I do not own Trigun/Vash: he belongs to the incomparable Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow.

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Struggles

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Year 0951 month 1 day 8

Vash stood leaning on the sand steamer's railing, admiring the sunset as the evening winds blew his shoulder-length black hair back away from his face. He glanced down to his right, where his wife stood in almost the same attitude, staring out at the sunset. He wasn't sure which view he preferred: Shyla, or the setting suns.

After a short while, he redirected his gaze back to the sunset. Shyla would feel it if he let himself stare at her for too long, and then she'd worry that he was worried, and that could get complicated. He shifted his feet, adjusting his position for better comfort, and then extended his arm to share his over-wrap with his wife.

She snuggled against his side, and continued watching the setting suns. He smiled, and looked out to enjoy the same view that held her attention.

There was something in the beauty of the setting suns that often calmed his soul. It appeared to have the same effect on Shyla. That made him smile. It felt so good to be both loved and understood, especially after so many centuries of being alone.

That feeling of calm lasted as the moons began to rise, until he got a good look at the fifth moon. Suddenly, he felt a little sick and turned his back to the sky. Shyla moved with him, still snuggled against his right side.

"Let's go in," she suggested. "It's getting cold, and the sunsets are done."

He nodded mutely, and let her lead him in to their room.

"If you're troubled because it's a Friday," she said as they walked, "I'm sure that our Milly is taking good care of Rem, William, and their children."

"I'm sure she is, too," he replied. "I'm just selfish, I guess. I'd like to be there, with you, Rem, and the others."

"After we escort your assignment to the larger prison," she said, "we'll have little cause to leave again anytime soon. Perhaps we can stay there as long as she does. I expect we'll want a change of scene after..." suddenly her voice sounded hoarse, and she fell silent.

"Yes," was all that he said. He didn't want to think about that right now. He opened the door of their room for her. "Are you prepared to be around someone so dangerous? If I understand the reports correctly, this guy isn't going to be easy to transport."

"I already have defensive measures on automatic," she said after they walked in and he'd closed the door behind them. "And I've continued the practice exercises. I don't know how I can be any more ready, though I'm open to suggestions."

"I wish we had a light gun arena here," he said. "A private duel or three might be fun."

She laughed. "When you arrange a truly private duel, we tend to end up needing to leave rather abruptly."

It was his turn to laugh. He couldn't deny that he generally had mildly impure motives when he paid Security to keep people well away from the room where they dueled. However, since they were married, it wasn't like seducing her was wrong.

"Guilty as charged," he said, still chuckling. "Still, even if it's only 'private' in the sense that we are only dueling each other with an audience and no others are joining the combat, the practice might be good for both of us."

He changed out of his clothing as quickly as he could, but left his body armor on. A quick glance showed Shyla doing the same. He stretched out on their bed, pulling the blankets over himself, and then snuggled against her after she lay beside him.

She adjusted her position to rest her head on his shoulder and arm, and fitted herself tightly against his side. He smiled, enjoying the physical and emotional closeness.

He adjusted the blankets slightly again, and then began to stroke her unbound hair. He couldn't get his mind off Rem, and how she was no longer young. He might as well talk about it. Shyla would understand. "You never asked me what upset me on the night I learned you've been slowing Rem's aging."

"I didn't want to upset you further," she said softly. "I'd honestly thought that you would have wanted..."

"Not at so high a price," he interrupted, equally softly. "Before you had any black hair, I would have been delighted. Now, it's different."

He felt her nod, both inwardly and outwardly.

"What caught my attention was that Rem had a grey hair," he said. "I had always known it would happen someday, but seeing evidence of her aging hit me much harder than I'd expected."

He felt Shyla's arms around him. All at once, he wanted her to hold him. He eased out of her grasp, and shifted himself until his head rested on her shoulder with his arms around her. He felt her initial surprise, and then he felt her warm affection as she put her arms around him again.

Her armor made her torso feel somewhat stiff, unlike the soft firmness of her body that he could have felt without it. That didn't trouble him tonight. He was in greater need of emotional intimacy than physical.

"When you reached out to her, and I sensed your energy in your hand, I caught your wrist," he continued. "You have too much black hair already."

He felt her emotional protest, and he answered it in words. "One black hair is too many," he said. "You already have several, a streak as wide as three of my fingers. I don't want you to get any more."

He felt her arms tighten around him, briefly, and then she returned to holding him more gently and stroking his hair. He snuggled into her embrace, comforted more than he'd expected by the combination of her gentle touch and the warm emotions that she shared with him.

