I do not own Trigun. This fic contains sex.

Enough to Make a Preacher Swear

That man is absolutely fucking crazy.

And he’s worse when he drinks. He’s a worse drunk than Milly, for Chrissakes. He’s the picture of slaphappy. His eyes get watery, his legs get tottery, his speech degenerates to incredibly slopped-up monosyllables. He’s childish; sometimes he’s downright bratty. He sings loudly and really poorly. He steps on toes. He pukes like it’s going out of style.

And I don’t know why intoxication guarantees that sometime during the night he’ll wrap a very ugly men’s necktie around his head, but it almost always does.

But all the while, as he’s making an utter fool of himself, knocking shit over and howling out old drinking songs, I can’t see anything else. In a room full of half-naked women and little green men I wouldn’t be able to look at anything else.

He is completely, undeniably, sinfully fascinating.

When the next day happens, though, it’s not like he gets a hangover. He is the hangover. He literally becomes the Incarnation of Queasiness. But his faculties are still fully operational, even when he’s pants-pissing drunk, and he’s perfectly capable of holding his own even when he’s got the Moby Dick of hangovers.

Like right now, for instance. He’s just sitting there like a big, red lump of old laundry, trying to ignore a small, sleeping cat who is making entirely too much noise. But if he wanted to, he could lift up his gun right now, fire one well-placed shot, and by an elaborate series of masterful ricochets, knock the mayor’s hat off on the other side of town.

Instead, at present, he’s just sort of clutching at his stomach a little, slouching in a chair that’s got to be two feels too low for him, giving a good impression of a broken-down car. Squinting.

I step over to the table, trying not to make any noise, and pick up his sunglasses. It’s hard to believe these tiny things actually fit him. In my hand, they look like a child’s glasses. He wakes up from his stupor with a wince when I say, "Here," and puts the glasses on quickly, forcing a little smile at me.

It’s amazing how clear his eyes are, even behind sunglasses. I can see he’s definitely not happy, but the emotion there isn’t false. He’s genuinely grateful that I’m staying with him while he’s not feeling well.

Hell, it’s not like I want to be here. It’s just one of those days when going outside means instant heatstroke. I don’t have anyplace I need to go so badly that I’d let the suns burn off my best suit.

That’s when I’m telling myself, anyway. And him. I told him that, too.

How many times have I lied to him now?

It’s got to be three hundred fucking degrees in this tiny little room. You could probably stick a long straw in this godforsaken planet right now, blow a nice big bubble, and make this super-heated ball of sand into an enormous brandy snifter. But he’s still wearing that goddamned coat. And boots, and gloves.

I know it’s impolite of me when he’s feeling this terrible, but I risk speech again.

"You’re going to cook, Vash. Take your coat off."

"You take off yours," he challenges. Actually, it was more of a whimper than a challenge, but hey. Who’s counting.

Whaa? Wait. Why the fuck am I still wearing this, anyway? It’s black. It’s really fucking hot today.

I guess I must be a little distracted by the sexy blond cooped up in this itty-bitty little motel room with me.

I take my suit jacket off, then my shirt. No rush, I’m not nervous or anything. I’m pouring sweat, but none of it is nervous sweat.

Absolutely none of it.

He looks at me. I look back. I look down to light a cigarette, look back. He’s still staring.

"What?"

He winces again. Oops. At least I said it softly.

I keep smoking, and he watches the floor for a while, then looks back at me. I have no idea why, but he looks like he’s feeling even worse now. Like he’s going to be sick again. But I doubt he has anything left to throw up, after this morning.

He somehow gets up and turns his back to me, walking to the bathroom like his legs hurt. I don’t hear him retching, so I don’t worry too much. He emerges in a couple of minutes, sans-gloves and coat. He’s wearing jeans and a simple white cotton shirt, that you can see right through.

Legato had mentioned that Vash has a prosthetic arm, but he left out the part about it being solid metal, and he completely skipped over the little matter of the scars. My cigarette falls out of my mouth. I’m staring. Damn.

I yank my eyes down.

Slick, Chapel. You’re a real charmer. Did your social grace come with your training? Or was it just something you picked up from your old man?

I reach down and get the cigarette, ashamed of my bad manners, and stab it out in the ashtray. Vash lies down on the bed and folds his hands behind his neck, not looking at me again. I take the chair, worrying the cigarette between my fingers, and finally give up and light another one. Nervous hands.

Oh, Christ, I want him.

