DISCLAIMER: Trigun and its characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

Several hours of blissful rest passed as Vash held Meryl. But even she proved unable to keep away the echoes of his past for long, and the memories resurfaced.

Vash held his gun trained on the man not more than ten feet away from him, trying to keep his eyes from taking in the background carnage. Something inside him was nearing the boiling point as he fought not to look at the family that had died defending the wagon that held all their worldly possessions. The family whose five corpses were littered on the ground surrounding the wagon, its thomases having broken loose and escaped during the gunfight.

Vash the Stampede had arrived too late.

"Why?" Vash demanded, struggling to stay composed.

The killer hawked and spat. "They had water and food. I wanted it. That simple."

"You didn't have to kill them all. If you were able to take them on by yourself, you were able to at least let the kids live."

"So?"

"You didn't have to kill them all, damn you! Even if you killed the three adults, you could still have let the two kids live, they were no threat to you. Why did you kill the whole family?"

The killer could have been scared of Vash, or defiant, or amused; he wasn't anything. There was no emotion as he gave his three-word explanation.

"Because I could."

There was no reasoning. All the killing would just go on and on and on. Vash could not stop it; he would never be able to save the human race from itself. The thing inside threatened to boil over…

A movement against his skin triggered him. He rolled out of bed, gun snatched from beneath his pillow and coming up on target…

Meryl breathed quietly in her sleep, curled up in the sheets, blissfully unaware of the revolver's sights lined up between her eyes.

Vash's own eyes widened and his finger came quickly off the trigger. Took the gun off-line. Stared at the annoying, bitchy woman who had somehow become a friend…the woman who had brought a momentary peace to him in her arms.

He knew what he had to do. Laid the gun on the bed. Quietly but quickly pulled on pants and a shirt, fumbling to get the damn thing buttoned. Pulled gloves on hands that were already starting to shake, grabbed the gun and headed down to the bar, so distracted he didn't even scan as he went down the stairs.

The man called Barkeep was either awake or a very light sleeper, because at the sound of Vash coming down the stairs a door to a back room opened and Barkeep stepped out, still dressed in his clothes from last night.

He caught sight of Vash and stepped to the bar. Relaxed his right arm and let the collapsible baton hidden in the sleeve slide onto the bar and rest in plain sight, a sign of trust that Vash was not the trouble he had been anticipating. "Don't you ever sleep? Or do you just run on alcohol?"

His expression grew serious as he got a good look at Vash, gun shaking in a hand whose tremors were spreading to his arm. The gunman made it to the bar just in time to toss the revolver onto the nicked-and-scratched surface and brace himself against the bar as a violent shudder took hold and raced through him, threatening to force him to collapse to the ground. He swore, trying to control his rebellious body.

Barkeep was busy getting a glass and some pills and a bottle of tonic water, setting everything up for when it would be needed. "Quit fighting it," he warned. "Relax and let it run its course."

Vash could not say how long the attack lasted, but it felt like his body was having its own earthquake. He shook uncontrollably, hanging on to the bar with all the strength he could muster, and his heart seemed to try to beat itself out of his chest. His breath came in ragged gasps, and part of him felt like it wanted to break something for no other reason than to break it.

Finally, it passed. He leaned against the bar, chest heaving like he had just gone twelve rounds.

Barkeep poured some tonic water into the glass, put the pills into the water. They dissolved with a fizzing sound, and he placed the glass firmly into an unsteady hand. "Drink."

Vash shakily complied. "What – what was that?" he asked weakly, head lolling on his arms.

"Something to settle you. Always helped me."

"No. What – what happened to me?"

Barkeep's face was blank, but his eyes were sympathetic. "Killer's shakes."

"Never – killed – anyone," Vash gritted, still breathing hard. Eyes were glazed, still seeing his sights lined up on Meryl.

"'Killer' is not the important part. Some men, even some good ones, can kill and not be bothered."

"Why?" Vash cut in. "Can't ever understand why."

Barkeep took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Even just talking about such things was getting close to opening doors he needed to stay closed, because of what waited behind them.

But the blond man before him was clearly in a bad way, the same as he had been in another life. Vash the Stampede needed help, and she would want him to help.

"Some people, killing doesn't bother because they don't have what bothers most folks; others, it doesn't bother because they know they were right to do it, no matter what anyone says.

