaxy only to be buried in a shallow grave outside of just Milton... or he'd dead. Dead, and breathing. Dead and warm.

Is this even Vash at all, or is this all just part of the torments of Hell? There were two of them, circling close around Knives! He tries to laugh but, for all that his eyes are dry, the sound that tears loose in his throat can't be called anything but a sob. ]

Are you even really here?

[amo]

[ Vash isn't even conscious of the ache in his arms as Wolfwood clings all the harder. The swaying has him tightening his own grip, desperately trying to steady Wolfwood as he threatens to topple over even though he himself feels like he's a mild breeze away from falling over. He can only nod in confirmation when Wolfwood repeats the fact, figuring now is not quite the time yet to say that this is a version of Earth. Explaining quantum physics and the theory of parallel universes is going to be inevitable given that he'll have to explain his other self's presence at some point, but not quite yet. This is already overwhelming enough. He can only hope that there were science fiction books in Wolfwood's past somewhere that will make it all easier to explain; maybe the orphanage had a little library. (Vash highly doubts it though.)

The question as to how they're here is one he has no real response to. He wishes he had the answers, wishes so badly he could lay out even what little information he does have into nice bite-sized pieces, easy to swallow and digest. Understandably, the questions keep coming and each lands like a physical blow to Vash's chest. What's even worse is the noise Wolfwood makes. That sob is a knife to his heart that's being twisted with that very last question. There's a choked noise escaping Vash in response, a barely swallowed back sob or wail, and it takes everything not to just fall apart on the spot.

He needs to reply. Even if it hurts. Even if he has to squeeze his eyes shut because he can't keep looking at Wolfwood as he tells him the terrible truth through hitching breaths. ]

You did die... but the dead have ways of coming back in this place.

[ Be it through ghosts re-playing their last moments over and over again like recorded holograms stuck on a sickening loop or like Knives and Wolfwood, suddenly alive and breathing again, inexplicably. ]

We don't know how we're here or how any of this is possible.

[ There is no real comfort he can offer.

He forces his eyes to open again, ignoring the tears freely dripping down his cheeks. He lets go of Wolfwood's arms, pulling his left arm closer to himself and by extension bringing along Wolfwood's hand to where he can press it against his chest, his flesh hand coming to cover it. It's not nearly enough, yet this is all he can offer with any certainty: ]

But I am here. I'm right here, Nicholas.

[lastdecember]

[ Vash tries to assure him, presses Wolfwood's hand to Vash's chest where he can feel that big soft heart, that strong heart, pounding away. Vash tries to comfort him – even with tears pouring down his face Vash is trying to comfort him – but all Wolfwood can see is the grave dirt beneath his nails where his hand is splayed out over that strong heart.

The dead have ways of coming back in this place.

So he did die. Sitting on that couch in the remains of Miz Melanie's office, sharing a drink, not brave enough even then to say anything he wanted to say, feeling his body going numb, slowly, a creeping blanket of nothing that clawed its way up his legs until it could wrap itself around his heart, all the fear, all the regret... that was real, then. He'd died.

And Vash wouldn't have left him there, so Vash would have buried him.

If the dead have been brought back, Wolfwood realizes with a jolt, then it's not so that he can be tormented for his crimes. Everything centers around the man in front of him, doesn't it? He's been resurrected, reassembled, breath blown into his lungs so that he can stand here with Vash. Whatever tech rebuilt him, whatever strangeness might be crawling around in his guts, whatever miracle redeemed his soul... it was for Vash. Wolfwood was nobody from nowhere, and the hole Vash dropped him in was the best he could ever have hoped for.

(Not that he's not thinking about, no, he's not going to let himself think about it, how heavy his corpse would have been, how messy, how hard the ground around the orphanage was, how kind the addition of the bedsheet shround to keep the sandy soil off his face, he can't, he can't. Not now. Not ever.)

Somebody brought him back, for this. Somebody pulled him from the ground, fixed him, and brought him here, for Vash.

To give Vash back his friend? Or to torment him? Wolfwood flexes the hand on Vash's chest, filthy nails curling softly in as though he's going to reach into Vash's ribs and take hold of his heart. Is he a gift, or a trap?

How can he tell?

But Vash is still blubbering, and that makes one choice easy. ]

I don't... oh, come here.

[ Like he'd comfort a child, Wolfwood wraps his free hand around the back of Vash's head, and pulls the man into his shoulder. This is new, this contact, this comfort, and it's a far cry from his usual friendly shoving and teasing. But he's dead. The rules have changed. He doesn't have to be so afraid anymore. ]

You're a bigger crybaby than Livio was.

[amo]

[ Wolfwood's fingers curl into the fabric of his sweater and already that feels like such a marvel, solid proof that his friend is truly here and alive, but then Wolfwood has to go and do something unexpected. Utterly defenseless, Vash is reeled in easily, eyes widening in shock at the strong hand in his hair and the firm shoulder he finds his face being pulled into. It's not like any sort of comfort they've shared before. Even when waking up crying or screaming from nightmares as they both had a tendency to do, what they would do was distract one another with casual talk, becoming a focal point that provided a sense of normality against the traumas of their pasts and that was enough. They never talked about it, never acknowledged it. They certainly never provided a comfort like this.

The last time he'd had his head against Wolfwood's shoulder was back in Wolfwood's grave, when he'd taken a small moment to lie down in the hole with his dead body, feeling any lingering warmth from the suns leave it. He remembers wishing he could stay right there, to be at rest together and not have to part, but the final battle had beckoned, his brother's taunting laughter still ringing in his ears. He'd had to leave it behind.

(Much later on, he'd thought of returning to the grave whenever his time was up and doing what Knives had done, pouring the last of his power into a beautiful tree or a flowering shrub to let the roots sink into the soil and reunite them in death. Milton had other plans. Better ones, maybe.)

