Flat on his back, bored. That was the only thing he could think of right now. The weight of his boredom kept him pinned flat on his back. Being flat on his back was boring as hell. Vicious cycle really. The dark haired man heaved another whooshing sigh. Raised the stub of a cigarette to his sunburnt lips. Inhaled until the ashen corpse remained pinched tightly between elegant fingers. Not even the thought of the bottle of wine he had hidden in the room, somewhere, piqued his interest. It had been a gift, red like its giver.

Now there was a thought that piqued Wolfwood’s interest. Ever the casual observer, Nicholas had been struck with the realization that his assignment, one Vash the Stampede, had drawn him into an intricate web of emotions. Wolfwood had been so struck by the thought that he had literally stopped walking right in the middle of the street. Milly continued to talk for several moments before she realized that the Priest was no longer following her. He’d spent the rest of the day avoiding her, refusing any attempts at conversation.

Damn the man. The last thing Nicholas needed was to be trapped by his target. Vash was nothing but an assignment, a target. The Priest had a job to do. God help him if Knives decided on a surprise spot-check tonight. Christ, that was all that Nicholas would need. Wolfwood shuddered at the thought of Knives voice in his mind, a voice like a dagger sheathed with crushed silk. There wouldn’t be enough of the Priest left to identify, let alone receive a decent Christian burial.

Nicholas’ right hand dropped the impotent ashes to the floor, unconsciously groping for another slim white cigarette. It seemed that Wolfwood’s hands truly had minds of their own sometimes. The Priest smirked as he realized what he was doing. Not that he minded. Kept his hands busy. But he was still bored. Bored. B-O-R-E-D. Bored. He’d left his target out caterwauling with the two insurance girls, shit-faced drunk without a care in the world. He decided to let Meryl take care of Vash tonight. After all, that’s why the bitch was getting paid to be here. Nicholas was just hoping to stay alive. Rolling onto his right side to stare vacantly at the glowing embers he held with his fingers, Wolfwood heard the harsh stumble of heavy feet tripping up the stairs.

He rolled his eyes, quickly stabbing the half alive cigarette into oblivion on the cd he’d decided to use as an ash tray. He smirked again, thinking of the fit Meryl would have. The girl was far too uptight. Turning to face the darkness of the wall, Wolfwood barely escaped being seen as awake by a red faced Vash the Stampede. Humanoid Typhoon indeed, thought the Priest.

"Nich-olas. . . are you asleep?" The Priest shifted his weight slightly as he debated answering. The temptation was to great. He would say his prayers in the morning. Rolling back to face the silhouette in the doorway, Nicholas let loose a lazy grin. The door shut with a rumble, sheltering the room in darkness.

"Yes." Nicholas watched as the variety of adorably confused expressions played over the swaying face of the blond. He remembered the advice Midvalley had given to him once, about dealing with drunks: Step 1: Open bottle. Step 2: Apply a liberal amount of Sarcasm. He smirked. Shook his head. Target. Target. Mustn’t forget. Think of all the things the Gung Ho Guns would do to you. Think of all the things Knives could do to you. Watch the target Priest. Watch the target and do Not get caught in the line of fire Chapel. Ever. Not worth it. Vash shifted from left foot to right. Back again. The blond looked as if he were trying to learn a new dance step. Trouble. Not worth the trouble. The things you’ve seen Knives do. The things Knives has done. The things you have felt as his hands. Nicholas shuddered.

"Umm . . ." Vash looked as if he were concentrating very carefully on his words. "Okay. You’re asleep. So you must be dreaming, right? That means I’m not really here then." Nicholas blinked. He didn’t know if Vash was really that drunk, or if the man had decided to play a game with him. Those damned games of Vash’s. They were part of the reason Wolfwood felt caught. Caught up in what could only be described as Vash. Don’t touch what isn’t yours. "So if I’m not really here, then it doesn’t really matter, does it?"

"Uh? Vash? You’re not making any sort of sense. Are you feeling alright?" The blond had Nicholas thrown completely off balance. He didn’t like it, and sought control once more.

"Now who’s the one asking foolish questions?" Vash smirked lopsidedly. Nicholas blinked again. The power was in Vash’s hands. The hands that were shucking a blood red jacket to the naked hardwood floor. The hands that slowly peeled off black leather gloves. The hands that reached behind a golden head and released an unseen catch to loosen the neck of a black body suit. The black body suit that was close enough to kiss. Wolfwood started. When had Vash gotten that close? Dammit! He’d been caught again. Vash had spun a web around him, dancing drunken dust devil, temptation that refused to be ignored. Wolfwood sat up and shifted away from the heat that was emanating from Vash. Try not to get burned. Keep away. Don’t look in the eyes. Don’t look in his eyes. You will lose and you will be lost. Cigarette. Where’s the cigarettes? Jesus where? I need something to do with my hands. Excuse to not look. Ahhh Christ! Vash had tumbled ever so conveniently down on Wolfwood’s bed, splaying over the prone body of the Priest. Green eyes lifted from his chest and gazed soul deep into his. Fuck. I’m . . .