"I'm going to miss Rem, when her time runs out," he said softly. "But I know it's better for her to age naturally from now on. She won't want to outlive her husband and children, at least not by a very long time."

He felt his wife continue gently stroking his hair, and his arms tightened around her again. He knew he was safe with her. He could share anything, and she'd continue loving him. That had already been tested, many times.

"It hurts just to think of it," he whispered. "I'm so glad that you'll be there, to help me get through it."

He let the tears come, as she continued holding, comforting and loving him.

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Year 0951 month 1 day 11

A few days later, they arrived at their destination. They disembarked from the sand steamer, and walked to the sheriff's office. Each carried a bag of supplies slung over one shoulder, and each wore a deputy marshal's star.

The paperwork was routine. The warning was less so.

"We rounded up at least half the gang, including the leader," they were told. "It's the leader you'll be moving. The gang members who weren't caught have made threats, and may try to take him from you."

Vash nodded solemnly. "We'll do our best," he said.

"We're hoping that moving the leader, and dealing with any resistance, will make moving the others to different places go more smoothly," the hard-eyed woman said. "We're counting on you. Don't let us down."

He nodded again. "Will we be using public transportation, private transportation, or going on foot?" he asked.

"We're providing you with a Thomas-drawn wagon," she said.

Wonderful, Vash thought. The worst option of all... a slow-moving vehicle that could almost be overtaken on foot. "In that case, I expect you'll be moving some of the others at the same time, using a swifter method of transportation?" he said.

The sheriff's eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. "Well, aren't you the sharp one?" she said sarcastically. "Yes, it is an opportunity to slip others away while the focus should be firmly on your movements."

"Why else would a Thomas-drawn wagon be chosen?" he said, and managed a smile. "For other purposes, it would not be the most efficient choice."

"Well, I suppose you have something there," she admitted. "If you don't think you're up to the task..."

"I simply prefer to know in advance what I'm getting myself into," he said. "Ignorance can lead to insufficient preparation, and that can lead to a variety of undesired results."

The sheriff's hard gaze softened a little. "You came with such high recommendations; I thought they must be exaggerating," she said, less sarcastically than before.

"We have skills that have proven useful, in situations like this," he said, shrugging. "All we can do is our best, the same as anyone else. Like you, I hope our best will be enough."

The sheriff glanced at Shyla, her eyes narrowed. "Can you both speak?" she asked.

"Yes," Shyla replied, smiling. "I simply did not wish to be rude by interrupting."

"I see," she said. "How long have you two been a team?"

"That would depend on what type of team you mean," he said. "We have been a team in training at the law enforcement academy for almost 640 years. We have been married for nearly twenty years. She was sworn in as a deputy and assigned to be my partner much more recently."

"Oh!" she said suddenly. "Nate Saverem, that's right. You're that one who's supposed to be half-Plant, likely the son of Vash the Stampede?"

"I have heard speculation along those lines, yes," he said calmly.

"Are you trying to tell me that you don't know who your father is?" she said, her face expressing her disbelief loudly.

"I never knew a father, and my adopted mother never mentioned one," he replied truthfully. "All I can say with confidence is that I still live, and that I retain the ability to serve this world as a law enforcement officer, and that I love my wife and family."

He could feel Shyla's blush without seeing it, and he shared his affection with her.

"I have passed all the tests," Shyla added in a soft voice, further eroding the sheriff's skeptical expression. "I was not deputized merely because I am his wife. I had to prove myself, first."

"So you two think you can handle this on your own?" she said.

"I think we shall do our best," he said. "However, if you wish, you may send one or more of your own deputies with us. That would have the advantage of providing someone to drive the Thomas wagon back here after this criminal is safely installed in the larger, higher-security prison."

"George!" the sheriff yelled over her shoulder. "Hank! Front and center, boys."

In response, a short stocky man with salt-and-pepper hair stood and walked to her desk. Another man, nearly as lean as Vash, also rose and came forward.

"Yes, ma'am?" they said.

"George, here, he's our best Thomas-drover," she said. "He'll tend the wagon and the beasts, so you two can keep your attention on this gang leader. Hank can ride in back, with the prisoner."

"Thank you," Vash said quietly. His own skill with Thomases was indifferent at best. If someone was riding with the prisoner, he and Shyla could make a perch atop the prison wagon, and maintain a look-out.

"What would be the best time for us to leave?" he asked. "We are prepared now, or we can wait until after eating, or what ever time suits your plans best."