Wolfwood smells of damp earth and old rusted iron, not too unlike how he'd done back then, and it's not helping Vash keep it together one bit. It's only by virtue of his surprise that he manages to sputter out a protest out of sheer force of bickering habit alone. ]

N-no way, he's— w-worse than I am.

[ He hadn't been the one crying into his salad, thank you very much. (Never mind that he and Livio both cried over a worm scaring them.)

Not that he can beat the crybaby allegations either way. Especially not when the hitching of his breaths is getting worse and worse, chest growing tighter and tighter, heaving with the effort to draw air. The thread frays and finally snaps. Vash is powerless to stop it. All he can do is let go of Wolfwood's hand so he can wrap his arms around him and hold on tight as the floodgates open and nearly a year's worth of repressed grief comes spilling out. Burying his face into Wolfwood's shoulder harder doesn't stop the torrent of tears that start to fall nor does it even do much to muffle the strange sound that rips itself free seemingly from the very core of his being, something that sounds more like a wounded animal than anything human. He can only sob like the child he's being held as, clinging as though the fate of the world depends on never letting go again. ]

[lastdecember]

[ There's a brief moment of joy before the floodgates open – he's worse than I am, says Vash, and Wolfwood's heart leaps. He hadn't wanted to ask, wouldn't have asked, about Livio's fate. There's nothing he could do about it one way or the other, and if Livio hadn't survived his injuries – or, just as likely, if he hadn't survived his own actions, if the ark or the feds had come across the orphanage before he was recovered and... and dealt with him, put him down as a threat, then what could Wolfwood do but mourn?

But he lived. He lived long enough to have a cry with Vash, and it's silly, it's stupid, but that puts a smile on Wolfwood's face, as quick and uncontrollable as a sneeze. His idiot brother and his idiot friend, dribbling tears and snot everywhere. Together.

That lightning-quick smile fades, though, as Vash's grief rips through him, and Wolfwood slings his other arm around the man to hold him steady and still while he works through his pain. This grief is for him, he realizes, somewhat belatedly. He did this to Vash. He made this wound.

What he's feeling isn't regret. He doesn't know what he's feeling, only that he wants it to stop. When the ship had passed overhead and the celebration confetti rained down, all those tiny pieces of colored paper in mismatched shapes, cut and torn – and chewed – by tiny hands, his chest had hurt like this. At the time he'd thought it was just death pulling him under, just his failing body replacing the pain of his injuries with a deeper, more lasting ache, but now? As hard as his heart's pounding, it's steady and strong, his body intact and miraculously alive. This isn't his pain at all, is it? It's Vash's.

Blinking hard to clear his eyes – when did they start to blur? – Wolfwood looks up to meet the gaze of a couple intruders, several of them in aprons. The kitchen staff, he realizes after a moment, here to check on the crying man. They probably even know Vash by name, Wolfwood thinks, watching them whisper to each other. They're probably friends. The dumbass can't go anywhere without befriending everyone along the way, no matter how short the visit... or undeserving the person.

His grip on Vash tightens possessively, although he wouldn't call it that, and he flicks his eyes towards the far door. I've got him. Get out. Vash dragged him in here for privacy, after all, so that's exactly what he's going to get. He doesn't...

But before Wolfwood can finish the thought, his traitor stomach, finally having thawed out, announces to the world just how long its been since it was filled. The gurgle is humiliatingly loud, and the hand stroking Vash's back – has he really been doing that all along? – freezes at the sound. Shit. ]

Uh. Sorry.

[amo]

[ There's no helping the way Vash just falls apart, too many big emotions that have been bursting at the seams finally breaking free to spill in rivulets down his cheeks. At least the arms that come to hold him securely feel like the start of being carefully put back together again. Two pieces of his heart have been returned to him and as awful as Milton can be, Vash can't hate it for that miracle alone. It's entirely selfish. Wolfwood deserved to rest, to have peace after a life of nothing but violence and bloodshed, he shouldn't have been disturbed. But... more than that, Wolfwood deserves to live a long and full life. Both his childhood and his future had been stolen from him, it's only right he gets one back. Milton and its strange, grim mysteries might not be the best place for it, but it's something. Living here is not easy. Then again, that was the case for No Man's Land as well. He's been making it work with his brother and his other self, so surely he can carve out moments of happiness with Wolfwood, too. They'd always worked better as a team anyway.

Amongst the grief, there's a hope and joy so strong it becomes impossible to tell why Vash is even bawling his eyes out — be it old sadness or newfound happiness. Maybe it's both. Whatever the case, it doesn't matter. He's not paying attention to how he's coming undone under the choppy waves of his emotions washing over him. All of his awareness simply narrows down to the warm body in his arms — not stiff and cold like the last time he'd held it, cleaned it, so carefully lowered it down into the ground — and the familiar smell of Wolfwood, still discernible somewhere underneath the dirt and iron, while one of his deepest wells of sorrow is drained. It feels like exhaling a breath that's been held for far too long, like what he's always imagined coming home must feel like; a soothing balm of relief for an aching chest. The hand stroking his back seems to brush away some of the grief with every pass, easing the shaking of his shoulders and the hitching of his breaths gradually.

Vash doesn't even realize they have company until there's the sound of footsteps hurrying away distantly registering and by then it's too late and he can't bring himself to care about having been seen. He doesn't want to budge or let go, he—

There's a loud gurgle coming from Wolfwood that startles Vash right out of both his train of thought and his crying spell, its suddenness surprising him enough to make him pull back just a bit to look at his friend with incredulity when he realizes what the sound is after Wolfwood's apology. ]

There's all this food we prepared and you haven't eaten anything?

