Disclaimer: I don't own Trigun / Vash. He belongs to Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow. I only borrow, with respect.
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Convalescence
Year 116, month 7 day 14
'Twas only the evening of the second day after we'd carried him in from the desert, when he managed to get out of his room by himself. To put it mildly, I was surprised that he had recovered that much so quickly.
He came downstairs for dinner.
I had apologized to a few of the regulars because I knew that I was not as efficient as usual. I'd explained to them how I had discovered a lad dying of dehydration in the desert, and I was now looking after him as he recovered. They were all very understanding, bless them. It was one of them who told me, when she saw an unfamiliar young man struggling to get down the stairs.
I hurried to the stairway, and saw him clinging to the handrail as he slowly worked his way down the stairs. I moved close enough to catch him if he fell. However, he got down without my help. I'm not quite sure why, but I felt very proud of him for that.
I linked my arm in his, and guided him to the kitchen where I had already made up a plate of dinner for him. He sat and ate, and drank the juice I gave him. Then he talked with Shyla and waited patiently while she cooked and I tended customers, until we could help him get back up to his room for the night.
Then Shyla stood under his right arm, and I stood under his left, and he leaned heavily on us as we all walked back up both flights of stairs and got him into his room. He sat on his bed, and immediately lay back, exhausted. He thanked us, and began to fall asleep. I straightened him out, removed his boots, and covered him up.
Shyla backed out of the room ahead of me, and we both whispered "good night" to him as I closed his door.
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Year 116, month 7 day 15
On the third day, he sat on a chair in the kitchen nearly all day and kept us company. We helped him get back upstairs twice. Stairs can be particularly difficult, when one is weak.
He took a nap mid-morning, and again in the afternoon. That evening, he asked to come with us when we cleaned up around the power Plant.
Should he walk so far, so soon? When I voiced my worry, he smiled bashfully and said he thought he'd be all right. I made him sit while we greeted the girl in the bubble. He offered to keep her company, while we cleaned areas farther away from her.
Many people are uncomfortable around the Plant beings. He might only have offered to stay with her out of politeness. So I checked on him only a short while later.
To my surprise, I found him with both of his hands spread on the bubble's glass. The girl inside had reached out to him, placing her hands against his from her own side of the glass. She was smiling. I'd only seen her react like that once before, with Shyla. I quietly left the room.
His comfort with the lady in the bubble might be very good, if he ever learns... but that can wait. It's too soon. I shouldn't borrow trouble. Maybe the subject will never come up.
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Year 116, month 7 day 16
On the fourth day, he came down offering to help with breakfast. Neither Shyla nor I would allow him to help, not yet. So he sat in the kitchen and kept us company again.
Shyla fed him doughnuts, which he ate most enthusiastically. After that, I shooed him out of the café. He offered to help wash dishes, which I feared would exceed his strength.
He went outside, saw the children playing in the small park beside the café, and wanted to play with them. I had followed him, and I persuaded him to limit himself to sitting on a bench and tossing a ball with them. He agreed, if somewhat reluctantly.
I wasn't quite sure what to expect, so I lingered near to watch. Most young men of his apparent age aren't particularly interested in children. They view their younger siblings as annoyances, and evade them instead of seeking opportunities to play with them. Some descend to bullying and harassing children.
However, he and the children enjoyed playing together. It was the first time I'd heard him laugh. His laughter has a pleasant sound, with no malice in it. He behaved almost as if he was one of them, and treated each child as an equal.
Reassured by what I saw of his interaction with the children, I took lunch to the sheriff's office. This was part of my usual daily routine. Father had missed me terribly when I married, so it became a habit to carry lunch to that office every day. After my father retired, and later passed on, I continued taking lunch to the sheriff and deputies of our village.
When I returned, the young man looked uncomfortable. I asked if he was tired. "No," he said, and tossed the ball away without getting off the bench. I squeezed his shoulder with one hand, and then I let him be. I walked past him to return to the café.
That evening, he again sat in the kitchen during dinner. Again, he wanted to help wash dishes. I persuaded him to sit on a tall stool and limit himself to helping dry dishes before Shyla put them away. His help was welcome, though I wish I were more confident that the youth wasn't overtaxing himself so soon after his collapse.