"And here I thought you'd be an arrogant cuss," the sheriff grumbled amiably. "Eat first, and take that opportunity to get to know George and Hank. We'll be ready in about an hour."

"Any recommendations on where we should eat?" he asked politely.

"Shirley's should do," the sheriff replied. "Reasonable food, reasonably priced, and the guys like the atmosphere."

"Thank you again," Vash said. "We'll return in about an hour." He caught the gaze of each of the men assigned to accompany them, and nodded. "Shall we?" he offered.

They both nodded in reply, and followed him and Shyla out of the office.

"Which way to Shirley's café?" Vash asked.

George laughed, but Hank answered. "It's more of a saloon than a café, but the food's good anyway. And it's this way."

They followed Hank into the saloon and gathered around a table. A waitress in shorts and a low-cut shirt came to distribute menus. She gave Shyla an odd look, then swatted away George's hand before he touched her back side. "I'll be back in a few to take your orders," she said with an insincere smile before she walked away.

Vash looked over the menu, and noted that the prices were more reasonable than he'd expected. He wondered if the food would pass muster. He'd been spoiled by centuries of Shyla's cooking. Although the scents from the kitchen were not unpleasant, they didn't hold the promise that he'd grown to expect.

He saw Shyla shift uncomfortably, and he caught another scent. He looked around, and saw that there was a stage directly behind him. A woman dressed like the waitress sat down and began playing a piano off to one side of the stage. She apparently wore a strong perfume, the source of the unfamiliar scent he'd caught.

Perhaps the expectation of the two sheriff's men meant a show would begin soon. He turned back toward the table, and noted the expectant expressions they wore as they read the menu. That told him nothing, since it might be either the food or the show that caused such expectation.

He chose Thomas-sausage spaghetti, a dish not easily ruined. He'd often eaten it during his wandering days. He waited patiently for the waitress to return.

The waitress did return with a pad, and took down their orders. Shyla selected Thomas strips and noodles, and requested a glass of water. George and Hank chose two of the most expensive dishes on the menu, with beer.

Vash suppressed an urge to grimace. I suppose I'm buying, he realized belatedly. Oh well.

The piano music, played on an instrument long overdue for a tuning, grew louder. The men's faces grew more intensely expectant, and he noticed other customers coming in. His sensitive hearing detected that most were only ordering drinks.

A musky scent began to grow. Uh oh. Was it that kind of a show that this place put on?

He heard shoes on the hollow stage, and risked a quick peek. He turned away quickly, feeling a blush suffusing his face. The dancers wore high heels, and bands of fringes around their necks, waists, and upper arms along with hair ornaments. That was all.

Marvelous. It was that kind of a show. He sighed.

He looked at Shyla, who was frowning. (One cannot say much for their dancing skill,) she commented in thought, (but I don't suppose that's really the point.) She looked at the table top, not blushing but clearly annoyed. (I've never understood how any female can lower herself to that sort of thing. I hope they're not under any sort of force or coercion.)

(Let's see if we can eat on the porch instead? The guys can join us after they've eaten,) he suggested silently.

(Sounds good to me,) Shyla responded.

As one, he and Shyla rose and walked toward the kitchen. Peeking in, he saw the usual bustle one might expect in the kitchen of a place that served food to the general public.

"Hello?" he called. "We were wondering if we might be permitted to eat outside. It's ... quite noisy inside at present, and we enjoy a quiet meal."

A heavy-set man guffawed, and one of the waitresses rolled her eyes. But a tall woman with a no-nonsense look about her came forward, and smiled. "Of course," she said. "There are tables out there. Thank you for informing us that we would have customers using them."

"Our order has already been taken," he said. "I believe our companions would be content to stay inside, but my wife and I prefer the quiet."

"Understood," she said. Her expression suggested that she expected he only wished to avoid the show in order to maintain peace at home. Well, let her think what she wished. Some battles could not be won, and were small enough to not be worth fighting.

"Thank you," he said politely, then led Shyla to the tables on the porch. They sat with their backs to the window, and sighed.

"I hope the report that the food is good isn't too large an exaggeration," Shyla said.

"Agreed," he replied.

Thankfully, the food did prove edible. It wasn't outstanding, but then he was spoiled from eating Shyla's cooking.

They ate in silence, paid for their meal (and those of the two deputies), and then waited for the show to end. As anticipated, their traveling companions came out to join them shortly after the stage show finished.

Their hour for eating was complete. It was time to return to the sheriff's office and begin their assigned journey.