[ Even though his voice is hoarse and quiet for how wrecked it's left in the wake of his breakdown, he still manages to sound as if he's taking personal offense to that. ]

[lastdecember]

[ At least their audience has left by the time the chiding starts! ]

I thought this was the underworld!

[ Even as the words come out of his mouth he knows how ridiculous they sound. His hands fall away from Vash, now that the other man's stopped crying and doesn't need th comfort anymore. That leaves his hands feeling empty, though, so he stuffs them into his pockets, arms tight to his sides.

His broken wrist is throbbing like the devil, and he'll have a nice bracelet of bruises on both arms to match the ones he left around Knives's throat, but he's spent so much of his life enduring hurts like this that it doesn't even occur to him to wrap it up yet. There'll be time for that later.

Instead, cheeks heating with embarrassment, he tries to explain what he meant. ]

I'm dead, I knew that much! And I heard that if you're dead and you eat food in the underworld, you can't... [ Can't come back is the rest of that explanation, but by now he's feeling too stupid to even finish his thought. It was just a silly story that Liz Melanie read to him and the rest of the brats when he was a kid -- there wasn't any reason for him to believe it, or even remember it. He should have eaten -- Vash is right about that.

He slaps a smirk on his face to cover up all his discomforts, and rocks back on his heels. ]

Although, if you cooked it, maybe I was right to avoid it. My poor stomach can only handle so much.

[ Vash is a fantastic cook, in his humble opinion, but he can't just say that. ]

[amo]

[ Vash ignores the pang of loss he feels when Wolfwood's hands fall away, focusing instead on what little contact remains when he himself pulls back a bit more. He can't bring himself to break away entirely, the need to feel Wolfwood warm and undeniably alive too great, so his hands linger on Wolfwood's chest, right hand close to his heart. If his thumb shifts slightly closer still to suss out a heartbeat... no, it totally doesn't. He can't look away either, his sole focus on the way his friend shifts awkwardly in his embarrassment and how everything about that is so achingly familiar and dear. The wet patch of tears and snot he's left on Wolfwood's shoulder gets a slight guilty flinch when he sees it, but his blurry sight fixates right back on his face as he listens to Wolfwood try and explain, desperately blinking away any lingering tears to clear his vision.

He's here.

Vash can't stop thinking it and it makes his heart keep skipping beats like a jubilantly frolicking child. The halting explanation brings only more fondness at the silly mixing of religion and ancient mythology. Of course Wolfwood wouldn't know any better, it only makes sense. It's still endearing. ]

That's just a very old myth.

[ There are no rivers to cross here. No pomegranates to eat.

Resisting the urge to reach up and cradle Wolfwood's face between his hands, trace the crooked grin his friend forces with reverent fingers, Vash settles for sliding right back into their old banter. He puffs out his cheeks, looking the very picture of childishly offended. The effect is only increased by the fact his face is still a mess of snot and tears. ]

Well, excuse me, if my cooking is so bad, I'll give you some of Methuselah's.

[ Frankly, he doesn't care what Wolfwood eats, so long as he eats something. Anything to stay alive and keep him that way.

Vash takes a slight moment to take a deep, shuddering breath, raising only his artificial arm to brush away the wet streaks on his face with his sleeve. Once he has some measure of composure gained, he uses the hand still on Wolfwood to gently start directing him towards the sink, explaining more as he goes. ]

You probably saw him in the hall. The old man dressed in furs? He's the only surviving native of this place. Everyone else you see got brought in from all kinds of worlds.

[ There's a distinct sense of déjà vu happening. Everything about this feels like a repeat of two months ago when he'd cried all over Knives in much the same way and had to drag him off to the kitchen to personally make him something to eat as well. Knives and Wolfwood had even reacted in the exact same way when they'd seen Vash. Both have now called him a crybaby. The realization that they're alike hits him and makes him feel— some kind of way. It's hard to pinpoint what it is and he doesn't particularly care to linger on figuring it out, attention on wordlessly guiding Wolfwood to the sink where he grabs a bar of soap with his free hand to give to him. His voice comes out softer, more fragile, than he means for it to be when he speaks again. ]

Here, wash your hands. I'll get you some of his stew.

[lastdecember]

[ Vash doesn't let go.

Wolfwood's hands fall to his sides but Vash doesn't let go. His hands on Wolfwood's chest are so warm that he can feel his skin tingling beneath their slight weight, the heat soaking right into his ribs and filling his chest. And of course Vash loves everyone, mourns every death, so it's no surprise at all that he's relieved when death gives somebody back, it doesn't mean anything... but that touch is making him feel drunk, dizzy. Giddy, maybe. Maybe this is what that word means.

It's been a little over a year since he realized who Vash was, since he decided to spend the rest of his life at this man's side. He'd figured, at the time, that that wasn't a long commitment at all – they had a handful of years, he'd thought, and probably less than that, before they'd finally face Knives, and the world would have three fewer souls walking across its face. He'd expected that time to be made up of quiet nights across the fire from each other, frantic fights against ever stronger opponants, drunken evenings spent laughing and singing, whistling past the graveyard, and the only time they'd touch each other would be hauling each other away from a bar, or bandaging injuries.

This touch is neither, and he doesn't know what to do with it. He doesn't even know how he feels about it. Fear and excitement feel the same in a lot of ways, and while part of him wants to lean in to that touch, to hold Vash's hand in place so it never moves, another part of him thinks that the best thing he could do here is pull back and never let this happen again.

Vash keeps his hand on Wolfwood as he leads him through the kitchen to a sink, and it's like walking on feathers. He's pretty sure his feet aren't even touching the ground, and the air has gone thick and warm. He definitely feels more than a little drunk. Vash explains something about the old man in the other room, but Wolfwood's honestly not hearing a thing he says – Vash's hand on him is too loud. He needs to say something in response, keep the banter going, play the game, but his mind is a soft blank space. Too much has happened today – he's simply overwhelmed with it all... and he's bare seconds away from saying something that he might later regret when Vash presses a bar of soap into his hand. Wolfwood looks down at it automatically – yes, of course, he's going to eat so he should wash his hands, good hygiene and all that – but it's the black lines beneath his nails that catch his attention.

