Disclaimer: I don't own anything Trigun, so don't sue me please, thank you!

Tying Up Loose Ends

Chapter Twenty-One

Tears for Fears

The lights of the room were dimmed; in the middle of the spartan space hunkered the massive hospital bed. Although Edy wasn't a small woman, she looked like a tiny child laying there, her eyes closed, tubes and wires running from all over her body to numerous machines that lurked at her bedside. She looked like death warmed over, except she'd been taken out of the oven too soon and her insides were still cold.

Vash approached her, sat on the edge of the bed, and took her hand. A gentle squeeze caused her to open her eyes and squint up at who was there; although it was still blurry, her vision had already begun to improve. A tiny, earnest smile played on her pale lips when she realized who held her hand.

How many times had he comforted her in her pains and troubles over the past few months? How much was she indebted to this gentle, kind-hearted man? Edy tried to say hello, but her words came out garbled and slurred; she couldn't make the words form properly in her mouth yet. Vash just smiled to say he understood and squeezed her hand even tighter as he fought back tears once more.

Milly had taken a seat on the other side of the bed but Meryl hung back in the doorway, unsure of what to say or do. Milly murmured kind words and told Edy all about what she and Meryl had been up to over the past month. She gently stroked Edy's matted, sweaty hair as she rambled on, trying to take all of their minds out and away from the cold, depressing hospital room.

Meryl hated hospitals and her discomfort was evident. Everything they symbolized reeked of death in her mind and seeing Edy here, especially in the intensive care unit, put her off completely.

A stroke… Old people had strokes, not young women in the prime of their lives. Could plants even have strokes? Meryl's knowledge of plant physiology was limited to almost nothing so she found no answers within herself.

Everything about this wasn't right. It wasn't how things were supposed to go. Milly and she were supposed to arrive to a loud, wonderful welcome and a huge, delicious feast. Everyone would laugh a lot, talk a lot, eat a lot, and stay up late into the night, making amends for lost time. Instead of being greeted by Vash's hyper joy, Wolfwood's sardonic grin and tongue, Edy'd loud, sincere laughter, and Isaiah's countless questions, the girls had only found Isaiah at home, in the living room with only a single lamp burning on the entire floor.

He sat there, curled into a ball with his bony, young-boy, knees tucked under his chin and his skinny arms holding his legs in tight. Whatever book that had currently held his fascination, Meryl hadn't noticed the title or cared, laid open beside him, completely ignored. Isaiah had been absorbed in staring at nothing in particular, his face still blotchy from crying.

When he had tried to answer their questions about where everyone was, the boy broke down into tears and had to be swept up into Milly's smothering yet comforting arms before he could settle down enough to explain.

Meryl decided she would stay behind and make sure Knives didn't cause any trouble while Isaiah went to see his sister, but he balked at this, explaining the situation he was in. Besides, he needed to go up and tell the other plant what had happened; in his shock, Isaiah had forgotten about the remaining tenant of the household until Meryl had mentioned him. Knives was probably besides himself, locked up and ignorant to what all the commotion had been about.

So the girls went to the hospital, staying there until late into night; Vash wanted to stay all night but the hospital staff kicked him out, claiming visiting hours were long over and he was in their way. As soon as they left Isaiah pulled out the old wooden case once more.

The gun had been cleaned and put away properly after its last trip out; not a finger had touched it since. Isaiah's training had been put off, secretly relieving him after he saw first hand the damage the weapon could do to flesh and bone. Carefully he unwrapped the weapon from it's black bedding and loaded it just as slowly. Isaiah wanted to vomit.

This sort of protection from Knives probably wasn't necessary, but the almost cumbersome weight in Isaiah's shaking hands brought him a tiny amount of relief. Edy swore that Knives posed no threat to the plants, but Isaiah would never forget the showdown in the cave, not in all his live long days.

Knives terrified him not only because of who he was, but what he was as well. A plant. They were the same physically, although not mentally. Knives could create blades with his own hand and his twin brother a gun (so Vash said; Isaiah had only seen defensive feathers brought forth by the better plant). Edy, on the other hand, could heal and so could her mother, a full female plant unlike her off-spring. The gender difference had started Isaiah to thinking, drawing upon his extensive knowledge of philosophy and literature, old and ancient.

The best theory he could come up with was that the creative properties of a woman had set the basis for the healing aspect. A woman could create and carry life virtually on her own, with only a little nudge from a man; according to some folklore, the first women could even do so without a man's touch. As for men, they never know what it is like to carry a life within themselves. Perhaps there needs to be a balance, life-giver and life-taker. Nature seemed to work in duality, but where did plants fit into nature?

Not knowing the answer to this, Isaiah feared his own power and how it would manifest itself when he became older. It wouldn't be much longer, if Vash and Knives' experiences were any example. Five years, maybe less. What would happen when his gift (or in his mind, his bane) would at last show its face?

These thoughts had been present beneath much of his waking life recently and they surfaced once more to carry him up the stairs, his father's gun clutched between two sweaty hands. Knees refused to flex and extend smoothly, trying to hinder the ascent. Not even bothering to bring a lamp since it would take one hand away from the weapon in his death grip, Isaiah squinted into the darkness and felt his way upward with his unsteady feet.

Knives' bedroom door stood near the top of the stairs, looming like the entrance to a tomb, locking away untold and primordial evils. There were ten different locks and dead bolts lining the edge of the door, all of which the plant could probably easily slice through now that he had recovered significantly. Isaiah wondered why he hadn't yet; maybe it was because he had no where to run, or even the ability to run.