He came to the power Plant after dinner again. This time, after we greeted the lady in the bubble, he insisted on helping at least a little. His willingness to help with our mundane chores – and that cheerfully, without complaint – this also endears him to me.
After we finished at the Plant and walked home, I invited him to join us in our rooms for the evening. I wanted to see if he would enjoy our company, and to see how tired he was.
"This is a night when Shyla and I usually read out loud to each other," I told him. "If you'll sit here" I gestured to the couch where Shyla and I usually shared a book "then it should be easy to include you." He sat down where I indicated readily enough.
I pulled a book off the shelf. When he was settled, I sat to his right and placed the open book in his lap. I linked my arm in his, resting my cheek against his shoulder, for that is a good position to see the book. I rested my hand on the page, ready to begin.
Shyla sat beside him to his left. She began to link her arm in his, but then she stopped with a gasp. She gently squeezed at his artificial arm through his sleeve, looking puzzled.
"Oh, that arm's a replacement," he said, and smiled with a slight blush. "Everything else is original."
He was quite tense, poor dear. He seemed so embarrassed.
"I was only surprised because I didn't know," Shyla said. "Tomorrow I'll sit on your other side." She smiled, linked her arm in his, and leaned her cheek against his left shoulder.
From the way he tensed up, I'd guess he's had little experience with such gentle displays of affection. I hope, in time, he will learn to accept such innocent contact comfortably. If not, I hope he will plainly ask us to avoid anything that makes him feel too awkward.
I read first, followed by Shyla. Finally, he read to us. He gradually relaxed as we read. Or, perhaps, he grew too weary to remain tense. Either way, his tension melted away.
None of us seemed eager for the evening to end, but we had to turn in. We needed to rest before opening the café on time the next morning. He gently disengaged himself from our linked arms, stood up, wished us goodnight, and went to his own room.
…
Later that night, I woke feeling restless. I don't suppose the thunder storm was helping any of us to sleep.
I peeked into Shyla's room, but she was sleeping peacefully. A slight smile turned up the corners of her mouth, as the lightning flash illumined her sweet, innocent face. I hoped that meant she was enjoying pleasant dreams.
She had done the most to look after our guest today, so I wasn't surprised that she was so tired she could sleep through a thunderstorm. I smiled and closed her door.
Since I couldn't sleep, and I was concerned for him anyhow, I threw a shawl around my shoulders and crossed the hall to check on our guest. He had left his door ajar, which made me feel less awkward about peering in.
What I saw made me hurry inside and close the door.
Not long after my father had become a Sheriff, there had been a bad shooting that resulted in deaths.
The night of the shooting, and every night immediately thereafter, my father had suffered terrible nightmares. He would kick and flail his arms about in his sleep. It was dangerous to draw too near to him, while he was trapped in one of those nightmares.
Mother had taught me what to do. Stay near to him, but out of his reach. Call to him, softly, speaking his name, until he wakes. When he waked, he would need a hug, and he was likely to cry. Keep hugging him until he stopped crying.
For the rest of his life, even after Mother died, my father continued to suffer from those nightmares from time to time. A nightmare was especially likely to come if anything reminded him of something bad that had happened. Thankfully, the nightmares came less and less frequently as the years wore on. Unfortunately, they never quite faded away.
After seeing all the many scars on this poor young man's body, I was not surprised that he would suffer nightmares similar to my late father's. However, I suddenly realized that I didn't know this youth's name. I couldn't call to him by name, as I had to my father.
I resolved to ask his name at the earliest opportunity, when it wouldn't seem pushy.
Without his name, all I could do was repeat, "It's only a dream. You're safe. It's ok to wake up. I'm Naomi, your friend that you've been staying with. Please, wake up!"
It took perhaps ten minutes before he sat up with wide eyes and a shocked expression.
I gave him a few heartbeats to catch his breath, and then I said, "Are you all right?"
He startled as he turned to look toward me, and a lightning flash showed that he had clenched his fists. When he saw me, though, he relaxed some. "I don't know," he said, "but I… I think, perhaps, I will be."
His breathing was still coming in gasps. I sat on the stool near his bed. The way the room is oriented, his left side is toward the wall. So his right hand was nearest to me. I reached out and took his right hand into mine, and squeezed it gently.