He died.

He died, and Vash buried him.

He left, and got himself killed.

There isn't enough air in here. It's too close, too dark, he can't breathe. He can't move. Wolfwood manages an affirmative jerk of his head, and turns on the water with a shaking hand, forcing himself through the motions of scrubbing up. Vash put him in the ground, and now that ground is under his nails, embedded in the cracks of his palms, his knuckles. Chapel killed him, and Vash had to move his corpse, wash his face, lay him in the dirt, in the dark, piled stones onto his body, pinned him down and left him there, in the yard of his empty home, to rot and be forgotten in the ground. In the dark.

A hot tear on his cheek makes him jump, and he quickly splashes great handfuls of water onto his face to hide the track it carves in the grime and dust there. He's got nothing to be crying for, what the hell is his problem? He's alive, he's been reunited with his friend, and even the monster killing his world seems to have been defeated and made small somehow. He's fine... so why can he not stop shaking? ]

[amo]

[ Vash needs to let go. He needs to leave Wolfwood's side and go grab a bowl and get his friend that stew. He doesn't even have to leave the kitchen for it, he can just ladle it straight from the pot that's left gently simmering on the stove for refills and keep Wolfwood in his line of sight, and yet getting his hand to leave Wolfwood's frame feels like an impossible task. The urge to cling as feverishly to him as he'd done to Knives when his brother first arrived is strongly there, craving something to reassure all his senses that Wolfwood's truly here and alive, that this is not a dream. It takes tremendous effort to remove his hand and step away after giving Wolfwood the soap, but he manages it somehow. It only takes a few steps to reach the cabinet he needs to get to and yet he feels the distance keenly. He's staunchly ignoring it, keeping Wolfwood in his peripheral and letting that be enough as he focuses on grabbing what he needs.

He doesn't last very long at all.

The sudden sound of splashing draws his attention right back to Wolfwood, making him pause after opening the cabinet's door to glance over. He sees him wet his face and it doesn't take Vash long to realize why when he notices how badly Wolfwood has started shaking. The sight pierces his heart and ties his stomach into knots, nearly threatening to make him well up again at the aching sympathy that rises to the surface. Of course Wolfwood isn't alright. Unlike Knives, he hadn't wanted to die, had lived in fear of dying, and here he is in the impossible aftermath of having done just that with all the signs of his burial still clinging to him.

Maybe in the past Vash would've gone about this the same way they always did when it came to nightmares: just talk at him and let Wolfwood use his voice as an anchor point. The thing is, he's gotten a little more used to physical reassurance. Sharing a bed with Knives had started as a practical thing: to account for the church's small living space, to have a source of warmth, to make sure Knives doesn't wander off and do something stupid. It's morphed into something else since then. On the occasions where he doesn't wake and startle with blind instinctive panic upon seeing his brother, they've fallen into the childhood habits of sleepily reaching for each other or tucking themselves close whenever nightmares wake either of them. His brother's near-overbearing fussing — especially during his recent bout of illness — has gotten him a bit more acclimatized to the sort of comfort he's been denying himself for the majority of his long life.

So now his first instinct is to abandon his task and slot himself back to Wolfwood's side. Perhaps it's tainted with his own selfish need, but he doesn't let himself hesitate or even think twice about it. ]

Hey, I've got you.

[ Despite the lump in his throat, he manages to keep his voice soft and even as his hands join Wolfwood's under the cold stream of water. With gentle care he's taking the soap from him and grabbing a nearby brush to start helping him wash his hands and carefully scrub the dirt from under his fingernails, still talking with a calm cadence even though he doesn't feel calm at all. ]

Don't think about it, just focus on breathing. Can you do that for me?

[lastdecember]

[ He doesn’t hear Vash approach, too caught up in trying to scrape the mud out of the creases in his hands. His palms are pink and clean, but he still sees dirt there, black mud and fine dark grit, and the red-brown stain of old blood. He can smell the blood on his hands, iron and rot, and the harder he scrubs (and the more water he ends up splashing onto his bloodstained suit) the stronger the stink becomes. He can’t get it off. He can’t touch anything until he gets it off, but his hands just won’t come clean.

Out of nowhere there’s warmth beside him, a familiar presence that registers just the briefest second before Vash presses against him, and Wolfwood freezes, ashamed of his filthy hands, ashamed that he hasn’t been able to get them clean like Vash told him to. There’ll be punishment for this whispers a voice at the back of his mind, an old voice, the voice that had kept him alive through everything the Eye had thrown at him. Fail, and be punished. Don’t let them see how much it hurts. ]

I’m fine!

[ It’d be a lot more believable if his voice weren’t shaking, too. This is just Vash, though. Spikey. Blondie. The broom-headed idiot that he trusts with his life. He knows this man. And Vash is so gentle as he takes Wolfwood’s hands, so gentle as he works the filth out from beneath Wolfwood’s nails with a brush that he found somewhere. So gentle as he washes Wolfwood clean. Vash would never hurt him.

It’d be easier if it hurt. ]

I’m fine, I just don’t know what’s… what’s wrong. With me.

[ What’s he supposed to do with kindness? Kindness is for children, for the old, for fragile bodies that can’t endure anything else. He’s not fragile. He can’t be fragile. Wolfwood takes a deep, slow breath, then another, feeling the trembling flow away out of his body and down the drain. He’s strong. He has to be strong, was made to be strong. Vash needs him strong.