Isaiah still remembered the day the locksmith came. Having nothing better to do, he, Vash, Wolfwood, and Edy had hung about the poor man as he worked, watching intently something that really stood only a notch above drying paint entertainment value-wise. When all the shiny new locks and bolts at last held the door securely shut the locksmith stood and eyed Edy, who stood between the two grown men. At last he shrugged and tromped down the stairs, shooting a parting, snide remark over his shoulder.

"It takes all kinds, honey. You can keep your men in line any way you want," he said. It was amazing how much Isaiah didn't understand, considering how well-read he was; why this comment made Edy and Vash blush madly while Wolfwood collapsed in a fit of laughter added to the list of "When you're older"s. Only later when he recounted the story to the Insurance Girls, who had sadly missed it the first time around due to a pressing report that needed to be written, did they through their tears and mirth explain it to the young boy. Isaiah couldn't stop blushing and scowling at his sister and the two men every time he saw them for a week.

Grown-ups were so weird, and far too obsessed with sex. That was another thing Isaiah dreaded about growing older.

Forced to release his handle on the gun, Isaiah reach forward to undo each lock, slowly but surely. A trembling hand pulled the door open. Inside he found not a ravenous monster crouched in the middle of soiled, shredded sheets, spittle flying wildly as the beast tossed its head in fury and indignation (as his over-active imagination excepted Knives to appear) but a seemingly ordinary man standing at the tiny, lone window, the moonlight gleaming off of his crutches.

Watching him turn from the window, Isaiah caught a glimpse of a face awash in fear. It was only a glimpse, because as soon as Knives saw the boy, his mask clamped down tight over his visage.

"What happened, Isaiah," he asked calmly, almost coolly. Few people in this world had spent enough time with Knives before expiring to learn his tones and mannerisms. If Edy or Vash had been there they would have known his worry and panic ran deep. Since it was just Isaiah, he thought the plant was a frigid prick. Inexpertly training the gun on Knives, Isaiah explained what happened in clipped, short phrases.

Much to his surprise, he watched the pale moonlight catch in the older plant's eyes as the scene from hours before unfolded in Isaiah's words. Slowly he made his way to the bed, sitting, releasing his arms from the cuffs, and setting the crutches to the side.

"She'll live," he whispered, half a question, half a plea.

"I… don't know. No word yet, hopefully soon," Isaiah muttered around clenched teeth and tears threatening to escape once again. He was already mortified at how he sobbed like a baby in Milly's arms only fifteen, twenty minutes before and there stood no chance in Hell that he'd lose it in front of Knives. Knives apparently no longer had such reservations himself.

Broad shoulders, slimmed down from prolonged sickness and bed-rest, shook, hands normally so sure and strong hid a face that had only shown Isaiah anger, hatred, disgust, and indifference before. Racking sobs tore from his throat as Knives wept.

As Knives truly and honestly wept.

* * * * *

The uncomfortable moment where Isaiah lost all will to point the muzzle of the gun at the bastard's head passed quickly. Heavy footsteps and those damn bells told of a visitor; Isaiah ran out of the room, slamming the door and sending the bolts home as quickly as possible. Wolfwood's voice called throughout the house, looking for Isaiah, so the boy complied, running down the stairs as quickly as he could.

"Is Edy okay," he shouted before he even saw the priest's stooped figure, weighed down with fatigue and worries. "Is she going to be okay, where is she, what happened?"

The questioned kept coming in a flood even after he ran into Wolfwood, the older man actually drawing Isaiah into a hug before he answered any of them.

"Edy's going to be just fine; nothing's going to take her down, not even a stroke," he tried to joke. "It was only a minor one, even though it didn't look like it; the doctors are telling us she'll be home in a week. We'll have to keep a close eye on her, and no more work for a while, Edy's going to hate that, but it's going to be okay. You should come see her, I'll bring you back with me."

Isaiah pulled away from Wolfwood's relieved ramblings and his embracing arms, shaking his head no. He'd promised Edy he wouldn't let anyone see him, that he'd keep their secret safe. Although it tore him to itty bitty pieces inside that he'd have to wait a week before seeing his sister, Isaiah didn't want to do anything that could bring suspicion down on them. There was no way they'd take him away from Edy, not after she was almost taken away from him. Wolfwood knew why he couldn't go; why was he tempting him so much?

"You should get back to the hospital; I'll tell Knives that Edy'll be alright," he muttered, his voice catching on the suggestion to see the other plant again so soon.

"Fuck 'em, let the bastard wallow in what ever emotions he might be capable of feeling right now," Wolfwood replied, a degree more bitter than he would like to have sounded.

Something needed to take on his anxiety, to be a scapegoat, and Knives was handy. In a convoluted and round-about way, neither he nor Vash would have met the Gardeners or have been in such a situation if it hadn't been for the little shit. One more reason to loathe the guy; Wolfwood hated being so wrapped up in the lives of these people, so much so that their lives had become his own. He hated actually loving someone for the first time in a long, long while. Love was weak, and no one who was weak could survive.

Isaiah nodded, agreeing to the particularly evil suggestion. Let Knives fester in his tears.

"You probably haven't gotten any dinner yet, have you," Isaiah asked, changing the subject to more mundane, less spiteful things.

"Now that you mention it, I think my stomach has turned itself inside out trying to find something to digest. Let's get some grub."

So they did. Upstairs, Knives had almost cried himself to sleep. He lay there, fully dressed, snot and tears making his face sticky as they dried upon his cheeks, lips, and chin. With a half-hearted swipe of his shirt sleeve he wiped much of it away. Confusion whipped his head into a terrible ache, coupled with the crying.

Why? Why am I so upset? I don't understand…