Chapter Text
The nice thing about Texas-- which is a mighty strong statement for Nicholas, as there’s little verging on none that’s nice about this godforsaken place in his estimation-- is that the horizon sits so far away that trouble has nowhere to hide. When just breathing kicks up a dust plume all the way to God, no guest is unanticipated.
It’s a bright Saturday morning that promises to turn into the kind of wet, pressing heat that makes Nicholas long for the dry fires of Hell. He looks up from the rock that Lizzie is excitedly showing him to see such a plume bloom outside of town.
“Padre, you’re not looking!” Lizzie whines. Nicholas pats her head absently as he squints into the distance. About three miles, if he had to guess. They had some time, but not nearly enough if it was trouble.
He crouches down so that he can wrap his hands around Lizzie’s and fold the rock into the center of her tiny fists. Nicholas looks her square in the eyes as he says, “Lizzie, go get Matthew and tell him to round up the littles. Take them into the church cellar.”
Lizzie’s eyes go round. “Is something bad going to happen?” she asks timorously. Her hands shake inside of Nicholas’, and he can see the reflection of her history replaying in her pupils.
“It’ll be alright,” he soothes. “We have to practice so we’re ready if something bad does happen.” If their visitor is moving at a walk-- which he guesses so, as no man or beast could be coaxed into a run under the baleful eye of the Texas sun-- it’ll be fifteen minutes before anyone else in town can see the dust, which gives him plenty of time to make some… preparations. Maybe even go out to meet their visitor and have a nice talk quiet-like outside the view of the townsfolk.
Ten minutes later, Nicholas kneels before the altar. His hands are buried in the trap door beneath it to extract its contents, priceless and irreplaceable as they are. He runs his fingers over all the vials-- six in a neat row, shimmering under the sunlight inside their velvet cradles-- but only picks free two of them with bitten-off fingernails. With three he’s dead either way, and he’d prefer the dignity of dying honest. He slips the vials into his jacket pocket and decides that while he’s on his knees anyway, it’s just sensible to send up a prayer that he won’t need this insurance.
The sanctuary door slams open. “Father, someone’s coming!” Clair shouts. “There’s a dust cloud, and Rollo says it’s a mile out of town!”
“Damn,” Nicholas says, closing the box and shoving it under the altar. Moving fast. They must have a mighty fine horse.
“I can’t find Neil,” Clair says. The words are efficient, bitten out with hard edges.
Nicholas rises to his feet and turns to face her. “I sent the children into the cellar already,” he says, and her face relaxes infinitesimally. “You know I take it real serious, being the shepherd of this flock. Have everyone else tuck up at the outskirts on the far side of town. I’ll take care of it.”
With the knowledge that the children are safe, Clair moves on to other practical matters. “You sure you don’t want a posse at your back, Father?”
Nicholas strides down the nave until he can rest a hand on Clair’s shoulder. “Let’s not go looking for that kind of trouble right away. Could just be a lost soul defected from Mr. Lincoln’s war, tired of brothers fighting against brothers. We don’t need to go putting their back up with more guns pointed their way after coming off those battlefields.” He grips her shoulder, tight enough to reassure but nowhere near as tight as he can, and uses it to turn her back towards the sanctuary doors. “I’ll finish my preparations if you get to yours.”
“Be safe, Father,” Clair says after a long pause. She ducks her head down briefly before turning to nearly run out of the church with her skirts swirling about her ankles. Nicholas dismisses it all from his mind; she’ll get the rest of the town hidden away without a single drop of sweat on her brow. That woman could command armies, he knew, and the war would be over in a day if she chose to join a side.
Nicholas takes a deep breath and ambles out of the church. He forces his limbs to stay loose and relaxed, even as the heft of the revolver on his hip weighs his soul down with memories heavier than iron and bullets.
By the time he gets to the northern edge of town, Nicholas estimates they're down to three quarters of a mile. The dust cloud the interloper kicks up mostly obscures them, but every once in a while, a playful breeze will shoo away the veil to reveal… well, Nicholas isn’t quite sure what it reveals. Based on the size and speed, it should be a horse, but the swaying, seasick gait isn’t right, and the feet are far too wide and lift too high with the legs bending wrong, and its body stretches wider than a pregnant mare. It leaves him feeling unsettled.