What the fuck is he afraid of, anyway? Being alive? Surviving one more horror? He must just be hungry, he decides, pushing the last of the fear and uncertainty way down, like he learned to as a kid. He’s just hungry, and maybe tired, and later he’ll see if there’s anything to drink in this place, enough so he won’t have to dream tonight and he’ll get some real sleep.

Vash needs him strong.

His hands look clean to him, but he doesn’t pull away from Vash’s touch, letting the other man decide when he’s finished. And if he’s leaning just a little into Vash’s shoulder, well that’s just because it’s cold in here. He’s fine. Everything’s fine. ]

The service in this place is really fantastic.

[ It’s not quite his usual casual cadence, but his voice is warming to those familiar tones with every word. ]

Do you do windows too?

[amo]

[ Death isn't an experience anyone is meant to come back from and listening to the tremble in Wolfwood's voice as he fervently tries to claim he's fine only makes Vash realize all the more how selfish his wish for such a thing has been. There had been nothing kind or peaceful about Wolfwood's end and no one could fault him for being the furthest thing from fine in the wake of such an experience, especially when reminders cling to him in the form of dirt and crusted blood. The scent of it is all the stronger now that Wolfwood got his clothes wet and it turns Vash's stomach, twisting the knots his guts have arranged themselves into. They're going to have to get him some new weather-appropriate clothing and a warm bath as soon as possible. It's not going to erase what happened to Wolfwood, but perhaps it can offer the tiniest bit of comfort and relief.

Vash can't respond right away, the choked feeling only increasing with all the ways his heart is breaking for his friend, and so he focuses on meticulously getting Wolfwood's hands clean. Perhaps it's an excuse just to keep touching him, but he tries to be quick about it — not wanting to inflict more discomfort with how cold the water is. Sticking his prosthetic hand under the tap without the protection of the rubber glove he usually wears when doing dishes probably isn't his brightest idea either, but it's hard to care about that right now.

At least Wolfwood is listening and taking deeper breaths despite his protests, even leaning into him as he finds the composure to attempt their usual banter again. Vash could play along and maybe he should grant Wolfwood that mercy, look the other way in this moment of vulnerability and give him that sense of normalcy like they would always do. Vash... can't. Not anymore. Something about seeing Wolfwood try and push it all down just— stings. It feels like being shut out. Like the way he felt when he realized Wolfwood had left him behind and gone off to December on his own. His friend already carries so much on his shoulders, tries to give Atlas a run for his money for everything he takes upon himself, and this is a weight that doesn't need to be carried alone.

There are things that need to be said. Things that Wolfwood likely never heard before given the past he'd laid out for Vash. They're important and so Vash only acknowledges the joke with a wan smile and a huff of faint amusement breathed through his nose before he turns his attention to the words that came before it. ]

There's nothing wrong with you. It's okay not to be fine.

[ He thinks he's gotten the dirt out from under Wolfwood's nails sufficiently enough — no immediate reminder of a grave left there — and so he turns off the tap, keeping one hand on Wolfwood's and setting aside the brush and reaching for the hand towel with the other. All the while he continues speaking, as calm and matter-of-fact as he can wrangle his voice into being. He'd almost sound downright casual if there wasn't the slightest edge of desperation bleeding through. ]

You don't have to be. Not with me.

[ Please. ]

[lastdecember]

[ He can hear that please, hear the question under the statement. Hear the request, hear Vash's need for openness, for honesty, for vulnerability. And he can't. He can't even consider it. Opening up the way Vash wants him to would unleash a landslide that would bury them both.

He meets Vash's gaze, steady and apologetic. There's support here that he could have – he sees that offer. It eases something inside him, that offer, that knowledge that there's somebody here he can lean on, somebody who can carry his weight. He knows that a heart as big and strong as this dummy's right here has room to hold his griefs and pains too... but those are his pains to hold. Sure, he's grumpy and antisocial, but those are his defenses, and those defenses are in place for a reason – for a lot of reasons, really, and a lot of those reasons have names. They're hard earned defenses, blood bound to his skin, and he can't just shake them because of a pair of pretty blue eyes and a gentle request. Keeping people out has kept him alive, and right now he wants so damn badly to stay alive.

Besides... He flicks his gaze to the doorway, and the main room beyond... and, from the way his expression hardens, to Knives, somehow alive after everything, and who Wolfwood hopes can't currently breathe without pain. There's no way in the great wide world that he's going to put his guard down voluntarily anytime soon, not with that asshole around. His wrist throbs again, and this time Wolfwood lets himself wince, jumping on the distraction from a conversation he can't have right now. He can't keep holding Vash's hand, can't listen any more to that soft voice telling him lies about safety and home. He's fine. He has to be fine.

Except for his wrist. If Vash needs to tend him, then here's a hurt that needs attention. A safe hurt. A hurt who'se treatment he can bear.

He holds up his tender wrist in surrender, dark bruises just barely beginning to develop beneath the skin. Knives is here, neutered or not, and now he knows that Wolfwood's here too. Now he has an enemy, and being the enemy of an angel isn't an easy place to be. He's scared as hell, and surely he's got every right to be – he just failed to kill Millions Knives. That he's still alive is a miracle all by itself. ]

Lemme get this wrapped up first. [ Knives once looked him in the eye and crushed the air from his lungs without ever raising a finger. It's going to take a lot to convince him that they aren't all in danger. ] And then I want some of that soup you promised, I'm actually starving.

[amo]

[ Vash can already tell from the apologetic look he's given that Wolfwood will not lean on him in the way Vash is asking him to and there's frustratingly little Vash can do about it. He has no real right to ask any such thing of him to begin with and he'd be the biggest hypocrite if he pushed the matter. As much as he wants to help shoulder the burden of everything that's weighing his friend down, hold his heart with all the gentle care and protection it deserves, all he can really do is leave the offer out there should Wolfwood ever feel ready to take him up on it and hope that the offer itself is reassurance enough for now. Vash will have his back, inside of battle and out of it, always.