I keep chain smoking, alternately looking out the window and at Vash. At about four o’clock, he seems to have fallen asleep. I take off my boots, grab a pillow, and walk to the next room to sleep in the bathtub.

When he wakes me up, it seems to be past nightfall, and it’s a little cooler. Okay, it’s at least fifty degrees cooler. Vash had apparently come in to relieve himself, and was surprised to find me gently sawing logs in the tub. He shakes me a little and smiles and gives me a hand up. His real hand and his real smile.

"Don’t you have your own room to sleep in, Wolfwood?"

Now that’s a silly question. He must still be a little out of it. I give him the most convincing glare that a man sprawled out in a bathtub can offer.

"Vash, I paid for this room."

"Oh. That’s right."

That’s got to be embarrassing. He squeezes his eyes shut and grins hugely, reaching back to scratch the back of his head.

"You feeling better?"

He grins some more.

"Much better, thank you! I was feeling dizzy and nauseous all day long, and I had an awful headache, but I think I slept it off! I’m glad you made me drink all that water earlier! Oh, that reminds me…uh. Could you…?"

"Consider me gone," I say, lifting myself up out of the tub. His hand-up went away when he started talking, but I didn’t need it anyway. I shut the door behind me, sit down on the bed, and smoke.

Christ, he did drink a lot of water. I’m halfway through my second cigarette, and he’s only just now washing his hands.

And I’m fucking starving. I went to bed…er, tub…without dinner.

"Broomhead?"

He steps out of the bathroom partway, drying his hands.

"Yeah?"

"You want something to eat?"

He smiles hopefully and nods. I put my shirt and boots back on.

"I’ll go see if the bar will make us anything at this hour."

I come back with a couple of sandwiches with nothing on them, just cheese and some kind of corned beef, or maybe ham? I dunno. He’s totally thrilled, though. And he seems to be very thankful that I took the trouble to get us plenty of water. With ice cubes.

I sort of chew on my food while I watch him snarf his down. He eats like a dog that's all of a sudden grown opposable thumbs. It’s really kind of adorable, in some sort of crazy way.

In a Vash way.

He yawns, signaling that he’s finished eating, and walks backward to flop sideways on the bed. I think I’ll take my time and enjoy my mystery meat. It’s not like I’ll be able to get right back to sleep, anyway. Not with him looking like that.

"Wolfwood…"

"It’s Nicholas," I interject. I don’t know why. I guess it just feels better if he calls me by my given name. Makes it seem less impossible for him to be close to me.

"Nicholas. There’s no reason why you should have to sleep in the tub." I stop chewing and concentrate on swallowing. I take a drink of water. The ice rattles a little. He sits up. "I mean, it’s a big enough bed…we could share."

I force a leering grin. A very authentic-looking one, too. I ought to be proud.

"You sure, Broomhead? I’m wicked in bed…"

"Just try not to snore so much, all right?" he says, his voice squeaking comically. "You were really loud in the bathtub!"

Time for another cigarette…matches…there. Maybe one day I ought to invest in a lighter.

"You sure are a high-strung guy, Vash. The smallest things always seem to bother you."

My favorite part of enjoying a cigarette is that faint little smell of the match after you strike it. It gets fainter the more years I smoke, because the smoke seems to dull my sense of smell a little. Especially burning smells, because I’m so used to them. But I still smell that little match burning, burning out, and it reminds me of being warm sometime when I knew I should have been cold. And having someone with me sometime when I knew I should have been alone. That’s why…now I remember. Why I don’t buy lighters.

"Nicholas?" He’s all serious now, looking down, frowning a little.

"Yeah?"

"When you were asleep earlier, did you dream?"

Huh?

"Not that I remember," I reply, honestly.

He sighs, looking a little bashful. "I only asked because…I heard you say my name. I wondered if you were dreaming, and what you were dreaming about."

Oh. Shit.

"Well," I reflect, "I don’t remember dreaming at all, but I was sleeping pretty deeply for being wedged in a bathtub that’s less than half as long as me. I don’t often seem to dream, or if I do, I don’t remember."

"I always dream." He’s still looking at his feet. I don’t think he ever took his boots off. "Even if I only sleep for a few minutes. It’s very rare that I don’t dream."

The way he’s speaking, I can’t help myself. I really want to know.

"What do you dream about?" I ask around my cigarette.

"I dream of people I love," he says, thoughtfully, "People who would care about me no matter what, and would never…betray me." He looks up a little, at the door. His brow is still furrowed, but he doesn’t look angry, just…contemplative. Maybe a little regretful. "People that I lost long ago."

