Chapter Text
Nicholas is getting a little older and a little slower, something that took him several years and too many close shaves to admit. It took him even longer to accept adjusting appropriately. He still grits his teeth when Vash goes charging into a fray alone while he’s forced to stay back, keep watch, play crowd control and pick off easier targets. It helps that things are much calmer these days, the fights fewer and farther between. He thanks God that he hasn’t been forced to lag behind until now. When he can afford to. When Vash throwing himself into impossible, all-odds-stacked situations is no longer a weekly occurrence. Nicholas doesn’t think his nerves would survive (or that his self-restraint would hold out) if he were forced to stand back and watch Vash risk his life like he did in the past—only this time, alone.
Today wasn’t anywhere near a true return to form. Years ago, it was the kind of scuffle they would’ve forgotten about in a week. But Vash was forced draw his gun. Ran off under fire. And that alone makes the whole thing too Classic Them for Nicholas’s taste.
It all came to a happy conclusion, as it somehow always does when Vash is involved. Didn’t matter that the gang rolling in from the wastes had brought nearly a hundred guys hopped up on spice, backed up by heavy artillery and bootlegged lost tech. They’d even waited for the local sandsteamer to depart so the sleepy town would be as empty as possible. Nick can’t knock them for effort—they probably would’ve come out with an easy win anywhere else. Simple shit luck that they picked the spot where, over a decade ago, Vash the Stampede just so happened to settle down.
By the middle of the day, the town resumes life almost as normal. Shopkeepers sweep kicked-up dust and debris from their porches. Workers assessing the minor damage have to maneuver around small crowds gathering to be seated outside cafés. Children play in the street, already mythologizing the events of the past few hours with their make-believe guns and battle cries.
Nicholas and Vash would perfectly match the scene—just another married couple on a stroll through town—if it weren’t for the fact that Nicholas is hefting the Punisher on one shoulder and Vash on the other. Vash keeps his steps jaunty but can’t fully disguise how he needs to lean into Nicholas to stay upright. He’s not dripping blood, not visibly, but he does have one hand strategically placed beneath his coat.
A small girl dashes past them. She’s too focused on pretend-shooting other children across the road to notice the two men. Vash has to pull in his trenchcoat to keep her from tripping on it.
By happy coincidence, just as she careens away from them, she shouts, “I’m Vash the Stampede!”
It makes Vash laugh. Nicholas hears how thin the sound is.
“Vash.”
“I’m fine.”
Any other time, the obvious lie would spark a tirade from Nicholas. As close as they are, leaning into one anothers’ weight just to keep walking, the roof of his mouth is full of the iron tang wafting off of Vash. The man is saturated with it. As casually as he moves, as much as he laughs off their slumped walking as a joke, Nicholas can literally taste the cost of the day on his body.
But you couldn’t do jack shit about it then, says a voice inside his head, so you don’t get to complain about it now.
Nicholas sets his jaw. He tries not to let it sour the smile he passes out to folks on the street as they slowly make their way closer to their own neighborhood. Vash grins with all his teeth and gives little waves to the baker, to their delivery guy, to the youngest kids of the couple three doors down, so Nicholas does the same. He smiles and he takes the combined weight of the Punisher and Vash, like he always has (and like he will insist on doing, no matter how old he gets, until his body gives out beneath it).
“Thanks for the help back there,” Vash says.
Nicholas glances over to see Vash smiling at him. Not the one he’s been using—wide, loud, begging to be believed—but soft and quiet. Something just for the two of them.
I don’t deserve it.
But Nicholas knows Vash hates those thoughts, so he looks away and rolls his shoulder as if to adjust their shared weight.
“You call that help? I sprayed and prayed in empty streets for two fuckin hours. You had all the fun.”
“If you weren’t there, they would’ve made it to the school.”
“And if you hadn’t single-handedly taken over their steamer, they would’ve mowed over the whole town.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Nicholas catches Vash contorting in order to make a silly face at a baby in a passing stranger’s arms. He sees the tired cords in Vash’s neck and the dark bruise peeking out just past his collar.
“How many bullets did that little stunt take, by the way?”
Vash groans and perfomatively slumps harder against Nicholas.
“Don’t start, all right?”
He flicks open his revolver and catches the spinning chamber with his thumb, pointing at the rounds.
“We had plenty saved up anyway. Look, I didn’t even finish this—”
“Not in your gun, needle-noggin. In you.”
Vash falls quiet, but doesn’t look surprised, which isn’t surprising to Nicholas. They both know that Vash understood from the start. In silence, they turn a corner onto their home street. The beating midday light is broken by the shade of adolescent saplings, all planted as part of a planet-wide initiative a few years after Vash and Nicholas arrived. Nicholas is still getting used to the way they color the sunlight, especially around dawn and dusk, transforming the omnipresent brightness he’s known all his life into something soft and green-golden.
“A few grazes,” Vash finally says, “but the coat did its job, they didn’t get through. The worst they’ll do is bruise.”
“And?”
In his periphery, Nicholas sees the corner of Vash’s mouth pinch downward.
“One in the leg. Just a through-and-through.”
“And?”
“And…one still in my shoulder.”
Nicholas sighs.
“Dammit, Vash. And with all this ‘I can always dodge it’ bullshit—”
“There was a hostage. It would’ve hit him instead.”
Of course.
Now that he knows to watch for it, Nicholas notices Vash’s left leg stutter minutely as they mount their front stoop. The price of goodness still carves debts out of his body, even after all these years. Even in the peace he’s created.
“You did good, you know,” Nicholas said, his voice softer.
Vash makes a noncommittal noise.
“It got way too close a few times. Some people almost—”
“Vash. You did good.”
Nicholas squeezes Vash’s hand where it hangs over his shoulder before reaching for the doorknob.
“You took care of everyone. Now let me take care of you, all right?”