It's probably too much to expect when they've always kept their pasts and secrets clutched tight to their chests. Not even death can break old habits so easily, it seems. There's so much that had been left unsaid between them, so much Vash wants to tell him and that he'd resolved to finally say should Milton ever give him the opportunity to do and now that it's here... it still doesn't feel like the right time. Wolfwood is so overwhelmed already and still so tense. The glance at the doorway says enough as to why.

... Later, he tells himself. He'll tell him later when they've gotten him settled a little more and he's managed to put him at ease about his brother. Somehow.

At least Wolfwood gives him a small concession although Vash doesn't realize that's what it is until he spots the darkening patches on his skin and he inhales sharply at the sight. ]

Oh—! [ Wolfwood had been hurt and he should have realized it. Should have been able to tell when he'd been washing his hands. He'd just been so preoccupied making sure to get the dirt out from under Wolfwood's nails, he'd been blind to it and now he's left mentally kicking himself, guilt adding another knot to his guts. ] Of course.

[ He's deftly drying his own hands and then Wolfwood's, being extra careful when it comes to patting his hurt hand dry, before he's taking gentle hold of his arm to take a closer look. It's with the skim of feather-light fingers that he assesses the damage, grimacing when what he finds indicates it might be broken. How could he have missed that? He needs to get it together already.

Vash wastes no time directing Wolfwood to a stool for him to sit on while he goes to fetch the first-aid kit from one of the cabinets. He addresses the concern he glimpsed before as he flits about the kitchen gathering everything he needs. ]

Don't worry about Knives, he isn't a threat. Neither of us have our powers anymore and he's been living among the people here just fine.

[ Mostly because he keeps to himself and doesn't mingle with them much, but still. His brother isn't out there murdering anyone — save perhaps for the local fish and rabbit population to sate their hunger — he can promise that much. ]

[lastdecember]

[ It's no surprise that Vash didn't notice his wrist until it was pointed out, Wolfwood thinks, watching him flit around the room. Thanks in part to the cold, the bruising is only just now becoming visible, and the slight swelling would be hard for anyone to spot without both his hands held out next to each other for comparison. It's not much damage at all, and that's a wonder in and of itself. He attacked Knives with his bare hands – his bare fucking hands! – and not only did he walk away alive and unskewered, the only damage he took was a hairline fracture in his wrist.

Neither of us have our powers anymore, Vash says, so casually, like being drained of the ability to put a hole in the moon is the same as misplacing a favorite coat. No powers, so no knives, no feathery explosions that threaten to wipe cities off the map... but surely Knives should still be strong enough to have torn him limb from limb? It had been monumentally stupid of him to try and kill Millions Knives – by all accounts, he should be dead, again. But he's not. He's not dead because Knives doesn't have his powers. He's not dead because Knives is weak.

Knives is weak, and Vash, Wolfwood finally notices, watching the other man return with the medical supplies, Vash is tired. He's not as thin as he was the last time Wolfwood saw him, his cheeks aren't hollowed from hunger like they had been on the ark, but he looks every bit as worn out, to Wolfwood's eye. Some of it's the dark hair, which Wolfwood regards suspiciously – he's never seen a dead plant, has no context for what that dark hair means, but he'd noticed the dark underneath after Fifth Moon, and definitely more here that Vash isn't telling him. Part of it's the hair, and part of it's just the way that Vash carries himself, his presence, the way it feels to be around him. He feels tired, drained, and no wonder, with what he must have gone through to beat Knives. ]

You're gonna have to tell me all about it, sometime.

[ Sometime. When they're actually alone, someplace more private than this, ideally with enough booze to get through the retelling.

Assuming Knives doesn't murder him before then. ]

[amo]

[ Vash drops down next to Wolfwood's stool, taking a seat on the floor where he sets the kit down and flips it open to retrieve what he requires. The cold floor is grounding beneath him and going through the familiar motions brings some modicum of equanimity. For everything that's changed — about their surroundings, about him, about Wolfwood who surely can't have come out of the experience of dying unchanged — at least this simple act feels the same as it's always done. Maybe it's a fucked up thing to have missed, but Vash has; the tending to one another's wounds the closest thing to any kind of physical affection or reassurance they ever truly afforded themselves. Then again, he's missed everything about Wolfwood's presence dearly.

Vash immediately catches on to what Wolfwood means when he says 'sometime' and although he has no real qualms spilling the beans about most of it right here on the kitchen floor, he understands the desire for privacy. They'll get to it, later. Maybe after Wolfwood's eaten, Vash can take him to one of the abandoned houses he's taken temporary residence in before. There's a few that could potentially have some left-behind clothing in Wolfwood's size and, with any luck, a shower that still functions if the pipes haven't failed yet.

The smile he offers Wolfwood in understanding response is somewhat wan — a tiredness etched into the lines that goes beyond how utterly drained he feels in the wake of his emotional spill, scraped hollow of his grief and puffy-eyed as he is — but genuine. ]

I will. So much has happened, there's... a lot I have to tell you.

[ Putting it mildly and Vash doesn't even have all the answers, having been in hiding for months right after the cataclysmic battle with Knives. He's pretty sure Livio is fine. After all, Vash had made certain he would survive. (He'd rather not have Wolfwood know the cost that took though.) The orphanage he'd made sure would remain standing as well — a drain on his then dwindling powers he hadn't regretted one bit regardless of how partially ruined the structure had been already. By now they should have been able to rebuild and move back in. All he does have is the reassurance that No Man's Land and its people are continuing on as usual for the most part even with the addition of Earth's forces milling about. But the hellhole planet they call their home is not the most important thing right now... ]

About this place, too. I don't even know where to start. Feel free to ask me anything?

