Chapter Text
It has been many long months since the communications were cut off as the satellites fell from the sky as comets. Since then, the only source of information have been the criers, who travel from village to village, sharing news and stories. Sometimes you hear different stories from different mouths and really can never be sure what the truth is. Apparently, at least most of the Seven Cities have been decimated, and a giant ark is destroying everything in its path. The criers are warning people to seek shelter and prepare for the worst, but you still hold on to a sliver of hope. You've heard that Vash the Stampede is somehow involved in this whole mess. The man with a giant bounty on his head is rumored to be the Devil himself, the Humanoid Typhoon. Some sources say he is behind all of this; he is the one who is raining down destruction as he always does; others say he has stepped up as the protector of humanity on this desolate planet. And the truth remains a mystery, hidden behind the game of telephone and conflicting accounts. Deep down, you believe that he is on your side, fighting to keep humanity safe from the impending destruction.
You have met that strange man before. He arrived in your care with multiple gunshot wounds in the dead of night, or rather, you stumbled over his dying body in the dark desert. It had been nothing short of a miracle that he had evidently walked from the next town over towards your lonely house before collapsing. And it was even more of a coincidence that you found him at all. Vash the Stampede truly has the luck of a demon, or perhaps it was fate. Who's to say? But you did dragged him home, patched him up, and took care of him until he awoke from his week long slumber. He remained under your watchful eye for a bit longer, and as the closest thing to a doctor this area has, you felt it was your duty to make sure he fully recovered before letting him leave. You got to know him quite well during the time he spent at your house. You quickly realized who he was, but let him introduce himself. It became clear to you that the vicious rumors held little truth. He might be clumsy, but not evil. He was nothing but kind and grateful to you, helping you however he could and paying you for the time and medicine spent on him even as you tried to refuse. All that happened a few years ago, but his generosity and kindness still stick with you to this day. You still remember his smiling face as he turned to leave into the empty desert where you found him in the first place.
Nowadays, you live quietly in your lonely house. The closest village is half a day's ride away, and you rarely see anyone besides the occasional messenger passing through. The closest city is Octovern, but to reach that via tomas, it would take nearly half a week. You occasionally take your first aid kit and go through the nearby towns to help anyone in need, but you have been blessed to not be dragged into the larger war decimating the planet. You have been able to maintain a sense of peace and purpose amidst the chaos, but you can only hope things will return to a sense of normality soon, as much as that can be found in this place.
Little did you suspect of the evening where a loud and insistent banging on your door would shift your life entirely. A rap like that always means trouble, and instinctively, you hurried to open the old creaking door into the cooling evening air. The golden light of the setting suns tries to flood into your hallway, only to be obscured by a giant figure. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to see more than just the silhouette, but still, the sight leaves you dumbfounded. Before you are two people, but they aren't entirely human as wings spread from their backs, not quite covered in feathers like an angel, partially reminding you of roots and stone, partially of shattering metal. Two wings, one on each of the bloody men. One holds the unconscious body of the other. He struggles to stay upright, one knee on the ground, the other supporting the limp form of the other as his singular arm wraps around the other's waist. The stump of his left arm has wires tangling from it, and it must have been what he used to knock on your door. It takes you too long to realize who that man is—Vash. His blonde hair is now entirely black, and his features are obscured by dirt and blood.
"Please. Help." He pleads with desperation in his eyes. "Can you save him?"
Your eyes shift to the man in his grasp. He is looking even rougher than Vash; his clothes seem burned and torn, and his skin is covered in blood and open wounds. His face is bruised and swollen. He hangs limply in Vash's embrace, his arms dangling lifelessly at his sides in an uncanny fashion. He's barely breathing, and it's clear that time is running out.
"Right!" You stir from your shock. "Let's get him inside!"
You push aside the weirdness and the unnatural aspects of the situation you find yourself in and slip back into the familiar feeling of urgency. You rush forward to put a shoulder under the unconscious man and lift him up with the help of Vash. You drag him not to the cot that's reserved for your patients, but instead you haul him onto the long dinner table that doubles as an examination table in a pinch. Your hands move on their own as they grab what you need: shears and cloths, first aid kits, bandages, medicine, water, and alcohol. You firmly tell Vash to sit down on the stool in the corner and not get in your way. You feel bad for being so stern with him, especially since he is injured too, but the man on the table is already playing dice with death.