"But most people whose work involves pulling the trigger are bothered on some level, even if it doesn't show. Even if they don't know it until after a long time. You get enough blood on your hands, eventually it won't wash off. At some point, that hits home. Maybe you kill one too many times; maybe you kill someone you weren't aiming at; maybe you meet someone who shows you the world's not just people who kill and people who get killed.

"However it happens, your worldview gets shaken at the core. You're not just putting holes in an object, you're taking a life. Taking away all the potential good this man might have done, taking away any chance a bad man might have to change for the better, and that's scary, because you've changed for the better. You've found this wonderful woman named Jamie and you've got a chance for a future you never thought you'd have, and suddenly you mind dying.

"This happens, and every time you don't die, it hits home that someone else did, and at some point you will, and you'll deserve to. It's a crisis of conscience, and it hits you like a wave, the killer's shakes. Every time, it hits you, until you resolve that crisis."

"Who's Jamie?" Vash asked. Breathing had steadied, but he was still slumped against the bar.

"Hmm?"

"You said 'you've found this wonderful woman named Jamie'. Who is that?"

Putting away the tonic water, pills, and glass made a handy excuse to avoid Vash's eyes. "Just a random name."

Now Vash found the strength to prop his head up on one hand. "Don't feed me crap. And don't feed me that Barkeep crap, either, you're more than you say. Just who the hell are you?"

Barkeep met his gaze evenly, back on solid footing. "Call me Ishmael."

Vash snorted and pushed himself off the bar. Whatever was in those pills was helping his strength return from the "killer's shakes".

"I know a priest who's only a little more annoying than you. Here." Took his revolver from the bar and held it out, butt first. "I came down here because I need you to hold on to this."

The bartender's eyebrow arched as he accepted the weapon. Hefted it. "Heavy. Good balance, though." Lined it up. "Good sight alignment. I like the six o'clock barrel, bet it gives better control than most. Somebody knew what they were doing."

"Yeah. He's good at what he does," Vash concurred darkly of his brother.

"I don't mind holding on to it for you, but don't think just getting rid of it for a while will solve anything. You've got a crisis of conscience going on, and it's kicking up one hell of a storm inside you. Gun or no gun, it's going to tear you up unless you get it fixed."

"Maybe." Vash shrugged. "I've been called a hellspawn too many times to count. Maybe that's closer to being right than I've ever wanted to admit."

Barkeep shrugged back. "You don't look like any kind of devil or demon to me."

"Maybe I'm something in between."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. There's an old phrase, part of it is '…life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.'"

"The point?"

"The important part is that word – 'pursuit'. More important than achieving the goal, is that you keep trying to achieve the goal."

"What if the goal is destroying the entire human race?"

Another shrug. "Everyone needs a hobby. Hopefully there's someone else out there whose goal is saving the entire human race, who tries just a little bit harder."

Vash shook his head. "You're a weird cat."

"Smile when you say that to a man with a gun." The revolver disappeared below the bar as a morning crow sounded from outside. "And so the day begins. You might want to get whatever sleep you still can."

"Why?"

"Because you caught Kurtz's eye last night. If you're going to be unarmed, you'll want to at least be sharp."

"What's his problem, anyway?" Vash queried.

"He's O'Brien's ramrod; keeps the rest of her men on leash, takes care of her dirty work. I'd wager over half the things she's ordered, he's done himself."

"Figure him for that murder you mentioned?"

"I do. You saw him last night; death isn't just his job. And between you and him, I think he's itching to know which of you survives a gunfight."

"Don't suppose he'd just let me say it's him and leave it at that?"

Barkeep snorted as he shook his head. "Nice thought, but no. On the other hand, he won't move on you without O'Brien's say-so. He'll be coming soon, I think, but it'll be to talk. Make no mistake, though – Kurtz is devil-ridden, for sure."

"I'm starting to think we should just get the damn water and leave, the hell with sleep."

"Too late. Big Sister is sure to already know about last night. She's not going to let any of you leave until she knows exactly how much of a risk you are to whatever she's got going on here."

Vash sighed and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the persistent image of Meryl in his gun sights. "Damn it. I wish I'd stop getting dragged into messes. I think I will try to get some more sleep. At least nightmares I can wake up from." Started up the stairs again. "Keep the damn gun. For good."