Finally, a stiff wind kicks up when the distance is more feet than miles, and between one blink and the next, the vision resolves itself. Nicholas forces his expression flat at the sight of the beast. It’s one of those new-fangled Thoma, born in a laboratory and as unnatural as holy forgiveness. Last he’d heard, they cost near on twenty-five hundred dollars a piece; either this man is frighteningly rich, or has upset someone of that social class by absconding with such an expensive pet. Maybe I should’ve brought a posse…
Nicholas stands firm as the beast pounds across the earth towards him and skids to a stop. He cranes his neck to look at what sits in the saddle, expecting a cold-faced rider sitting tall with a finger on a trigger. Instead, there’s just a set of cracked leather saddlebags and a blood-red lump, all covered in a fine sheet of dust.
“Good morning,” Nicholas says easily. The lump stirs and groans. “And who do I have the pleasure of meeting this fine day?” The lump slowly unfolds to reveal--
Well. Now that’s a sight for sore eyes. This was no dead-eyed deserter coated in blood and mud, overflowing with the horrors of war. Instead, a pair of ocean eyes fuzzily squint at Nicholas, clearly fighting to focus, underneath hair like spun gold and surrounded by porcelain skin that surely had never seen the Texas sun a day in its life.
Nicholas reminds himself firmly that this man is riding a scientifically created beast that cost enough money to feed a family for five years, and there’s a non-zero chance he came by it without honesty. Unfortunately, the thought only makes the stranger more appealing.
“D’you have a name, man?” Nicholas asks, because otherwise he’s going to ask for something much less wise but more enjoyable.
“Water…” the man whimpers as he slouches forward over the Thomas’ neck.
“Your mama must’ve been an interesting woman, to give you a name like that,” Wolfwood says without pity.
“Please… so thirsty…”
“Now, I know it’s a long way to here from just about anywhere with the rail how it’s been, and I’m sure it’s been a difficult journey. But you understand that there’s a lot to be wary of around here, stranger. I need a name and your business, and then we can talk victuals.”
The stranger looks up at Nicholas again, and this time his eyes are sharp and clear and his expression has shifted into something considering and intelligent. A hot flash of danger ripples outwards from Nicholas’ chest in response. Like a wolf sniffing the wind, Nicholas recognizes something that makes him wonder if he’s met his match--
“Vash,” the man says softly.
Nicholas feels an eyebrow raise involuntarily as a memory springs into his mind. He’s whisked back into the past between two beats of his heart, the wet heat of Texas melting away into the dry fires of Hell.
Every inch of Wolfwood’s body itched with a fine coating of powdery sand and the feeling of desiccation so strong that not even an ocean of water could relieve him. He and the others-- all equally blank-faced to hide the carefully leashed violence underneath-- were preparing for battle, listening intently to a bored officer reading off an intelligence report. “A man appearing twenty-four years of age, just shy of six foot tall with blonde hair and blue eyes. He wears a red duster and gloves at all times. The left arm is mechanical, easily recognizable due to having the color of aged copper and the lower arm constructed like raw bone. He wields a custom Colt with an unusually thick barrel. If you encounter him, do not engage and inform your superior officer immediately.”
Nicholas can’t see the man’s piece, and when he shifts his weight to get a better angle, all he sees of the left arm is a black sleeve tucked into a black glove. But-- it seems too much of a coincidence, even with the name Vash being as popular as Felipe or Bella among townies romanticizing the west these days.
Nicholas is tempted to press the issue, see if he can sniff out a lie that he can’t fully catch the scent of just on visuals alone, but it’s not worth trying to force it out immediately. No man is perfect; he’ll slip eventually, if there’s anything to slip on. Instead, Nicholas moves on. “So what’s your business? Running from whoever you… liberated the Thomas from?”
“My business is the pursuit of peace and love,” Vash says. Nicholas lets out a loud bray of laughter. “What?!”
Nicholas snickers, not even bothering to attempt politeness any longer. “Love and peace is a funny pursuit when you share a name with a man that’s shot so many bullets he’s earned sixty thousand Union dollars on his head.”
Vash cocks his head at Nicholas, and his eyes wander down to the gun at Nicholas’ hip before flicking back upwards. “Ah, but Father,” he says piously, “I’m sure you know first-hand how the path of peace requires much of us all.”
Nicholas narrows his eyes and wishes for a cigar. Vash stares back with wide, innocent eyes. It’s infuriating; it’s delicious; it makes Nicholas want to prod at him until he finds what’s hidden underneath. Anybody could be fooled by that face, by that careful expression, by that deliberate and rehearsed body language, but Nicholas wasn’t anybody, and he wasn’t fooled.
Nicholas breaks first. With a broad smile that’s just as false as Vash’s earlier piety, he says, “So it does. Well, what kind of pastor would I be to turn away the hungry, especially one with a noble mission like love and peace?”