You get to work quickly, knowing that every second counts. You remove the tattered clothing and assess the extent of his injuries. You're surprised he still has life left in him with the amount of blood he must have lost, chunks of his body apparently missing, gashes, and cracks covering his skin. You do as much as you can, focusing on the larger wounds first, knowing that time is of the essence in saving him. To your surprise, he doesn't bleed nearly as much as you think he should, given the severity of his situation. You roughly stitch him up and pull a few bullets from his flesh. His internal organs seem in good enough condition, and you're glad you don't have to operate on them further. As you work away, the wing on his back crumbles; the chunks feel strange, and you can't begin to guess the material, but you don't have a chance to analyze it either. By the time you are done, the wing is gone, leaving a chunky heap on the ground, almost like sand. You clean his body with water and alcohol before checking his skeleton and joints. There are no broken bones, but the right shoulder is dislocated. You take care to pull it back into place with a snap, and you continue to examine him. Much of his skin is cracked; it looks strange, and you can't begin to guess what caused it.
After hours of grueling work, you administer him medicine to hopefully avoid infection, another dose of strong painkillers, and some saline to help with his recovery. You lift his head carefully as you smear the gooey concoction on his gums for a longer lasting effect. To be doubly safe, you inject more drugs directly into his bloodstream and lather the wounds with ointment to help them heal. Wrapping him in bandages takes a lot from you too, especially since you can't accept Vash's offer to help since he is still dirty. By the end, your patient is almost entirely covered in bandages but still breathing. You throw a clean blanket over him and a pillow under his head, too worried to move him off the table onto the bed. It will have to wait, perhaps if he survives until dawn. But the chances of him making it through the night seem slim.
"Right." You let out a deep sigh. You can finally shift your attention from the dying man to Vash. You are deep into the night, pushing the morning hours, with dark circles forming under your eyes, but there is no rest for you yet. You turn towards the man in the chair; he looks like hell. You have never seen him look this bad before, and last time, he was the one whose life was dripping from his body on this table. Tears have carved deep lines into his dust, ash, and blood covered cheeks. There is an unusual mix of emotions on his face, but worry burns the brightest.
"It's your turn now," you say to Vash, catching his attention. His gaze lifts from the floor, and for a moment, it seems like he didn't hear you at all. You just continue, getting a washbasin, cloth and a jug of water ready. "You can use these to clean up; I'll help you with any spots you can't reach in a bit; I'll clean this mess up first."
"Will he survive? Will he be alright?" he asks instead, ignoring your comment completely.
"I do not know. I tried my best. The rest is up to him and fate itself. Whether he makes it or not is out of my hands." You look at him sympathetically. "Hopefully dawn will bring good news," you say softly.
As you pick up your bloody tools and cloths, you hear Vash stand up, but instead of walking towards the counter where the washing supplies are, his steps lead away, towards the door.
"Where do you think you're going?" you ask resolutely, a nip in your voice. He pauses in silence for a moment.
"I must go. I have some things to take care of still," he answers, a note of guilt present in his tone.
"You will clean up, have me patch you up, and take a nap before you can think about leaving. Doctor's orders!" Your words are commanding, leaving no room for argument. You're both tired; he looks awful, and you almost sway on your feet. But your work is not yet done.
Vash stands quietly for a moment longer before turning back and stripping a few layers of his tattered clothing. Exposing the bruises and wounds covering his body. He struggles a little with the setup at hand, using the reflection of your window to try and see where he has to reach. At the same time, you clean up the mess you made while working on your patient. You wipe the surfaces and wash the tools, and finally, you can discard the bloody robe, mask, and gloves.
You help Vash wash away the dirt from any spots he can't reach and have him sit on the chair in his underwear. You stick a cup of warm tea in his hand and down a strong coffee yourself before washing your face with cold water to wake up again. After that, you set everything up to stitch him back together and get to work. You examine him thoroughly and give him pain medication before getting the needle out. His body is tense and his pulse is still high; he has yet to calm down.
"Is he your brother? Even under all that bruising and swelling, I can tell the similarities." You speak softly to him to get his mind off the things that are hurting him at the moment.
"Yes, my twin," Vash replies, his voice hoarse and filled with pain.
"I didn't even know you had a twin. What's his name?" You continue as you tie together another suture.
"Knives."
"That's an interesting name," you say with little emotion in your tone, most of your attention going into taking care of his wounds. A stray thought of the wings crosses your mind; Vash has lost his too in the time your focus was on his brother. There is clearly something weird going on, but for now you are too tired to ask the relevant questions, and you need Vash to relax.
"I guess…" His voice trails off, and you can see him staring at the unconscious body on the table.
You keep talking as you work on him, stitching, disinfecting, and bandaging the larger cuts one by one. You give him a checkup and pain medication, and as you take his pulse, it is normal again. You are relieved; he seems to be stable and doing alright despite the way he looks. You provide him with some loose clothing you have laying around just in case and make him get in the bed you have in the other room to rest and recover for the night. He is hesitant, but the tiredness in his eyes tells you that he needs the rest.