"Is there anything I can do?" I asked. "I could get you some hot tea, or some food, or some fresh pajamas. I could bring clean sheets and change the bed…"
I felt him squeeze my hand gently in response. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Thank you for offering, but I don't want to be any more trouble to you."
"You're no trouble," I said chidingly, and then smiled to show I meant it. "I won't ask, but if you want to talk about it, I'm here for you."
"Thank you, again," he said softly. "It was kind of you to come in and see that I was ok. I think I should try to sleep again, though."
"All right," I said. I squeezed his hand again, and felt a response, before I released him. "I hope you rest better for the rest of the night."
I could hear the thunder storm moving away out over the desert, so I hoped that I might be able to sleep again, also.
"You, too," he said softly, as he lay back down.
I softly opened his door and left his room through it. From the hallway, I pulled the door back to nearly closed as it had been when I found it.
I waited in the hallway for a little. When I heard his breathing become deep and even, the sound of a healthy sleep, I returned to my own room.
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Year 116, month 7 day 17
The fifth morning, I went early to check on him again. He might have driven himself too hard, or been severely drained by that nightmare, and grown weak again. However, I found his door open and his room empty. I checked the café and its kitchen, but still I did not find him.
I thought he had gone away. This made me so very sad that, almost before I realized it was happening, I had tears running down my face.
I went out onto the back porch... and saw him kneeling at the corner of my land closest to the village well. He was stabbing at the ground with a pointed piece of metal, and had a bucket of water by him.
I quickly dried my eyes, feeling foolish for crying when he'd not gone away after all. I walked over to him. "What are you doing?" I asked, curious.
"I wanted to give you a gift," he said, continuing to work on the ground with his tool. He didn't look up. "I wanted to thank you for all of your kindness to me."
"That's not needful," I said gently. "Please, don't overdo and make yourself ill again."
He briefly smiled up at me, and then returned his attention to his work.
My curiosity got the better of me, so I asked, "What is it?"
"Seeds," he said. "If they grow, you will have an apple tree."
"The apples we buy from the caravan don't usually have seeds that will grow," I said.
"I brought these with me," he said.
I stayed with him in silence while he finished softening the ground, planting the seeds, and watering the place where the seeds were planted. All of these things he did on his knees.
"Will you be staying with us, at least until the tree grows?" I asked. Was this meant as a parting gift?
He looked up at me, with his wounded-child eyes. I could see his face and eyes, because he had to look up just far enough that his abundant black hair fell away from his face.
"You don't know me yet," he said quietly. "I'm older than I look. What if I'm a terrible person? You might not want me around."
I gently reached out to hold his upturned face in my hands. "You are gentle with Shyla and the children," I said. "You say 'please' and 'thank you' like you mean it. You help us with our work. You are polite to the Plant lady. You express concern for us, and for our safety. From these things, I can see that your heart is good and kind."
"No matter what your past mistakes might be," I continued, "everyone deserves a second chance, if they are willing to improve. Try to forgive yourself; you'll find that it helps."
"Thank you," he said softly, with tears in his eyes. "I will try."
"You are welcome to stay with us," I said, "as long as you want or need."
He nodded, and then gently pulled my hands away from his face. He stood up, and looked out toward the horizon where the suns were rising. "It looks like time to start breakfast," he said.
"Yes," I said, and linked my arm with his as we walked to the kitchen.
We must have made an odd-looking pair! I am old, and far less lean than I once was. The top of my head is roughly even with his shoulder. He is young, and tall, and really far too lean. I want to try curing his body of that half-starved look, but I must go at it slowly. If he really has been starving, then giving him too much food, too quickly, will only make him worse.
"You haven't told me your name yet," I said. "May I know it?" I wondered why, after nearly a week, he had never yet introduced himself.
"If I died out there in the desert," he said, "I'd have no need of a name." There was no expression whatsoever in his soft voice as he spoke those words.
"But thankfully you are alive, and not dead," I said, smiling, as we entered the kitchen.
"Yes, I'm alive," he said softly and expressionlessly.
"I need to call you something," I said playfully. I let go of his arm, and turned to face him.
As if by reflex, his body turned so that he faced me fully. "Call me whatever you like," he said, in that same heartbreakingly expressionless monotone. "I will learn to answer to it."