[ He's throwing that offer out there as he works on stabilizing and wrapping Wolfwood's wrist with deft, careful fingers. Right now it'll be easier for him to answer direct questions than to try to corral his tired, scattered thoughts back together for a coherent explanation. ]

[lastdecember]

[ He's not sure what he expected Vash to do – lean over, maybe, or pull over a stool of his own – but dropping into a sit at Wolfwood's feet wasn't anywhere on the list of options. The heat of the kitchen is finally starting to sink into his bones, he figures – why else would he feel so warm all of a sudden? Even when they've patched each other up before, it's been more rough and ready than anything – cursing each other out for their relative stupidity in putting themselves at risk, putting others at risk, wounds washed out wth the same alcohol they were pouring down their throats, bandages tied too tight – it was always care, but it was almost never kind.

Here, sitting in the floor in his soft sweater than only accents the black of his hair and the bags under his eyes,Vash touches him with such gentleness that it makes Wolfwood feels like something valuable. He has to turn away, pretending to take in the kitchen, checking for exits, for weapons, for threats, before he can think too much about why that smile makes his chest ache. Before he can give in to the temptation to gentle the weariness off Vash's face with a touch of his own.

Dying's made him stupid as hell, he mentally laughs at himself, running his free hand through his own hair to give his fingers something safe to do. Some idiot cries on him and wraps his broken wrist with care instead of curses – is that really at it takes to turn him soft? Holding Vash while he was bawling his eyes out was bold enough as it is. Is he really so shaken from dy-- from everything that's happened that he's out here seeking shelter like a kid?

Ask me anything, Vash offers then, and Wolfwood really does laugh, just a short, quiet burst of disbelief at this whole goddamn situation. ]

You mean there's more? More than being dead, and comin' back, to Earth, with ice and... and trees and whatever else all that outside was, and Knives is here too, but that's okay somehow, and unless I was seein' things earlier you're got a secret son you never told me about and he's here too?

[ Who else could that blond Vash lookalike have been? ]

Spikey, I don't know if I could handle knowin' much more right now.

[amo]

[ Vash doesn't entirely realize the weight behind what he's doing and how different it actually is from their usual tending to one another. He's been on the receiving end of a similar kind of gentle treatment from an unlikely source on a daily basis now and it's subconsciously bleeding into his own actions. Every night Knives takes his prosthetic off for him, cleans it, and sets it by the fire so that when he helps Vash put it back on in the morning, the steel isn't icy cold against his skin. That sort of quiet thoughtfulness had unsettled Vash at first, unused as he is to it especially coming from Knives, but by now he's learned to just accept his twin's fussing and attempts at showing care for the most part.

Besides, he'd been this gentle the last time he'd touched Wolfwood and cleaned the blood off his face before wrapping him in fabric and lowering him into the ground. Newly returned from the dead like a miraculous gift that Vash does not deserve, it only feels right to treat him with the same reverential care, kneeling by his side as though in supplication, even if he isn't actively cognizant of it. He's only doing what he's always doing: whatever feels right.

Wolfwood barks out a disbelieving laugh and Vash looks sheepishly apologetic at the sound of it. 'There's so much more' is the truthful answer he's prepared to give, only his train of thought gets thoroughly derailed and is send careening off of a cliff when Wolfwood calls his other self his secret son.

There's a few seconds of stunned, surprised silence before Vash— bursts out into helpless laughter; the kind that leaves him doubling over and clutching at his stomach, tears of mirth clinging to his lashes. After all the emotional crying he just did, the laughter feels good if not a little painful for his ribs.

He does feel for Wolfwood and how overwhelmed and confused his friend must be, but please give him a moment to get his laughter back under control. He hasn't laughed this hard in... a while. ]

Ha— sorry! He's not my son. He's... well, me, but from another world. Like how this Earth isn't our Earth, but just a version of Earth out of many.

[ He straightens, thumbing away a stray tear as his expression returns to something more apologetic again. ]

That probably doesn't make much sense.

[ He doesn't quite know how to explain it in any way that makes it more comprehensible right now. Maybe he'll get Wolfwood some fitting science fiction novels to read later. For now he focuses on the subject of his double, hands returning to their work to securely finish bandaging Wolfwood's wrist. ]

We're the same person, but there's differences that set us apart. Differences in how his world works, differences in experiences and choices. I've been thinking of him as a slightly younger brother who happens to have a lot in common?

[ Wolfwood's first impression though... the very thought gets another cackle out of him. ]

But son sure is funnier!

[lastdecember]

[ He's me, but from another world, Vash says, like that's any kind of answer that a sober man should accept. At least that blond Vash being this Vash's son is reasonable!

Wolfwood stares hard and disbelieving as Vash laughs his way through that ridiculous explanation, trying hard not to show just how conpletely confused he is. Vash just knows so much, understands so many things that Wolfwood will never fully grasp, and the way he just casually offers ideas beyond Wolfwood's reckoning is both flattering and deeply frustrating.

At least this time Vash is assuming he understands some of what's happening, rather than treating him like the dumbass he is. He knows his pitiful education can't stand up to a hundred years' worth of knowledge, but he can read and do sums, and he's just as good as the next man in the things that matter, so who cares whether he knew that there's more than one Earth?

(No, he's still not over being led by the hand to see the satellite like he wasn't smart enough to understand what a damn space radio was.) ]

Another Earth? You mean, in another solar system?

[ See, he's not a complete doofus! Worlds circle stars, and there's infinite stars out there, so okay, maybe whoever put them up there ran out of ideas and just made a bunch of copies. That makes as much sense as anything.

He takes his injured wrist back, testing the bandaging. Snug and sturdy – Vash does good work. ]

How many copies are there? Is this whole town just full to the brim with spiky-headed do-gooders?

