A/N: Another short chapter; sorry. I tried my hand at something that is not all action, and I'm anxious to know how you like it. R&R!
shatterdheart, Parrhasis, Marie Ward, Leviathon's Son, and saraki:Thanks for the compliments.
EmpressGalaxia: yeah, I thought the chapters were a little short. Oh...and thankyouthankyouthankyou for putting me on story alerts!
Pailay: the story's not all written, but I have a chapter layout (which I've already violated...)
Vash awoke with Dawn. At first, he thought it was still night: steel gray clouds roiled in the skies, blocking out the desert sun. The wind was howling past the cave, and rain had begun to fall–just a drizzle, a foreshadowing of what was coming.
He could see his breath in the damp, frigid cave. His fingers were numb, and he flexed his hand just to make sure it was still there. There was an abandoned pile of tinder in the center of the cave, flint and steel lying, discarded nearby. Vash picked up the stones, then struck them together three times in quick succession, awarded with a shower of sparks. The sparks dulled, then caught on the dry twigs, and Vash eagerly held his hands over the open flame.
Vash changed his flimsy dress coat for the more acceptable red overcoat, leaned back against the cave wall and closed his eyes.
"Bounty hunters chased you out of Baker, huh?"
Vash's eyes flew open. He had assumed Meryl was still asleep in the back of the cave. It took him a moment to comprehend what she had said, then he felt a sinking sensation. So she knew. Well, it was now or never. His eyes darted toward the entrance.
"Hold it, Turbo. I'm not after any reward."
Vash froze. Her tone had seemed almost joking. He looked at the outlaw afresh. The bruises on her cheek were yellowing, and the cut on her cheekbone had scabbed. He wondered briefly why she was out here alone–a topic she had carefully steered away from. The awkward silence was stretching on for what seemed like an eternity and Vash needed to say something. "Say, do you have any more of that nasty-looking meat? I'm starving!"
Meryl gave him a look. "Vash the Stampede–,"
"Saverem." Vash interrupted. "My name is Vash Saverem," he offered his hand.
Meryl shook the hand. "Meryl Stryfe." She pressed her lips together, trying to phrase her question lightly. "What...happened in July?" She gave him a sideways look to calculate his reaction, but a veil had fallen over his features.
"I don't remember." He said flatly. "I just remember the wreckage..." His throat constricted as he remembered the miles of smoldering lumber, the crushed stone that marked Lost July. There were no people–just ruined homes and coffee shops. Children's toys laid, abandoned, in the alleys. It had felt like a ghost town as Vash walked through the devastation, straining to hear screams, sobs: anything that would indicate human life. But there had just been silence.
Vash forced a cheery smile on his face. "Does this mean I get to ask you a question?"
"That depends. What's your question?"
Vash leaned forward, his face a study of seriousness, and whispered: "Do you know how to play hangman?"
"N" Vash said breathlessly.
Meryl carefully scratched "N" in the used letters box and drew spiky hair on the stick figure.
Vash sat back on his heels. His poor stick man was nearly dead–he was only missing his feet. "L?"
Vash watched with a growing sense of dismay as Meryl sketched a long trench coat on the hanged man. The stick man was starting to look vaguely familiar.
"K." The stick figure gained big goggle sunglasses.
"There!" Said Meryl triumphantly, sitting back. "You lose."
"Do not! You didn't draw any feet on that stick figure! I still have two more chances."
"Give it up, Vash. You lost."
Vash pouted. "What was the word, anyway?"
"Broom-head."
"That is not a word!" Vash spluttered indignantly.
Meryl took a sip of water and looked at him expectantly. They had agreed earlier that the loser of each game would give up a fact about themselves. So far Vash had learned that Meryl hated overcast skies yet loved the rain. She had an addiction to Chai Latté and liked to dance when no one was watching.
"Ok," Vash conceded, tapping a finger to his lips. "My favorite food is doughnuts." He laughed at the look on Meryl's face. "It's why I came to Baker."
Vash's gaze fell on the hangman sketch in the sand. He had lost the last three times in the row. He needed to gain the upper hand. "NEW GAME!" He cried happily. "Let's play 'Going on A Picnic.' I'll go first. I'm going on a picnic and I'm bringing...an apple."
"I'm going on a picnic and I'm bringing and apple and a Broom-head."
"I don't think I want to play this game anymore," muttered Vash.
The two outlaws lapsed into silence, their eyes wandering over to the darkening sky. Finally, Vash asked "What are you doing here, Meryl?"
Meryl's expression told him she didn't quite understand the question. "Well," she began "It beats being out there." A jerk of her head indicated the desert.
"No; I mean out here, in exile. There's no premium on your head."
When no answer was forthcoming, he snuck a glance at his companion. Her hand had fluttered unconsciously to the scrapes along her jawline. "I guess," she said with a sly smile, "The people of October didn't like me very much."
Vash recognized her answer: it was the same one he'd given when she had posed the same question. He shrugged–it was only fair.
Later that night, Vash lay sleeping against the wall of stone. The fire was dying now; only a few stubborn embers burned, casting a dim, rosy glow about their chamber. Meryl watched Vash the Stampede from across the cave. He didn't look like the plants she'd seen in their holding tanks: wingéd, graceful creatures with large black eyes. No; Vash didn't resemble them at all.
She was having a hard time reconciling this fun-loving goof with the cold outlaw portrayed in the "Wanted" ads. His answer to July hadn't made any sense, and Meryl had the feeling he wasn't telling her everything.
She wrapped her cloak more tightly around her as the wind whistled by. The temperature had dropped a good fifteen degrees with the advent of the storm. The rain that had started out as a drizzle was falling more steadily now. It occurred to her now that they should find a way to block the entrance, but she dismissed it. It's too late tonight, she thought with a yawn. We'll do it tomorrow. The idea of being locked in a dark hole in the rock with Gunsmoke's most wanted man should have made her uneasy–but somehow it didn't. She fell asleep on this thought.