Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hopeland Orphanage is a small orphanage, but that doesn't stop it from having many mouths to feed. 

Yet the matron still refuses to listen to any of Vash's excuses when he tries to escape her generosity. "You protected us from those bandits, feeding you before you head back out there is the least I can do to show you how grateful I am you wandered by when you did," she says as she drags him by his arm into the orphanage's dining hall. 

Vash is squirming as much as he can, but this woman has the iron grip of someone who wrangles an army of small children for a living. He has no hope of escaping her.

"Listen, Miss…" 

"Melanie."

"Miss Melanie, it's very kind you want to repay me," Vash says with a nervous chuckle. "But I didn't do it for any kind of reward y'know?"

"This isn't a reward, it's common courtesy," Miss Melanie insists. “What kind of role model for all these kids would I be if I didn’t say thank you when someone helped us?” 

She smirks at Vash, a kind and teasing little upturn of her lips as her eyes sparkle, and he knows that he’s beat. 

In a blink, he finds himself sitting down in a seat at a long table of synthetic wood, tracing stubborn food stains with his eyes while he waits for Miss Melanie to return. He has already noticed that the more curious orphanage kids have clustered in the doorway to gawk at him. Vash glances at them out of the corner of his eye, and when they stiffen, he turns himself fully to make a silly face at them, sticking his tongue out and crossing his eyes as he wiggles his fingers by his ears. 

The tension breaks like storm clouds over parched land. The kids pour into the room, wide-eyed and giggling as they approach Vash like he’s a shiny new toy Miss Melanie has brought for them. 

“Hey, what’s your name?” a little boy with brown hair and a scar on his cheek asks boldly. 

“Hmmm that kinda info is gonna cost you,” Vash says lightly, with a grin.

The boy gapes at him, and then a little girl with freckles and twin braids is shoving her way in front and holding out a small cloth doll. “I’ll let you hold Layla if you tell us!” 

Vash gasps. “Well then I’m sold!” 

“You better be careful with her,” the girl instructs as she gently lays the doll in Vash’s open hand. 

Vash nods very seriously, and then as he cradles the soft doll he gives the kids their prize. “My name is Vash.” 

A chorus of excited sounds of recognition explodes from the small group. 

“Are you that Vash?” the first little boy asks in awe. “Vash the Stampede?” 

“The one and only,” Vash says, puffing his chest out a bit for show. His reputation has been growing as of late, for better or worse, so he had a feeling these kids would have heard of him.

Immediately, rapidfire questions start pelting him. 

“How did you take out all those bandits?” 

“Is it really true that you’re wanted for $$6,000,000?”

“What kinda crimes have you done?” 

“I heard you have like a hundred guns and a whole gang of your own, is that true?”

“Woah now!” Vash says, putting a hand up to bring the kids to a halt. He slides the girl with braids her doll back before saying, “I’m just one guy, gimme a minute to sort those questions out–”

“Hey!” Miss Melanie’s voice cuts through the chatter. “You kids better not be bothering this young man.” 

A bunch of them squeal as they run, while a few shout, “We weren’t, Miss Melanie!” before making themselves scarce. Vash laughs warmly at their antics, and Miss Melanie looks similarly fond as she comes over to him with a bowl of something steaming that looks thick and filling. 

“They’re good kids,” he says to her. 

“They are,” she says back, with undeniable pride in her tone. “After the lives some of them have had, you’d think they’d be a bit more bitter at the world, but they’re always so energetic and hopeful.”

“That’s good. This world needs a bit more hope,” Vash responds, now feeling a bit more subdued, his smile going small and soft. He turns his attention to the food brought for him, and nearly starts drooling just at the fragrant smell wafting from it. How long has it been since he’s had a freshly cooked meal like this? He can’t even remember. “Thank you again for this.” 

“It’s just stew, no trouble,” Miss Melanie says. “Feel free to stay a night too if y’need. The suns are already going down.” 

Vash startles and quickly looks out the window. The suns indeed are rather low in the sky, the smaller of the two chasing the larger down towards the horizon and already leaving the sky tinted with the pink and purples of coming twilight. He hadn’t realized that stopping those bandits from raiding the orphanage and then waiting for food had taken up so much time. 

Traveling the desert at night without any kind of vehicle is just asking to get either robbed or frozen by the chill of the darkness, and Vash can’t say he enjoys how the cold makes his prosthetic and scars ache either. 

Miss Melanie is looking at him knowingly when he turns back to her and chuckles weakly. “If it’s not too much trouble.” 

“Wouldn’t have offered if it was,” Miss Melanie reassures him. “Now eat your stew, I’ll get a guest bed ready.” 

Vash hesitates to get started eating as she leaves, half expecting the kids to swarm him again and not wanting his mouth to be full when they start asking him all their questions. When no munchkins come out of the shadows to leap on him, he gratefully digs into the stew before him. 