I try not to think about the way he said the word ‘betray’. I try not to think about what I am, what I’m doing here.

"I know that you aren’t what you say you are, Nicholas…at least not exclusively. But I don’t care what you are…I don’t want to dream of you. I don’t want you to die."

"You don’t have to worry, Vash. I’m not like the people in your dreams." I, unlike them, will betray you. No sugarcoating, no ambiguity, just violated trust and bloodshed.

"How do you mean?"

Well. "I’m not in love with you," I offer.

Was that a lie?

I tried to make it sound lighthearted, but I don’t know if it worked. He gives me kind of a strange look. I find myself wanting to finish this cigarette quickly so that my hands can be busy lighting another one.

I’m not usually so fidgety. I must’ve just sweated out all my patience today.

He sort of nods a little, then plops back down on the bed, making sure to leave plenty of room for me. We don’t really have much in the way of trash from supper; I didn’t bring plates and nothing had wrappers. Just the two glasses and the empty water pitcher. I put them on the rickety little desk-table next to two…no, three…empty cigarette cartons and Vash’s glasses. The table wobbles because one of its legs was transplanted from a smaller piece of furniture.

I privately appreciate the amenities we have in this cozy little inn. A chair, a desk, a bed, a bathtub, a great big fucking ashtray. All you can really ask for, and pretty cheap, with booze downstairs. I idly wish we could stay a while longer.

Then I put out my smoke and go to bed.

I take my boots off again, first. Vash is on his side, facing the wall. While I lie down I think about how I only have two cigarettes left, and then I think about ammunition, and then Vash. He’s definitely not asleep. He’s not even relaxing.

"Aren’t you tired, Vash? It’s late."

"I guess I just don’t want to dream right now." He turns over so he’s on his back. There’s a very small feather from his badly damaged pillow on his forehead just above his eyebrow, and I fight not to laugh.

After some consideration I decide not to tell him about it.

"If you could dream of something else, something different for once other than whatever it is that’s upsetting you, what would you want to…no, don’t sit up! The feather’s gonna fall off."

Whoops, said that out loud, didn’t I? I’m on a roll tonight.

He looks down at the feather and picks it up with a little ‘huh?’ sound, and smiles, and blows it at me. Somehow, it sticks to the side of my neck, which is kind of sweaty, and I have to brush it off several times before I’ve finally persuaded it to fall.

"I’d like to dream of something…that has nothing to do with me. Something that smells real and feels warm…my dreams aren’t cold, but they’re always watery and cool, and there’s always wind. If I could…lose myself…lose my past…for even a little while, I think that would be the best rest I could ever ask for."

"You think staying awake would be better rest than sleeping would be?"

He seems to think about this for a minute. There’s some kind of insect outside that has begun to make a very obnoxious noise.

"Yes." He looks at me, and quickly amends, "I mean, you don’t have to stay up if…"

"I’m not sleepy. How do you want to spend the time, staying up so late? Surely you don’t want to drink again."

He gives a quiet laugh and leans back, folding his hands behind his head. The look in his eyes makes me want to weep. Sad and happy and used up, thankful and rueful, old and young. Careless.

"Wanna go for a walk?"

I shrug. I’m not warm to the idea, but I’d do it. To be with him. That insect is making noise, and it is getting a little cool out, but I’d go. And I’d enjoy it.

"I don’t care."

"Well, what do you want?"

I want to smooth my hand through your silly hair and touch the back of your neck. I want to know what your hands taste like. I want to warm my fingers underneath the fabric of your shirt. I want to suck on your tongue. I want to make you finally really relax for once, and let yourself be free for a while.

"I want to see your real smile again."

"Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine!" he jokes, but he’s already doing it. Right away, just like that.

And so am I. Just like that.

"Well, shall we go?" I say, standing up. He flings his ridiculously long legs over the side of the bed and gets up, too, nodding and still smiling. I turn around to get the door, but I feel a cool hand on my shoulder, so I turn back around.

Oh God. Why are you crying, Vash? Can it really hurt that much to smile?

Before I can reign myself in, I do what I’ve been wanting to do for fifty-nine hours now. Touch him. I pull him into my arms and hold him up against me. He hugs back. His shoulders are shaking a little.

"Wolfwood?"

"Right here. And it’s Nicholas."

"I lie…to everyone. All these years…how much longer will I have to lie? I only want to rest. I want to go home."