"I will stay up with your brother; I will check on him, and I promise I will wake you up if there are any issues. Sleep. You need it." You assure him as you throw a cooling blanket on him before turning off the light and leaving the room. "Rest easy; everything will be alright now."
You return to the patient on the table and check his vitals again. You take his pulse and check his light blue eyes. His breathing has returned to normal, and he looks to be doing better, but as you press your hand on his forehead, you feel the developing fever. You know that this could be a sign of infection, and it makes you slightly nervous. His jet black hair feels damp as your hand glides over it, and you notice that his skin is sticky to the touch. However, you try to remain calm and decide to check again soon and keep a close eye on him.
To keep yourself from falling asleep, you keep yourself busy with whatever tasks you find. You clean up your kitchen from everything, organize your cabinets, and even clean Vash's clothes and hang them to dry outside. Dawn comes, but nothing changes; the slight fever still lingers, and Vash is asleep. You mix up some sugar water and carefully drip a few drops into Knives's mouth. He swallows painfully, and you continue administering him the water for a few hours. You're losing the battle with your exhaustion, so you make yourself a cup of coffee again, letting it steep while checking on the wounds. They look good, and it almost appears like they've started to heal a little. You write it off as your own delusion. The rising suns cast their hot light on the desert, and Vash's clothes dry in no time. You pick them up and get to sewing the dark shirt and his pants; the red coat is mostly gone, burned, and torn.
You realize that it has been a while since your last meal, as you even missed yesterday's dinner. You get to cooking up some porridge after leaving Vash's clothes in the other room and making sure from afar that he is still breathing. Every quarter hour, you return to the man on the table, check on him, and give him some water and medicine if necessary. Nothing has changed, neither for the better nor for the worse, and you are grateful for that, counting your blessings as you remind yourself of the condition he arrived in.
Another hour passes as Vash appears in the door-frame, his eyes first falling on his brother before moving to you. He looks better; he is still covered in bandages and bruises, but the wary tiredness is gone from his eyes. He wears the clothes you mended for him, and his expression softens as he takes in the sight of you checking the pulse of your patient.
"Good morning," you tell him with a slight smile. "I made some food, but it's probably cold by now. Feel free to take as much as you want. Your brother is doing alright; he has a slight fever, but it hasn't gotten worse. The wounds look good, and I've given him water and medicine. For now, it's okay; he is not out of the woods, but he's getting there."
"Morning," Vash says as he walks closer to you. He doesn't say much; there is an unexplainable expression on his face as he pulls you into a one armed yet crushing bear hug. You feel his breathing get more ragged as he holds you; he repeats seemingly endless "thank you"s until you feel tears soaking your shirt. He finally lets you go, holding your shoulder and looking you in the eyes, tears and snot running down his face.
"You're welcome, but don't get too carried away, okay? I cannot promise you anything other than that I will try to get him back to full health; it doesn't mean it will happen." You try to calm him down again, reaching for a tissue to hand him. "Now eat; I will check your wounds again after that."
And so it goes. Vash eats his fill, dragging his chair a bit closer to the table but not quite next to it, as you gave him a stern look, worried for any contamination. He finishes his meal quickly, eager to have his wounds checked, as if he is in a hurry. Luckily, they look fine, and you lather him in ointment and cover everything with fresh bandages, relieved that he is okay.
"You said you had some business to attend to. Is that why you are vibrating on this chair?" You ask calmly, checking the strange cracks in his skin on his cheek.
"Well, I have to go. I promise I will be back as soon as I can—just a few days at most. I am sorry to just dump him on you, but I beg you. I only go to keep both of you safe." His sky blue eyes try to track your movement the best they can as you put a bandage on him.
"It's alright; I'll take care of him. I doubt he will regain consciousness anytime soon. I can only hope he won't get worse." You take a step back, happy with your handiwork, as nothing is bleeding. It's the best you can do for Vash right now.
"I will forever be in your debt. Thank you for everything. I will pay you once I get back, I swear." His eyes look pleadingly at you as he gets up from the chair.
"I believe you; don't worry about that." You smile, recognizing the honor in his face.
Vash gives you a nod and goes closer to his brother. He says something quietly to him, and you don't quite pick up any of the words. With that, Vash turns and walks to the front door, and you follow.
"Thank you again," he says to you tenderly, and then more loudly over the whole house: "Get better soon, brother!"
You watch as Vash steps outside, heading into the desert. Only a little while later, you figure out he has nothing with him but the clothes on his back and the gun on his leg. No water, no food, no shelter—nothing. You turn and see what's left of the red coat on the chair, now realizing you must really be out of it to not notice it sooner. But it's too late to go after him now; all you can do is hope that he has a plan.