It’s just as filling as it looked. Vash nearly forgot what having an actual full stomach felt like. He’s still a bit guilty over taking food from the orphanage, but this warm contentment is keeping him floating high above it for the time being. 

After he finishes and then practically licks the bowl clean, he follows Miss Melanie to the guest room she tidied up for him. It’s a space that can generously be called cozy; smaller than some of the hotel bedrooms Vash has stayed in, but with enough room for a comfortable twin-sized bed covered by a thick comforter, and a thin bedside table with a lamp that is casting a warm orange glow over everything.

“It’s not much, but it’s a bed,” Miss Melanie comments.

Vash drops his bag by the bedside table and resists the urge to just flop face first into the comforter–at least not until he’s alone in the room. “It’s perfect, thank you,” he says. 

For this one night–the first in a long time–that he spends in this orphanage, comforted by the energies of fledgling human life and the kindness of strangers, he feels safe enough to take his prosthetic arm off while he sleeps. The lack of weight is a relief, and he sleeps more deeply than he has in a while.

But that comfort doesn’t stop him from waking early and setting out to leave before anyone wakes up. He can’t stay in one place too long, especially a place like this that’s trying to do good. Miss Melanie and her kids don’t deserve the kind of violent and destructive chaos that is drawn to Vash. It would come for him even in the short time that he would try to stay and say goodbye, he’s sure.

With his arm reattached, boots laced up, and bag thrown over his shoulder, he walks softly through the halls until he reaches the front door. The pale blue and yellow hues of the morning greet Vash when he pushes it open.

A flicker of sound and movement catches his attention as he steps out. He freezes, muscles tensing for a moment until he realizes what it is.

There are some kids sitting behind the side of the building; Vash can hear them snickering and whispering among each other, no doubt getting up to some mischief while everyone else is asleep. When he looks around the corner, unable to help his curiosity, he sees two little heads bowed close together. One of messy black and the other of wavy silver. 

Vash looks closer, and sees a half-empty, dented box of cigarettes on the ground in front of them. There’s the metallic click of a lighter, and then the silver haired child gasps in wonder. 

He wanders closer without thinking, and the black haired child’s head snaps up. 

For someone whose face is so round and young, the expression he wears is quite severe. Dark eyes pin Vash in place, while the silver haired child turns to see what his friend is looking at. 

“Oh,” is all that the silver haired child says. His eyes go wide and his smile drops, knowing they’ve been caught. 

The black haired child stands, shoulders set defensively, and Vash sees the shining casing of the lighter clenched in his hand. It’s still open, but the flame has gone out. Then his friend stands as well, but he looks more like he’s about to bolt away than fight. 

Before either kid can get too wrapped up in their fear, Vash says, “Do you want to know how to do a trick with that?” pointing at the lighter. 

The kids blink at him, and then the silver haired one says, in the worst whisper Vash has ever heard, “Nico… I kinda do…” 

“He’s lying to us, Livio,” the black haired boy–Nico?–hisses back. “He’s probably gonna go tell Miss Melanie we were smoking.”

“I’m not!” Vash says, waving his hands with a smile he hopes is trustworthy enough for Nico’s standards. “I’ll teach you the trick and then be on my way, how about it?”

The kids still look tense, but after Nico gives Livio a quick glance and sees his badly disguised curiosity, he groans and nods. “Sure. Teach us your trick, old man.” 

“I’m not that old,” Vash pouts.

“You’re older than us,” Nico shoots back. 

“Maybe I won’t teach you this trick after all…” Vash teases, trailing off. 

Livio gasps. “I want to learn!” 

Vash waits, raising an eyebrow in Nico’s direction until the more stubborn boy eventually grumbles, “Fine, me too.” Then he crosses his arms and adds reluctantly, “... and I guess you’re not that old.” 

With a grin, Vash holds his hand out for the lighter. Nico and Livio creep closer, and Nico drops the lighter into his palm with a huff. 

“Alright, watch closely little gremlins,” he says.

“Gremlins?!” Nico splutters in offense, while Livio has his eyes trained on the lighter with rapt attention. 

Vash makes a little show of presenting the lighter to them and adjusting his grip on it. He gives his wrist a flick, flips the lighter in the air and knocks its lid back at the same time, then catches it in his palm and lights it before he lifts it for the kids to see again. 

“Woah,” Livio breathes with stars in his eyes. 

“Lemme try!” Nico says as he snatches the lighter back. He tries once and fumbles it because he hadn’t started holding it correctly, but then before Vash can even correct his grip or give him any tips, he tries again, and gets it perfectly. 

“Hah!” Nico cries triumphantly. “Now your trick is my trick!” 