“Oh, bless you Father,” Vash says, and Nicholas firmly tells himself that he’s surely imagining the current of coquetry that lurks under the words.
Nicholas is no muttonhead; he flips the reins over the Thomas’ head and starts to lead it into town as if it’s a courtesy and not insurance. He wonders for half a second if he’s going to lose an eye for his bravado, but the Thomas docilely follows. Maybe a fellow unnatural creature is less unnerved by Nicholas than horses, who all seem to loathe him on sight. Vash doesn’t comment on his forwardness, and in fact, he doesn’t speak at all as Nicholas leads them into town.
By the time they pass the first house, the center square is full of the normal hustle and bustle of a Saturday noontime. Clair undoubtedly had put a lookout on him and sent everyone back out as soon as he took the reins-- well, every adult, that is. The children are still conspicuously absent, and Nicholas is grateful for her foresight. With any luck, he’ll figure out how to send this troublesome outlaw away before the town is destroyed or Nicholas makes an unwise decision about carnal relations.
Nicholas’ feet have led him to the hitching post in front of the saloon without any command from his mind. He halts, suddenly unsure of his next step. He can feel a dozen pairs of eyes on him, sizing up the creature, sizing up the man astride it, sizing up Nicholas’ actions to see if danger still lurked. He’s faced plenty more pressure than this in his past, but he cared less about it then.
“What’s the matter, pastor? Never hitched a horse before? I know being a man of the cloth you must live simply, but surely not that simply,” Vash teases from high above.
“Never hitched a Thomas,” Nicholas responds crankily, which is a convenient excuse for his complete lack of skill with horses and associated beasties.
There’s a thud as Vash slides off the Thomas to land directly behind Nicholas. Nicholas feels the back of his neck prickle, and he grits his teeth so his shoulders don’t go up around his ears in defense. “I think you’ll find the principle is the same as a horse,” Vash says. It's a little quieter, nearly intimate as the teasing takes on a new color. He reaches past Nicholas on the right to take the reins and his body follows, sliding in between Nicholas and the Thomas instead of going the logical, long way around to Nicholas’ left. There’s so little room to move that parts of his anatomy brush against Nicholas, most notably a firm chest pressing against his arm and long fingers dragging across his, before taking the reins. Vash ties a neat halter hitch and turns to face Nicholas with a smile. “Let’s eat!”
Nicholas takes a beat to size Vash up now that his boots are on the earth. Under that enormous red duster, he’s willowy but with obvious strength. While his smooth face and easy movements and raw-boned structure suggest he’s a decade younger than Nicholas, his canny nature is too old for someone at the threshold of twenty. With that mop of hair, he looks taller than Nicholas, but Nicholas has to look slightly down to meet his eyes, so perhaps it’s the other way around. Vash’s expression remains open with a half-smile, seemingly ignorant of Nicholas’ evaluation, though Nicholas would put real money that he’s being evaluated just as thoroughly in return. All in all, he’s a paradox.
“I believe you said something about water earlier…?” Nicholas finally responds. He doesn’t bother to wait for an answer before walking towards the saloon doors, and his sharp ears catch the sound of Vash’s boots on the porch behind him, a sound that should be drowned under the noise of the saloon but isn’t for him.
Nicholas keeps moving as he pushes into the dark and cool interior, familiar enough with his surroundings that he can make his way to the bar even with sun-dazzled eyes. He’s surprised to hear Vash’s footsteps continue behind him without hesitation, not a single step taken out of place despite the sudden gloom and unfamiliar space. Nicholas bellies up to the bar and slouches heavily down on his forearms. From the corner of his eye, he sees Vash copying him exactly, and it’s difficult to tell if it’s intended as intimidation or a more friendly mimicking as if to say see, here, I’m not that different from you. And for the first time ever, Nicholas thinks that maybe it’s true.
“Livio, bring my new friend here some water, on me,” Nicholas calls down the bar to where the man himself is tapping a new keg. Livio grunts in return, which is as good an answer as any. The air in the saloon relaxes an inch as Nicholas says my new friend, but only an inch. Vash seems oblivious.
“You mentioned victuals?” Vash says with a pout as sweet as a puppy dog’s. Chrissakes. Does he know what he looks like when he does that? Probably. No, definitely.
Nicholas gives his best, warmest smile back, which stretches at his mouth unnaturally. Still, he’s been assured it’s an expression he can use to great effect, and Vash’s slight blush seems to agree. “Why that I did. Though I’m afraid there’s not much choice-- you can have what’s in the pot, or you can go hungry.”
“I’m not a man to turn down a hot meal,” Vash says earnestly.