I lean in and kiss him. Tender and quiet, as if I were kissing someone much younger. He places his hands behind my neck and stops crying, licking my tongue shyly.

I stop, but I wait for a second before I pull back. I want to tell him that even though he lies, he’s really not a liar. I want to tell him that his feelings aren’t a lie, that his kindness isn’t a lie, that his love isn’t a lie. I want to tell him how proud they would be of him, whoever this lost love is. I want to say that he has plenty of time to rest, and a chance to make a home—a place where he can belong, a life free from his past. I want to apologize, and thank him.

And I can’t. I’m scared of talking because I don’t want to lie to him anymore.

I kiss him again, as hard as I can.

"I don’t want you to change." I whisper it into his mouth, understanding its truth as I say it, and he moans deeply. He yanks my head down, back into the kiss, and I crush his body up against me so hard his grate is hurting me even through two layers of clothing.

His mouth is unbelievably hot. I’m lost in it for several minutes before I realize that he’s pushed me backwards and slammed my back against the door, furiously sucking on my tongue. I can hear him getting hard. He slides his hands over to press my shoulders into the door as he buries his tongue in my mouth, and I hear myself groaning. Both my hands are pressed against the back of his head, fisted in his hair, pushing and pulling him into me. Closer.

He runs his tongue underneath the edges of my front teeth, then takes my mouth harder, pushing me backwards, inattentive to his own strength. In the back of my mind I wonder if he’ll keep this up until those flimsy little scrap-metal hinges give out and we’re both horizontal in the hallway.

As if I had said it out loud, he opens his eyes, looking a little startled, and for a moment he just stays like that, and then he eases his lips off of mine and pulls back.

And just looks at me, surprised.

"Where do you think you’re going, Broomhead?"

I wait for him to blush. He does. He almost moves his hand to scratch behind his head, but I’m still sort of in his arms and he can’t.

"Um…we would have crashed through the door."

Our arms come apart. He steps back and I scoot over sideways to lean my back up against the wall just to the left of the doorframe. The back of my shirt snags on one of the hinges, but it comes loose all right and doesn’t tear. Vash is a little unsure now, since we’re no longer just acting on impulse, but he comes closer. He folds his long, thin arms around me, resting in the small of my back, and kisses me again.

I let him control most of the motion, but I kiss back. It’s gentler now, but he’s still slightly pushing me backwards. His tongue feels rough but it moves smoothly. He sort of tastes like glass.

And for some reason, honest to Christ, he smells like a pencil eraser. Maybe his coat has some rubber in it, and it rubbed off on his other clothing? I couldn’t begin to guess…

There’s something else he smells like too. It’s the smell of gunpowder and soap and sweat, and the detergent that was used to clean his cotton shirt. He smells clean and dirty and…normal. Discordantly normal, since there’s really nothing normal at all about this man.

Huh.

Both my hands are resting on the sides of his face, touching him there but not really holding on. He moves his hands to do the same to me, only more insistently. Instead of pushing me back now, he pulls my mouth closer into his and thrusts his tongue inside deeply, curling it to lick the underside of mine.

He lets a small, humming moan out into my mouth and slides his right hand down from my face to my neck, and then down my side, then…

"You’re so hard," he breathes up against my mouth. He squeezes my cock through the fabric of my slacks, then strokes it slowly and firmly with his palm. For some reason, I can’t make a sound; I just open my mouth and try vainly to whimper.

My hands find the back of his neck and press against it, but don’t try to hold him in place or control him. I move my right to his hair when he lowers his head to lick and kiss at my neck. My eyes close involuntarily and I lift my chin up. I find my voice and use it, managing a shaky, low moan.

"Touch me," he whispers, and I realize he’s said it at least twice now. I lift my head forward away from the wall and kiss him, bringing my right hand up under his shirt to play with his nipple. He breaks the kiss for a second to make a sound like he’s about to choke, and then relaxes again with a sigh and finds my lips. My head bumps against the wall with the light impact, but not enough to hurt.

He’s still stroking me through my pants, and since he went straight for the jewels, I decide to do the same. I reach a hand down and slip it up under his shirt first, sliding once over his navel, then move it down the front of his pants. I cradle his length carefully, keeping my hand still. He breaks the kiss again to gasp. One gasp isn’t enough however, so he adds another of slightly higher pitch for good measure before he plunges his tongue back into my mouth.