“It sure is,” Vash says as he laughs a bit, genuinely impressed by how quickly the kid had been able to copy his motions and pick up the trick. Nico is clearly a fast learner, and good with his hand-eye coordination as well.

“Teach me, Nico!” Livio begs, grabbing onto Nico’s shoulder excitedly. 

“Watch and learn, Livio.” 

Vash is content to stand back and watch the two kids keep playing with the lighter, feeling his heart swell as he takes in how simple their joy is. All it took was teaching them a small trick, and they’ve both been lit up like stars. 

He turns to get back on his way, but finds his left hand unexpectedly held back. 

One of Nico’s small hands has grabbed onto his own, and the gruff boy’s tan skin is flushed while he mutters out a quick, “Thanks. It’s a cool trick.” 

Vash smiles, and it doesn’t even take any effort this time. He ruffles Nico’s hair, because it seems like it’d be something that would annoy the kid, and is proven correct when Nico positively squawks and bats Vash’s hand away from his head. 

“You’re welcome, Nico,” he says, the name slipping out. 

Nico squawks again, and shoots Livio a sharp look that the other boy smiles sheepishly at, ducking his face behind the lighter a bit.  

“My name’s not Nico!” Nico proclaims. “It’s Nicholas! Nicholas D. Wolfwood! Don’t forget it!” 

“I won’t!” Vash says. “I promise, just as long as you promise me to never forget that trick.” 

Nicholas grins. It’s wide and genuine, turning his eyes into cat-like crescents. “Deal!” 

Now, Vash watches a much rougher but still familiar hand expertly flip a lighter around, click its lid open and light it at the same time, then bring the small flame to the end of a cigarette. 

“So,” Nicholas says after he pulls the cigarette away from his lips and lets a cloud of smoke escape. He’s tall now, nearly eye to eye with Vash, no longer the tiny and scrappy kid he had been, and he makes sure to have Vash’s eye contact right now as he’s talking. “I’m hoping you kept your end of the deal and never forgot my name, cause I certainly haven’t forgotten that trick, Needle Noggin.” 

Ah, so they're finally going to talk about it.

“Of course I didn’t forget,” Vash says. “You were so serious when you told me.”

It has been ten years since he met those two little kids at the orphanage, and something in Vash’s chest tightens as he looks over at the other man. 

Wolfwood should be a teenager now. Not a grown adult man in his twenties. 

“Y’know, you still look the same,” Wolfwood says pointedly. 

“You don’t,” Vash replies, just as deliberate. 

Wolfwood huffs, and shoves his lighter back into his pocket. “I hit a growth spurt,” he says with a sardonic chuckle, as if it's an inside joke of some sort.

“Wolfwood…” 

“Why do you look the same?” Wolfwood bursts out, throwing down the question before Vash can throw down his own. “I think that’s the more pressing question. You should be older, Blondie. Much older.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vash attempts to deny.

“You definitely do!” Wolfwood says. He throws his cigarette down into the sand, grinds it down with his foot, and bares his teeth like a cornered dog would. “Don’t try and lie to me. Nobody stays perfectly the same over ten years. I still remember you clear as day; you wore the same stupid red coat, the same stupid glasses.” 

“My coat and glasses aren’t stupid,” Vash pouts.

Wolfwood narrows his eyes, “You even whined the same way.” 

“Your eyes are the same,” Vash says suddenly, surprising even himself. “That’s one thing that hasn’t changed about you.” 

Wolfwood staggers as if shot, his dark eyes going wide. 

“They’re still the eyes of a good person,” Vash continues, softer now. 

Now, Wolfwood looks gutted. 

Slowly, he starts laughing. It’s low; a hollow, pained sort of cackling, scraping the rust off the inside of Wolfwood’s throat. Nothing at all like the laughter of two kids sharing a fun trick that Vash still holds dearly in his memories. 

(It almost reminds him of the way Nai would laugh, incredulous and hurt, when pushed to the brink of his frustration. Helpless and hating it.)

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” Wolfwood says when he catches his breath. He isn’t angry or aggressive, in fact, he almost sounds sad. 

Vash wants to say that he wants to know him, though. He wants to ask about what happened to Livio. He wants Wolfwood to trust him with the secret of his odd aging. He wants to know if Wolfwood learned any other lighter tricks. He wants to ask if there’s anyone he lets call him Nico.  

There’s a dark gap of time between the carefree child he met and the tormented man that Vash has grown close with now, time that was eaten away by some nightmare that Vash had been completely blind to.

If he wants to understand, all he has to do is open his mouth and ask.

“And I don’t know a damn thing about you either, huh?” Wolfwood continues, running his fingers restlessly through his hair. “Looks like we’re a match, Spikey,” he sighs. “Just two monsters with our ugly secrets, traveling this small world together.” 

“... Yeah,” Vash says, with a strained smile. He doesn’t refute it, and he asks no questions. “Looks like.”