Vash kissed him. Threw his arms up and around Wolfwood’s neck. The two fell back to the bed under the weight of the blond man. Vash shifted to lie on top of Nicholas, one leg in between the Priest’s, the other drifting lazily off to Vash’s left. Once again Nicholas D. Wolfwood found himself flat on his back. This time however the last thing he was, was bored. Eyes open staring desperately at the ceiling. Wolfwood wanted, yet knew. This kiss alone was enough to warrant his death. Wolfwood closed his eyes, waiting for death to strike him. In this moment, Knives was god. A terrible, vengeful, possessive, jealous god of the Old Testament. Wolfwood prayed. He didn’t know what for. Swift painless death, or a chance to get away with this. Surely Knives couldn’t be everywhere at once. But it was a chance that the Priest was not willing to take. He pulled his lips from Vash’s. Stared mournfully into the confused green eyes. Frowned.

"You taste of alcohol Vash. I can’t let you do this. Get off me. Now." The Priest’s tone was cold. Unfeeling. Not even a trace of anger. That would indicate emotion. Trouble. Nothing but trouble. Get off me before I have to hurt you. Please get off me now. I’m not allowed to feel this. Vash moved his hands off of Nicholas’ neck. Rested them on either side of the priest’s head. Still lying on top of him. Confused. Stubborn. Oh no. . . Nicholas recognized the look that crossed the face of his assignment. Knives got the same expression. Another thing the Twins shared. Incredibly stubborn creatures these Twins were. Vash would never admit it. The gaze trapped Nicholas like an insect in amber. He struggled. Had to. Pushed Vash hard on the sternum. Sent the blond backwards, short of breath.

"I asked you to get off me, Vash. Now, do you want me to put a glass of water next to your bed before you sleep? Rather than wake the whole hotel tripping around for one when you should be sleeping?" Nicholas pulled his legs out from under Vash’s now huddled form. Swung them over the side of the bed. Escape. Struggle. Get away. Move faster. Stood up and began to move towards the bathroom that the unit had. Felt arms encircle his waist. Panic. Trapped. So close. I want. . . Oh God. Please I don’t. . . "Let. Me. GO!" Wolfwood snarled and swung out of Vash’s grip, falling to the cold hardwood floor. Scrambled to his feet in a rush of white fabric and air. Stalked to the bathroom and tore the faucet open. White water whirling in the basin. Shaking hands filled a blue glass. Wolfwood refused to look in the mirror. Hesitate. Back to the room.

Vash had not moved off of Wolfwood’s bed. He stared blankly at the Priest as Nicholas lay the glass of water on a bare night table across the room at the head of the bed they had both agreed would be Vash’s. So why argue now. But if Nicholas were to shrug his shoulders and crawl into the empty bed, he had the feeling that Vash would claim him then. ‘You’re in my bed now.’ he could whisper softly. And there was no argument for that. Nicholas stood beside his own bed now, looking down at the man he desired. The one thing in this world that Knives had denied him. And Nicholas wanted it. Not that Knives had been a particularly benevolent master, but the Twin would let Nicholas do things his way. Nicholas respected that. Admire. Respect. Fear. Death. Knives. Where did one end and the rest begin? Green eyes continued to stare. Nicholas refused to soften. Returned the gaze. No feeling. Nothing. Empty. Be empty Chapel. Abandon what you know will destroy you. You cannot be him. You cannot have him. He will mean your death. Nicholas sighed. Shrugged his shoulders. Placed a hand in a pocket of the loose black sleeping pants he was wearing. Picked idly at non-existent lint on the white cotton of his unbuttoned shirt, the one he chose to sleep in this night. Figured he’d have to pick Vash up off the floor sometime tonight. Figured he might as well be dressed to do it.