Nicholas can’t help himself. “You certainly look like you could use a few more hot meals stuck to your ribs,” he says, because he doesn’t know how to be anything other than mean. “If you turned sideways, I think I’d lose sight of you.” Vash is shockingly, upsettingly delighted at that, which emerges as a smile that’s the most real expression to sit on his face thus far. It only eggs Wolfwood on. “I see why you were clinging onto the Thomas like that, because otherwise a stiff wind would blow you six ways from Sunday.”
Nicholas could’ve kept going until he earned either a punch or a kiss, but blessedly, Livio interrupts with the glass of water before Nicholas browbeats Vash into some flavor of physicality. Vash takes to the distraction, throwing back the entire glass in record time before thumping it back on the bar and letting out a huge sigh. “That’s the stuff,” he says, eyes half-closed in satisfaction. Nicholas bites the inside of his cheek hard, until it bleeds, until he can focus on the coppery tang in his mouth and all the memories that come with it instead of thinking about what other contexts Vash might make that expression in.
“The good preacher tells me there’s food around to fill my empty bread basket?” Vash asks hopefully to Livio while Nicholas wrestles down his baser instincts. Livio jerks a short nod and turns away. Vash watches him leave with a puzzled expression, but it shifts to that sly stare as he turns back to Nicholas. “Speaking of, you have me at a disadvantage, sir. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Father or Padre is what I go by most days,” Nicholas says. He’d be sent straight to confession for lying if he said he didn’t enjoy Vash’s impotent annoyance at the response. Vash is too easy of a mark to rile up; Nicholas hasn’t had fun like this in years. To Nicholas’ experienced eyes, he’d clearly either grown up without many other children around, or he’d been the crybaby running to his mama at every turn, and Nicholas knew which he’d place bets on.
“If that’s what your mama named you, you have no right to sass me about mine calling me water,” Vash protests.
It’s a fair hit, so Nicholas relents. “My mama named me nothin’,” he says mildly. “But folks call me Father Wolfwood when they need a blessing and Nicholas when they need a favor.”
That satisfied expression came back, like a cat in the cream, and Nicholas sends up a prayerful thanks to the heavens that Livio chooses this moment to drop in front of Vash a bowl of stewed beans topped with a biscuit, all heaped with cold cuts. Silence falls between them as Vash throws himself bodily on the food, so Nicholas’ focus shifts to listening to the conversations around him. After all, it isn’t eavesdropping if he uses the knowledge to tend to his flock better, is it? There’s not much said of interest, though. The conversation is mostly an excuse to sit in the saloon and keep a wary eye on the stranger, so he’s hearing repeats of gossip gone musty with disuse after being put away for weeks.
Vash noisily scrapes the final beans into his mouth and lets out a gusty exhale of satisfaction. “Thank you for the meal, Father Wolfwood.”
Nicholas quirks an eyebrow at him. “I think God deserves the thanks more than I,” he says.
“But surely providing me a meal is more than God’s grace requires of you,” Vash says.
Nicholas smirks. “Surely, which is why I only offered to pay for your drink. Livio, what do I owe you for the water?”
“Preacher drinks free,” Livio says. He’s been in one of his ways lately, so Nicholas is honored that he earned a full three word sentence.
Vash flushes bright red, incensed. “ What?! How’s the drink on you if it’s free?”
“Wouldn’t be free if I didn’t buy it for you,” Nicholas says lazily. “Now, don’t go stirring up trouble on your first day in town. I’m sure you’ll make good on what you owe, won’t you?”
Vash waffles for a long moment, but clearly can’t find a way to worm out of Nicholas’ trap. He concedes by asking Livio cautiously, “What currency do you prefer?” He doesn’t reach for a pocketbook, but the question implies he has money of many kinds, and isn’t that just interesting.
“Work,” Livio says.
That brightens Vash up. “I can work!” he says, and truth be told, it shocks Nicholas that such a weedy man prefers work over handing over a few cents.
“Tomorrow,” Livio grunts, and then he’s off to see whoever’s hailing him at the opposite end of the bar.
“He’s a quiet one,” Vash comments.
Nicholas doesn’t bite the bait. “God makes them in all ways,” he says instead.
Vash straightens and turns to face Nicholas, leaning just his left elbow on the bar. “And what way did he make you, Father Wolfwood?”
“Busy,” Nicholas says. “Aught else I can help you with, Vash?”
“It’s been a long journey, and I could use a place to put my head,” Vash says, and though his body hardly shifts, Nicholas can feel the tension that ripples through him at making the request. “And, for that matter, the Thomas could use some shade and water and feed.”