[amo]

[ As much as Wolfwood tries to hide his confusion, Vash is all too aware of it. Who wouldn't be confused? No one can blame him and certainly very few people have the kind of education he and Knives had gotten in their childhood, having voraciously learned anything Rem would offer them no matter how complex. Normal human beings don't exactly learn to navigate and maintain spaceships within one year of being born nor are they taught multiple old Earth languages just for the sole purpose of keeping them occupied. A lot of that knowledge is rusty and disused now, some of it even forgotten in the century and a half he's been on No Man's Land, but there's still an overwhelming breadth of knowledge and history he carries with him. He can't exactly expect anyone else to compare.

It doesn't help that there's a lot about this place that should be impossible, including Wolfwood's very presence itself. The dead walk among them, universes collide and come together in the form of vastly different people plucked from space and time, mysterious forces toy with their lives to unknown ends.

That Wolfwood grasps what little he offers and draws the conclusion that he does is a pleasant surprise enough and it makes Vash feel proud of him all the same, quick to nod and beam at him. ]

Yeah, it's kinda like being in another solar system! One that's a copy of ours, but the details got changed and mixed up.

[ Not quite it, but close enough.

While Wolfwood tests his handiwork, Vash cleans up, tucking equipment back into the kit and closing it. He pauses only briefly to answer the question with a softer laugh while the very idea fills him with peculiar dread. He and V dance around each other, always avoiding any real questions about themselves like the cowards they are. He doesn't want to think about what it'd be like if there were even more of them. ]

Haha no, it's just him and me. Along with Knives, we're the only people from similar worlds. No one else here knows about No Man's Land or plants. Most seem to come from their own version of Earth.

[ Now that Wolfwood's injury is taken care of, he sets about putting the first aid kit back where he got it from and resuming his previous task of getting Wolfwood a bowl of hearty stew, still talking as he goes. ]

Like I said, Methuselah is the only surviving native of this town. The rest of the people who lived here... [ He hesitates and visibly sobers, voice going low and mournful. ] They were already dead when the first group of us arrived. You're part of the third group that's shown up so far. No one knows how we're here or why.

[lastdecember]

[ He was right? ...He was right! Vash's praise sets a pleased little smile at the corner of Wolfwood's mouth, a shy, unconscious thing that would shortly have turned into a full-blown cackle, covering his honest, uncertain pride with put-on arrogance, if not for the rest of Vash's explanation.

The people who lived here died, and now they're here and nobody knows how or why? That's nothing to laugh about. That makes them sound like prisoners at best, and livestock – or sacrifices – at worst.

He's on his feet as soon as Vash is done speaking, blanket and sheet both left in a heap to keep his arms free, just in case. ]

Methuselah? That old guy out there handin' out lunch? [ Come on, Spikey, let's go confront the old bastard. ] I bet he knows more than he's sayin'. Lemme try talkin' to him.

[ Vash is too gentle, too friendly, Wolfwood thinks, and the old man clearly hadn't felt properly motivated enough to tell everything that he knew. Clearly he needs to be persuaded to spill what's happening here. ]

[amo]

[ The sweet little smile is instantly memorized and tucked away into Vash's mental catalogue to linger on fondly later; a precious gift he'll treasure when he never thought he would get to see Wolfwood smile in any kind of way ever again, much less that split-second of genuine surprised pleasure at being praised. (Vash will have to do that more often, maybe.) It's a wonderful image he can plaster over his very last memory of Wolfwood in which his face had been slack and eyes vacant in death. That he'll get to make any new memories at all is something he can't imagine he'll stop (perhaps selfishly) feeling thankful for regardless of what horrors this place might throw their way. He has his brother. He has his best friend. There's nothing else Vash could want. (Save perhaps to see one other person again, but that he doesn't even dare to hope for, not here.)

Wolfwood abruptly jumps to his feet and it leaves Vash to stare at him nonplussed from where he'd been ladling stew into the bowl. Fortunately his confusion doesn't last for long because of course Wolfwood would assume the worst of Methuselah. He should have known. The pang of fond exasperation he experiences almost makes him smile. Almost. ]

No, no, no, absolutely not! You sit back down right now.

[ Bowl expertly balanced on the tips of his fingers on one hand, Vash moves swiftly to put himself between Wolfwood and the way out of the kitchen, reaching out with his free hand to gently yet forcefully push him back down to sit on the stool. ]

I've known the man for months. Buried those dead with him, helped him prepare these feasts. He's been nothing but helpful and kind.

[ Yes, Methuselah can be secretive and withdrawn, not likely to give much in the way of answers, but his presence has been invaluable. So many more would not have survived without his helping hand and wisdom. Vash trusts him and there's no way he's letting Wolfwood confront him.

Instead Wolfwood gets the bowl pushed into his hands and a firm: ]

Here, just be good and eat your stew. I promise you Methuselah is not the cause for any of this.

[lastdecember]

[ He lets Vash push him back down onto his seat, feeling the insistance behind the gesture. He takes the bowl of soup with slightly less grace, with only the rich smell and the gnawing hunger in his gut preventing him from snapping back how he's never once been good and he's not about to start now. ]

You don't have to be the cause of a problem to know what's going on with it!To know who's to blame!

[ He wasn't going to hurt the old bastard, geez. He was just going to ask him some questions, that's all! Sure those questions would be more gruff than the ones Vash has certainly already asked, but sometimes the gentle touch isn't the right one – some situations require gruffness. ]

How do you even know he is who he says he is, huh? You're too trusting, Spikey.

[ His stomach growls again, interrupting his complaints. Before Vash can tell him once again to eat, Wolfwood eats, shoveling a spoonful of stew into his face with an exasperated huff. It tastes even better than it smells, and his protests have to be put on hold for the moment as he inhales the entire bowl. ]