"Don't you wish us to use your real name?" I could see Shyla's back as she stood frying doughnuts. Just then, he was standing with his back toward her. She shook her head.
"What ever you choose to call me can become my real name," he said.
I had not expected this. Shyla's head shake discouraged me from pressing him further.
"'Nate' means 'gift.' You are a blessing to us, and that is a type of gift," I said slowly. "Would that suit you?"
"If you wish it," he said, bowing his head in a prolonged nod of acknowledgement, "then I shall be called Nate."
After that, the fifth day mostly followed the pattern of the fourth. He did a little more work to help us than the day before, though. He can be a determined rascal!
After lunch, he asked about work available locally. I told him there was no need for that yet, but he insisted. "I've been staying in your room and eating your food," he said. "It's only right that I pay for it. Money for food doesn't grow out of thin air."
Well, I couldn't argue with that, even though I wanted to. As he recovers, he is increasingly showing signs of a healthy appetite, although he eats less than I had feared he might. He may be more nearly grown than I'd first guessed, since a growing boy's appetite is endless and bottomless.
I told him where people put up notices, to hire others to do work for them.
He came back in plenty of time to wash up for dinner, smelling like a Thomas coop (before washing up) and carrying a small black kitten. He cradled the tiny bundle of fluff against his body with his left arm, and gently stroked its soft fur with his natural hand.
He saw Shyla's eyes light up when she saw the kitten, and immediately offered it to her.
"Really?" she said, looking inquiringly toward me.
"You'll have to take care of it," I warned, but I was smiling. I should have thought of getting her a pet before this.
"Oh, thank you!" she said, holding out her hands to receive it.
She was nearly overwhelmed by the gift, which made him smile.
So my girl and I spent some time getting the little creature settled in our rooms before going down to tend dinner, while Nate was washing up in his own room.
I made Nate sit instead of working that evening, fearful of a relapse if he was too active.
I found myself thinking that the Thomas handler was growing old enough that he'd likely appreciate some hired help. I hoped he wouldn't work Nate too hard at first, though. I didn't want the poor lad to grow ill again. Goodness knows that man could easily afford to pay an employee or three!
However, that man has also been trying to woo me. He usually came by the café at least twice each afternoon, during what was supposed to be our rest time. I'd never wanted that type of attention from him. I'd told him so, repeatedly, but he wouldn't listen.
I couldn't lock him out, because that would create difficulties for my boarders. They lived in rooms on the middle floor, between the café and the top floor where Shyla, Nate and I lived. Although there was an external stairway, most preferred to enter through the café. Most of them bought and ate their meals there, also.
My unwelcome suitor came to dinner that night. He boasted loudly of hiring my "foundling" as a favor to me. He complained that the youth was entirely without skill around the Thomases, but he also said that the boy could clean a stall well enough... when he wasn't tripping over his own two feet or knocking things over.
Such clumsiness might mean that Nate had pushed himself too hard, I worried.
We spent another evening reading, after cleaning up at the Plant. This time, he knew what to expect and was less tense when we sat by him. The kitten wanted to join us, so Shyla took it onto her lap. When the hour grew late, he bid us goodnight as he had the prior evening.
I was very concerned that he might have overworked himself. After I had brushed Shyla's hair, and she had gone to bed with her kitten, my worries for him troubled me too much for sleep. I wrapped a shawl over my nightgown, and went to check on him.
His door was unlatched. A night breeze may have nudged it further ajar, since his window was open. I had no shoes on, and had somehow missed all of the creaky boards, so I made no sound.
He stood looking out of his window, as if lost in thought. Then he lowered his head until his chin nearly touched his chest. His abundant shoulder-length hair completely screened his face. He pressed his palms together.
Then I heard him whisper, very softly. Somehow, although spoken so very softly, his words came to me very clearly. "God," he whispered, "thank You for bringing me here, to them. Please, let me stay a long time. Please, keep them safe."
I quietly backed away. I felt awkward for accidentally intruding on his private heartfelt prayer. I had prayed similar prayers ever since his arrival.
Learning that he felt much the same way as I did was comforting. I would do my very best to help God provide a favorable answer to that prayer.