“Feed’ll cost ya,” Nicholas says. “Missus Thompson at the general store can add it to your tab. There’s a barn just outside town that you can bed down in. I can point you thataway on my way back to the church.”
Vash’s eyes turn down to look at the rough wood of the bartop, but it’s not so quick that Nicholas misses the sadness that blooms there. Must be a man that’s sent to have cold, lonesome nights in the barn quite often. The offer for Vash to warm Nicholas’ bed sits on his tongue like a bullet ready to be fired, but he swallows it. The weight of it sits heavy in his flesh, surrounded by so many of its brethren.
“I take it that’ll do. Service is at eight sharp tomorrow morning, if you’re the godly sort. Livio doesn’t serve dinner on Sundays, only supper, so I’d suggest stopping by the general store to stock up if you’d like to eat before evening. That’ll be added to the tab too, of course.”
“Of course,” Vash echoes. When he looks up, that smile as sharp as glass shards and dripping in pain is back. Nicholas would do anything to make that fake smile fade and a real expression replace it: tease him, scold him, kiss him…
“Well!” Nicholas declares with a slap of his hands on the bar. “Day’s a’wasting and plenty left still to do.” He gestures dramatically towards the saloon doors. “After you.”
Vash doesn’t mount the Thomas, choosing instead to lead it by the reins as Nicholas had. The melancholy that had fallen over Vash wasn’t shaken by the brightness of the sun, so they walk in silence towards the east edge of town. As they draw even with the church doors, Nicholas’ feet slow and come to a stop, Vash following like his shadow.
“See over yonder?” Nicholas says, pointing at a distant building that dances in the heat shimmer. Vash nods. “That’s the barn. If you’re stopping by the store or anything else in town before you bunk down, don’t frighten the folk.”
“Or else what?”
Nicholas smiles, letting a threat balance on it. He waits a long moment before replying so the weight of that expression can settle between them. “I hope that’s idle curiosity speaking rather than a desire to find out.”
“You’re a strange sort for a man of the cloth, Father Wolfwood,” Vash says, as if that’s any sort of reply.
More than you know, Nicholas thinks. “Like I said, God makes them in all ways. Have a good afternoon.”
With that, Nicholas turns to enter the church, because otherwise he’d follow Vash like a bluebottle fly, lazily buzzing around his head and looking for a meal of the flesh. Vash seems to take the curt dismissal well, as the door closes on silence rather than shrill protests.
Nicholas is not surprised to see Clair and a handful of other informal leaders of the town waiting for him in the sanctuary. Rather than speaking, he gestures at them and goes around the back of the altar to his sitting room. It’s a bit tight with so many crammed into the space, and most everyone except Clair and Nicholas have to stand, but Nicholas has no interest in one of the children bumbling up from the cellars to hear a discussion that’s none of their concern.
Nicholas doesn’t even have time to clear his throat before Rollo is speaking. “Do we need to round up a posse?” he says bluntly, because Rollo is a man with no patience for dancing around his meaning.
It would be easy enough for him to say no, he’s no threat without a pause, but that’s to Nicholas’ benefit, not the town’s, and it’s one hell of a lie to be telling anyway. Instead, Nicholas thinks it over. For the first time in many years, he may have met his match. He’s not sure he could take Vash if they went toe-to-toe, and the thought sets a cold weight to the bottom of Nicholas’ stomach as much as it thrills him.
“He looks a fool and acts an idiot, but I do believe he’s Vash the Stampede,” Nicholas says slowly. There’s one or two sharp indrawn breaths at that. “Now. I think he’s far more likely to run off in the night under his own power than to need for us to encourage him to depart. Not to say he’s a coward, but I don’t think he’s the kind of outlaw that craves the smell of blood. And I suspect taking up arms to drive him off or claim the bounty will cause far more destruction than letting him blow away on the wind.”
“So he’s a threat,” Rollo says, and the crowd murmurs.
Nicholas holds up a finger, and silence falls again. “He’s a dangerous man to have around, with his reputation and sixty thousand dollars on his head. But I don’t think he desires to be a threat until he’s backed into a corner and out of options. I’m not interested in putting him in that position, and if you agree, I’ve no doubt he’ll be gone within a week, no harm done to the town.”
“And what if you’re wrong?” Clair asks.
Nicholas half-turns to cast his eye over the far corner of the room. There stands a cross, as tall and as heavy as he, wrapped in a dirty white cloth like a shroud strapped closed with cracking leather belts. “Then I’ll handle it, as I made the call to let him stay. I’ve got mercy aplenty for the likes of any man who disrupts the peace.”