When I finally move my hand, he just loses it. He moans so hard it surprises me, and tries to gargle with my tongue. Somehow, he pulls himself out of the kiss and leans into me, closing his eyes and sighing. He stops stroking me and just holds onto me, and I loop my other arm around his waist.

"Needle-noggin’?"

"Yeah?"

I make a gesture with my head that can only be interpreted as ‘Bed that way.’ He sort of nods, but doesn’t move right away. I take my hand out of his pants and nudge his ankle with my foot.

He walks backwards to the foot of the bed and sits down. I sit down too, straddling his hips. My hands find his neck, and he moves his arms underneath mine and holds me, kissing me underneath my chin, just above my adam’s apple.

I begin to unbutton his shirt. This is taking too long. As much as I’d like to undress him, this will be faster if we each take off our own clothes. So I get up and switch to my own shirt, and throw it on the floor.

It makes a soft ‘fwap’ sound. I wonder, did I have another couple of cigarettes in there after all…?

"Vash! Ahh…" Not fair. He’s…naked already. I should have guessed that his superhuman agility would make itself known; after all, it’s second nature to him. But still. Just give me a sec, Vash, I’ll be right there.

Belt. Zipper. Button…and off you go. Sometimes I’m really jealous of this man’s talent. But, all's well that ends well. We're on equal ground now.

"Nicholas?"

"Hm?"

"You forgot to take your socks off," he says, and pats the place on the bed beside him with his right hand.

Hmph.

I go around to the side of the bed and sit down, then swing my legs over so that I'm lying on my back beside him. He's just going to have to get used to the fact that he's about to make love with a man in his stocking feet.

He doesn't seem too bothered by this, though. He leans over and puts his hand behind my neck, tilting my head up and back. I think he's going to kiss me, but he surprises me by licking my earlobe and beginning to nip and suck at it. I use both my hands to feel the tiny little hairs that are growing on the back of his neck. I can't believe how soft they are. It feels like…oh, Jesus. It feels like a little baby kitten.

"Vash?" He's got one of his legs sort of draped over mine, tightly, and he rubs his cock against my hip when I say his name, not even trying not to groan.

"I have to get something!" he whispers suddenly, and vanishes. He comes back with a white bottle of suntan lotion, in one of those containers that's kind of tear-shaped. It registers somewhere in the back of my mind that I shelled out a lot of money for that tiny little bottle, but I decide that it was worth much more than I paid.

It looks like I'm bottoms-sies tonight. He kneels over me with one leg beside each of my hips, and starts rubbing coconut-scented white cream onto his hands. I've never actually smelled a real coconut. I don't think they're really is such a thing. Some asshole just made it up for shits and gigg…whoa.

It's a shame I couldn't complete that thought—my brain just evaporated. He slid two fingers into me at once, and he's sort of…wiggling them or something I guess, and…it really feels strange. Maybe because his fingers are so long, and seem too soft to belong to a man, since he always wears gloves. He slides them in a little farther, moving them around, looking for my prostate.

He doesn’t seem to realize that he’s already found it, so I make it known to him by breathing out a half-growl, half-groan, and bucking a little on the bed. His right hand is resting just in front of his knee, holding the side of my hip, and when I buck upwards, it slides off. He moves it to touch my lower abdomen, just above my pubic hair, the back of his fingers barely touching the underside of my cock.

I open my eyes—they had fallen shut—and watch him as he settles himself over me, rubbing the lube into his cock with his left hand while his right finds the lotion.

"Did you ever put sunscreen on yourself, Nicholas? It kind of feels good." He proves it to me by dumping a little of it into his right palm and slowly working it over my erection. It’s cold for a second, but he’s right, it feels good. For prissy-smelling, high-priced goop, it’s certainly won my good favor.

I feel him position his tip at my entrance, and he slides halfway in as he strokes me, then goes all the way back out. And he waits there for a second, and just looks at me.

He’s really smiling.

And now he’s inside me, all the way, so abruptly that it’s almost rude. And in all my life I’ve never felt anything hotter. He moans happily, and begins thrusting, gentle and slow, but by no means shallow. He draws out a great deal each time, and drives his whole length back in, and holds himself inside, as tightly as he can fit against me.

I’ve been fucked lots of different ways before, but it’s never felt like this. I’ve never had someone be so…careful. There have been people—women—that I’ve made sure to be extra tender with, but I’ve never been on the receiving end of that. It’s thoroughly arousing and satisfying at the same time.

