Expected Arrival

"Why didn't you tell him the truth last night?" Knives asked, his voice contrived to be toneless but for a hint of curiosity.

She glanced up at him. One sleeve done. Twelve more rows for the other. She kept track of the number of stitches she made. "Twenty-three, twenty-four… Because. I just wanted to prove you right." She was feeling bristly. Poor sleep did that to her.

He was taken aback by this answer, but tried not to show it. "Humans," he muttered, obviously disgusted.

But he still wanted attention. She was knitting and not giving enough to him. And she was starting to get annoyed.

"He knows you lied," he said, sounding almost pleased now.

"That's nice," she murmured, returning to counting. This row seemed like it had a few stitches too many…

Knives was getting frustrated. She could hear it in his voice, but was too irritated to care. She had made so many stupid mistakes in just this one sleeve. Maybe she could just take a nap and leave this baby to take care of himself… But Vash probably wouldn't like that. She sighed.

"I think I'll use you to show him just how corrupt humans can be," he tried again, bemused by this thought.

He was saved from being stabbed in the temple with a pair of knitting needles by a knock on the door. She rose to answer it, leaving Knives thwarted yet again.

He was, however, too full of hubris to call after her, but instead just sulked silently and waited for her return.

She did not expect either Milly or Vash to knock at the door, which meant that it was probably a stranger. Which meant it was probably the postman.

Which meant it was probably the letter from the Society.

She pinched her cheeks a little on the way to get a bit of color into them, praying the circles under her eyes did not make her look too raccoonish. Maybe it really was Vash or Milly, and they had just forgotten their key. Maybe it was the landlady to check on them.

But as she opened the door, she saw that it was indeed the postman.

He was a friendly gentleman, bordering on elderly, but still spry enough to make his daily routes with ease. She had seen him several times and had struck up conversation with him on more than one of these occasions, but she still did not know his name.

Though he, evidently, knew hers. "Good morning, Meryl-san, I hope I didn't interrupt anything important."

"No, not at all." She smiled, though it was a bit forced. It wasn't easy to forget you hadn't slept.

"I've got…" Here he reached into his rather expansive sack and pulled out five or so letters. She had not expected so many, but Milly regularly received quite a bit of mail. It must have been sitting for a while, waiting to be directed to her new address. "…several for you today." He handed them to her with a smile and a wave, then turned and vanished.

He had a wife and three grown children he was helping to support and could still smile at her so kindheartedly and freely.

She envied him.

Watching him walk away out of the corner of her eye, she sighed, then started to flip through the envelopes. Milly Thompson, Milly Thompson, Milly Thompson, Milly Thompson…

Meryl Stryfe and Milly Thompson.

A grim smile poured itself onto her lips, cold. It was here.

It was heavy. There were definitely checks in here then.

All she could think was how much Knives would rejoice.

She and Milly would have to go. Vash would stay here.

Or disappear.

He would disappear and she would never see him again.

She stepped back into the house and shut the door behind her, then leaned on it, seeking support. She would be alone again.

No, she would have Milly. Milly would always be there.

But Milly was still struggling to get over the death of the priest. She inhaled sharply. She herself was not being a very supportive friend through all this. But what could she do? Milly never needed her.

No, Vash had said that Milly needed her. And if Vash had said it, then it was true. Wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

She pressed the letter to her forehead, trying to hold back tears, clutching herself in desperation for something tangible. Vash would disappear. She would never see him again.

Slowly she slid down the door, her face pressed into her knees, the letters a heap on the floor beside her. When had this become more than a job? When had she decided that it was "all right" to fall in love with the most destructive man humankind had ever known? When had her work ever been acceptable this shoddily done, this poorly thought-through?

Why was she such a fool?

Of course Knives was right. Vash could never love her. She was a speck, a fly. He was a god. He was immortal, all-powerful, and immensely kind, the emotional god. Knives was his logical counterpoint.

How could she love a fly? They died so fast, were so noisy and disgusting.

How was she different than a fly to him?

It was cold. How could the desert be so cold? She held her knees tighter.

Surely Knives was wondering where she was at this point. It wasn't like her to be so tardy.

She was useful to him, to them. She fixed their food, cleaned the house, made their clothes. Why? Why did they dally with her? Why didn't they just destroy everything, everything filthy, and live together in their own perfection, together and happy and peaceful?

A sob seized her throat by the teeth. Why Vash? Why him? Why couldn't he have been someone she hated, the merciless killer she had pictured at first?

Why had he never said her name?

"Damn you…" she choked into her tights, which were growing damp, "Vash the Stampede… you never… never…"

"Meryl?" The voice sounded almost concerned, floating down the hall from Knives' room. "Where did you go?"

Concern? She almost laughed aloud bitterly. Gods have no care for flies. Flies had no souls; they were nothing but a fleeting annoyance.

The voice again, hesitant almost. "Meryl? Is that you?"

She had to go back to him. He would talk to Vash later and she didn't want any questions. She cleared her throat, trying to rein her voice back to some semblance of calmness. "Just a minute… I'll be there in a minute…" It would have to do.

With trembling limbs, she stood and picked up the letters. She moved slowly to Milly's room and deposited the girl's mail on her bed, then turned to the door of the room. She clung to the letter addressed to both of them, wanting to give into her temptation and read it, but unsure whether to do so without Milly or not.

A quick trip to the bathroom to try to dissuade the red in her eyes from making a permanent home there, and she was ready to go back to Knives, the letter still between her fingers.

She meandered into the room as if she hadn't a care in the world, settling herself down in her chair, and picking up the needles. "Just the postman."

It seemed like something about humans lying caught on his lips, but he swallowed the words as he saw her face, and frowned instead. For some reason this disturbed her more. He lay still, facing that point in the ceiling, always the same place, and she sat, knitting in relative silence. The letter rested at her feet, cold and uninviting.

With hard eyes and set features, she decided to wait for Milly. It was always easier, she reasoned darkly, to have someone's shoulder to cry on.