Vash continued to stare. Nicholas refused to give in to temptation. He would not reach out to touch that hair. That sungolden hair. He would not cup his fingers to cradle the soft skin of Vash’s face. That hot skin. Hotter than any flesh Nicholas had ever touched. He would not give in to the temptation to reach out and pull Vash’s head to his chest. To run his fingers through the hair. To kiss the top of Vash’s head. Nicholas would not allow any of these things to happen. His very life depended on his denying temptation. Cast out the demon Chapel. Run away and never look back lest you turn into a pillar of salt. Christ denied the devil for forty days and nights. Deny yours for one more. Nicholas would not allow himself to fall prey to his prey. But the eyes. Green. Gold. Black. Pale flesh in night color. Soft. So soft. More. Warm. Hot. Soft. Vash I . . . Nicholas jerked his hands back as if he had been bitten by the very softness that had surrounded them. Dammit! His friggin’ hands and their bloody mind. Everything Nicholas had told himself not to do, his hand had went and done. Fucking hell.

Nicholas tried to step back. Bring thoughts of Knives and Pain and the Gung Ho Guns to the front of his mind. Tried to remember. Target. Assignment. Observe. Observe the target. Your assignment. But that all fell away. Those thoughts cracked and shattered like stained glass from the roof of a church. Washed away by a flood of untainted light. The light. Pure. Serene. Golden. Warm. The light. The light was Vash. It came from this Twin. The other was Darkness. This one was Light. Balance. Nicholas shuddered, knees weak. Vash’s breath searing and moist on his stomach. Tickling his belly-button. Fine downy hairs standing on end. Nicholas came to realize that his hands were wrapped tightly in the loose black material of Vash’s body suit. Gripped firmly at the shoulders. God be damned and to Hell with the consequences.

Nicholas fell.

He pulled at the fabric that he had a life and death grip on. He watched as he revealed inch after inch of scarred flesh, broken body. Beautiful Vash and such injury. These scars didn’t seem right, yet they belonged. Vash. Too gentle to live on this world. These scars belonged to Knives. Why was Knives' skin unbroken? The killer untainted. The innocent stained.

Pulled to the bed, lying sprawled on top of Vash now. Lips pressing his, hot. Hot. Searing flesh. Vash. So hot. Not human. Too good. Kiss of death. Nicholas broke the kiss, gasping desperately for air. Vash slid his hands up and down Nicholas’ back. Waves of sensation. Nicholas shaking. Desire. Lust. Fear. Vash. Knives. Life. Death. Who the fuck gives a shit anyway. Nicholas drove his lips down on Vash’s, pain mixing with the pleasure. A taste of blood. Whose was hard to say.

Nicholas couldn’t tell up from down, left from right. Vash was just so hot. Skin salty. Soft but rugged. Unexpected pieces of metal. Naked. Naked. The force of desire kept pushing him. Nicholas sought desperately for the light. More. Greedy for it. Needing it. Wanting it. Vash. Shift. The world turned upside down. Vash lay on top of Nicholas. Green. Gold. Beauty. More. Hot so hot. More. Please.

"Please." It was a breathy whisper, full of desire and desperation. Pledge and plea. Caught. No need to chew off the foot though. You wanted to get caught and you know it. Nicholas shifted his hips and reveled in the groan that came from Vash’s swollen pink lips. Sirens call. The trumpet that sounded Armageddon. Calling us to Heaven. Worth it. Worth it. You are worth Death itself Vash. Christ. So hot. Vash did some things with his hands, all the while kissing Nicholas. Shifting. Fingers rubbing his lower back. Circular motion.

"Relax," Vash whispered. "Relax and let me do this for you. Let me give you this. Please." But Nicholas knew that Vash was not asking, not now. Still, if the Priest were to raise a hand in protest, he knew that this Twin would stop, no matter how far along in this game they were. It was good. It was more than Nicholas deserved. Vash was too good for Nicholas. Too good for this world. Too good for his Twin. Perfect. Perfect creature. Stained saint. Crucified. Over and over and over. Martyr fool. Nicholas threw his head back, mouth open and silent when Vash entered his body.

Timeless.

Nicholas had no idea how long they were joined. He had no idea where Vash ended, he began. Lost in the light. Surrounded by hot, hot light. Bearable heat. Comfort. Right. He had fallen. Vash had caught him.

In more ways than one.

Dawn light in the room. Arms and legs entwined. No ending or beginning. Gregorian knot. Vash asleep, smile prying at his still swollen lips. Nicholas awake. Afraid. Dawn’s cold light. Spell broken. Trapped. It was a mantra for the Priest now. No confession to his god could cleanse this sin. His robes would be washed white with his own blood. Knives. He would know. Probably already knew. Nicholas looked at the sleeping figure that he held that held him. Trapped. Nicolas was caught in the most exquisite trap that he had ever beheld in his life.

And damn his soul to hell, he didn’t want to get out.