I want to tell him so, but my tongue seems to have gone the way of my brain. Just isn’t working, although my vocal cords seem to be very enthusiastic.

Yes, I’m moaning, and panting, and squirming. It must be something about Vash. It’s not usual for me to lose control like this. He moves smoothly in and out, and both my legs are wrapped around his hips, firmly, but not enough to interfere with his motions. He’s holding onto my hips with his left hand, and his right is stroking me. Most of the time, he’s kissing me, on the face or neck or mouth, but he sometimes comes up for air.

"Wolfwood?"

"…N…nnnn…"

"Nicholas, sorry…"

"Yeah?" I try to look at him, but my eyes won’t focus.

"I’m getting…real close…"

I know. His thrusts, still gentle, are getting faster, almost frantic. When he comes, he makes a sound like a wheel trying to move when it’s rusted to its axle. It completely unties me. His whole body goes rigid and he clamps me up against him, and I ejaculate helplessly, thick and fast. I want to watch him but I’m unable to pull my eyes open until it’s over.

Oh God, oh God, oh God I have never so badly needed a cigarette.

He slides out of me, hesitantly, and rolls over on his back. I stand up quickly, knowing that if I don’t get what I need on the leftover adrenaline, I’ll run out of energy before I can get back to the bed…ouch. What’s this?

I bend over and retrieve the small, sharp metal object by the bed that I just stepped on. Guess it’s a good thing I kept on my socks, or that would’ve hurt even worse.

"Hey, Vash. I think you’ve got a screw loose." I throw it at him, he catches it, and I grab the necessary smoking paraphernalia and sit back down on the bed.

"I guess we must’ve jostled one of them out. I only wish I knew where it came from."

His hair has mostly fallen down, but there are parts of it that are still poking stubbornly up. It really looks stupid.

And it makes me feel so…nice…somehow.

I look him over quickly, and I notice the place where the screw probably came out from.

"Here. It’s your shoulder." I take it out of his hand, sit on my ankles behind him on the bed, and twist it back in. It goes back in place very fast, because the first half of it is like a pin or nail with no screw ringlets, and you just push it in. You only have to screw in the last little bit of it, which is probably why it came loose.

Afterwards, I remember to light up.

"Thanks, Nicholas."

"Don’t mention it." It’s not easy to talk when you’re inhaling; it’s taken me years of practice. But I’m proud to say I’ve mastered this undertaking. Vash leans backwards into me, and I put an arm around his belly and hold him while I smoke. He puts a hand over mine and keeps it there.

"My feet are cold," he murmurs, and tries to tuck them under my leg.

"That’s what you get for taking your socks off."

It’s not until I’m finished with my cigarette that I realize he’s asleep.

I flick the glowing stub out the window, and lay backwards, slowly. He’s heavy, so I slip out from underneath him halfway, so that we’re sort of spooning. I want another cigarette, but not enough to fight off the growing heaviness of sleep.

I hope that you’re not dreaming of me, Vash the Stampede.

It’s a bright morning, today. The only trouble with mornings is that they happen very early. I’m having breakfast with Vash and his two cute female traveling buddies before we leave town.

We’re having pancakes. And Vash is apparently giving his portion a formal ritual baptism with syrup.

The smaller of the two girls says, "Really, Vash, just because a bar has a two-for-one special doesn’t mean you should drink twice as much. Mister Wolfwood, I hope you reminded this idiot how utterly stupid it was for him to get so shit-faced that he needed a whole day to recover."

"Don’t you worry, Miss," I assure her, "I gave him quite a tongue-lashing."

She crosses her arms and ‘hmph’s, then stops for a second and eyes me strangely, but appears to quickly dismiss her suspicion. Vash, meanwhile, is making a valiant effort not to choke, and mostly failing.

Milly pats him on the back, the waitress looks over at us nervously, and a black cat smiles at us from the windowsill. It’s much cooler today, thankfully, and although it’s still blasted hot, there’s a pretty good breeze.

The short one, frustrated that Vash is, in her opinion, taking far too long to choke, says, "Here. Have some water," and dumps the whole pitcher over his spiky blonde head, ice cubes and all.

"Aww, now I’m going to have to fix my hair up all over again!"

"Why don’t you just wear a pincushion on your head! And while you’re at it, why don’t you have that hideous mole removed?!"

"IT’S A BEAUTY MARK!"

I signal for our poor, longsuffering young waitress, gallantly taking out my own billfold to cover the liberal meal.

I can already tell it’s going to be a four-and-a-half-pack day today.