*sings the angst song*
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When Knives woke up he was surprised to find that it was already past noon. The sunlight that had been threatening to spill in the window when he finally succumbed to sleep had some and passed them by completely. All that came in the window was light reflected off the roof of the building next to them, leaving the room dim. He was even more surprised to see that he was the first one awake. The sound of his brother's snoring filled the room, a soft, repetitive sound that was entirely comforting and usual in this strange place. He carefully rolled over and looked at the other people on the bed. Vash had somehow managed to sprawl out over half the bed, arms and legs akimbo, mouth open, and still managing to somehow look angelic. Running one hand through his horrible bed hair, he wondered anew how his brother managed. No matter how short he kept his hair it still snarled and poked up in odd places, but Vash could grow his hair to his shoulders and never have a snarl. It wasn't fair. He had one accused Meryl or brushing it while he slept, but he knew that was false. His brother's hair was perfect, just like his brother. And his hair was horrible, just like him.
He carefully propped himself up on one arm so he could see Kiley's face, and his heart lurched when he saw that she had been crying. Her lips were slightly pursed, and her breath whistled through them, but his vision was caught not on their inviting shape, but on the evidence of her misery.
Was she so upset to see them? Was their coming after her so wrong? She had never come back to the ship, and was it really because she had never wanted to see them again? Even when the option was capture and torture, she had chosen to remain away. Was that a clue? He remembered how tense she had gotten last night when he slipped his arms off her shoulders and rolled over and put his back to hers. He could still feel her stiffen against his back before she slowly relaxed against him. He had worried that holding her as they slept was too intimate, but was even sleeping next to her too much?
She must hate him. Months and then years had passed, and he told himself that she must be busy, must be doing something important somewhere very far away. And then it turned out she was working in a plant, in December. Not that far away at all; maybe a week's worth of travel time if she walked. And working in a plant, of all places. Why? Why add to the suffering of her family? Was it not enough that the humans worked to drain the life from them, that they had to have one of their own help?
If she had cared at all, she would have come back at some point. He had to accept this. That she hadn't was evidence enough that she had left them, and wanted to stay away. She had looked to start a new life on this world, and it was hubris to assume that it needed to include him because it had started in his ship. It was her fresh beginning, and she could do with it what she pleased. If that didn't include him, well, that was entirely his fault. He had been given the first chance with her by whoever had put her here, and he had messed it up.
His gaze shifted from her face and traveled around the room. The room was so bare, so devoid of anything to give him a clue to her new life. There were no pictures on the walls, no knickknacks resting atop the armoire, save for a dried bouquet of flowers hanging from one corner. He wondered who had given them to her, and if he could kill him. He wondered if he had been invited into this room, onto this bed. This bed was too large for one person. She probably had found someone new, someone to share this bed with. Someone who didn't hit her, someone who wasn't cold, or cruel. Someone who wasn't him. But try as he might, he couldn't put a face to this new man. He didn't know if that was because he lacked imagination, or if it was because, after putting a face to his replacement, even a hypothetical one, his heart might break.
He had hoped while in the ship that she had thought of him the way that he had thought of her, that she might have waited for him, but he hadn't really expected her to. She was too intelligent to settle for someone like him. He sat and watched her sleep, and remembered all the times he had screwed up where she was concerned, all the things he had done that had made her decide that spending any time near him was a bad idea.
He had to stop his hand as he found himself reaching out towards her, aching to wipe away the tracks the tears had traced down her face. Her cheek looked so soft, so sweet, her visage so gentle in repose that his heart ached even more. The pain she suffered was his fault. She had stayed behind because of him, and this was the result. The broken body that he and Vash had worked so hard to fix? His fault. If only things could be different, if only he could somehow go back in time and convince her to not leave. Every now and then, he could pretend that he hadn't lost her, but seeing her now he knew that he had. He had once held this, once had the right to be there if she was crying , but had lost it.
And he had no one to blame but himself.