[ h a l c y o n . ] ₍ ₁₈₊ ₎

Aurelius stares confidently into his pot, inspecting the depression he's uncovered in the dirt. If this was all there was to gardening, he could handle it just fine.

"This is the most efficient way," he counters, and scoops a second trowel-full of soil to pile over the first. Another shower of specks scatter and land on the grapes and into Vash's poor glass. Of course, Aurelius's own glass is perfectly fine, having been floating near his head the entire time.

"I can't see what I'm doing with all the earth in the way," the angel explains as he grabs his angel trumpet plant and tries placing it in the pot. The roots are still a bit too long, so he sets the sapling on Vash's unused chair and picks up the trowel again.

"Naturally, I need to move it elsewhere."

"And it isn't as if all this dirt will hurt you. We're still outside."

There was dirt everywhere; plus, Vash was a Plant himself. Shouldn't dirt be his best friend?

★ --;; "On the porch," Vash grouses, face buried in both palms as they slowly run down his face. A streak of dirt gets left behind on his cheek, doing little in service of his plight, but still. "On the porch," he reiterates. "Y'know. Where people go."

If it were anyone else, he might find himself a bit more forgiving. But as Aurelius sits calmly and makes a mess of his happy place, the mercy that was already so hard to reach for in the case of this man steadily and surely drifts ever further out of arm's length, even outstretched.

"You could have at least dumped it out in the yard. Y'know. Where the dirt goes." Even when messing around with the indoor plants, he at least had the decency to do so in the sink or the shower floor. Sure he could clean it up later with the hose, and he himself has had his fair share of minor spills, but it's the principle of the thing, and now there's dirt in the char cushion...!

A deep breath in through his nose, out through his mouth as Vash's hands finally fall down into his lap with a quiet thump, face upturned to the porch ceiling. See? He could do this whole 'emotional regulation' thing. No therapy required.

"Just... cover up the base of the plant and all the roots again. Preferably with the dirt that's all over the table. I'll be right back." And then he's up and sliding the kitchen door open again. He's going to get that beer.

#[ ic. ]#hollowfaith

merylderringer

Meryl listens to Vash talk. She listens to him dance around what happened after Dragon's Nest - the point where her memories stop.

She almost sights. Typical of Vash, really, but she gets it. Whatever happened after Dragon's Nest must have been worse.

Given the state of his hair.

Still, Meryl stays quiet. Now is not the time to push. "We moved on." She repeats - more of a statement than a question.

Meryl stands from her seat, aware that it seems the tables have turned on who may need to walk now, as she speaks.

"Vash, do you want to walk me back to my home? It's not far."

An olive branch - a chance for both to not dwell on what just had been said for too long.

#[ ic. ]#merylderringer #i feel like we can (finally) wrap this up here lollll

★ --;; Abrupt movement is enough for Vash to blink out of his less-than-pleasant reverie, though he still doesn't have to angle his head up all that much to be able to look at his friend as Meryl stands.

She's always offering him too much, too many get-out-of-jail-free cards. Even the Meryl he knows from back home, somehow even more terrifying and relentless than he knows even this version of his friend can be, is just as guilty - regardless of her endless pursuit of getting a good scoop out of him. He still takes them greedily, guiltily, even if his hands and pockets are overflowing with them.

"Sure," he smiles, and it really is halfway genuine. "I'd like that."

At least one of them sounds sure. The more time goes on, the more silence stretches on between them, the more these lines blur. All his conviction feels poisoned by building uncertainty. The displaced Plant is quiet for a short while, arms folding and head bowed in the weight of anxious thought. He's homesick. He aches. Eventually his hand comes up to swipe at the side of his face—allows himself just the once.

"Not gonna fight you." His gut feels tight, like it's expecting a blow anyway. "He's gone. And I'm here. Losin' people... I know what that means for us."

It's why those scars ache; it's why, alongside the nightmares, he feels like he's still running and running in that endless field of geraniums, reaching up for her. She sounded happy, even as she was going on ahead. So this is how it's like.

"So, thank you, too. For choosing t'hold onto those memories of who I used to be. I've seen it in all of you who chose to love him." Smiling like this, tears rolling down like this, it feels a bit embarrassing in front of an alternate self. But he can't help being himself. "Bein' friends with me, what's—ah, what's... That l-look like, any...?"

Anyway, is what he meant to casually ask after all of that; instead, Vash has to hold his hand against his mouth as he cries.

★ --;; With everything that's changed, everything that's stayed the same, Vash isn't sure it's the right move. He knows how this has gone once before, knows what he would have wanted ( what he probably needed, regardless of want ) if their roles were somehow reversed, if he had managed to utter those words even once in his long life instead of bulldozing headlong straight through the feeling, too fast and too hard to even give himself the opportunity to look back at it over his shoulder.

So, gently, Vash's arms once again wrap around his successor. Quiet, at least for now. Hair that was once more of a fluffy mass now pokes a bit under the line of his jawbone as it sinks down.

"Silly," he finally says through wobbling silence, voice low. "You should know, 'least a little bit. You already have friends, whether they're here or not." Somewhere on that planet he had never once stepped foot on there were people that loved Vash the Stampede, regardless of any and all of the possible kicking and screaming. That, at least, he was sure of, with how hard it had been hammered into his own skull-- no matter how difficult a time he still had grappling with it, too.

"...How d'you want it to look?" he asks after a few more beats. "What you want-- that's just as important as what anyone else wants." A quiet snort; "Losin' people, gainin' new ones - that's part of it, isn't it? Life." Even if their list would always be longer than everyone else's. "Along with everything else that comes and goes with 'em. Maybe that means I can finally get that into your skull, this time around."

The initial question makes a furrowed brow raise in surprise—Vash feels offended. Of course, he's taken in much more than just the voice memos to conclude this; to protect the both of them from uselessly elaborating, he lets the question speed past him as rhetorical.

Thank you didn't at all mean he accepted the sentiment in the slightest, clearly. But pushing that angle had only made the other Vash cling tighter to that denial.

"I'd thought by sending you what you asked for, you'd've had something t'say t'me." Anything to address the voice memos' contents, he means. "Whether you do after all, you should know..."

Hesitation. His hand moves from holding the inside of his elbow to clutch at his hip instead. His gaze darts to the side; an quick exhale, and he's ready to try to look the other in the eyes again. Orange lenses do little to hide the fear.

"I'm not sure what a friendship with me would do for you, exactly." (I'm scared of you.)

"'Cause you... Already know things about me that I don't know. Already experienced things with who I used to be that I can't access as my own. N'I don't know how to make myself ready for something like that." It feels like he's some kind of madman, now, giving these months-long rushing fears his voice—their voice?

"If I could, I'd give you your friend back at a moment's notice. Feels like I'm stealin' it all in the meanwhile. His life, I mean. All of it."

★ --;; "Whether or not I had somethin' to say to you and whether or not you wanted to hear it are two different things," Vash starts, another small shake of the head.

"Fact is, you're not stealin' anything, 'least not the way I see it. You're right-- you've been right-- about the fact that you n' him aren't the same. What he knew and what you know draw that line." A vague hand wave. "Somethin' there about the ship a' Theseus, I guess, I guess, if you dig hard enough for it."

"His life woulda' been yours, eventually. Does that mean he'd be stealing, too?"

That same quiet sadness from their last meeting still permeates, inescapable in its silent persistence. It doesn't seem to matter whether or not its welcome, whether or not he tries to shoo it away. Probably it would have been there regardless of which of his successors he was talking to, in some way.

"Everything that happened between us-- if you don't want it, it doesn't have to be yours. You already get the gist of how it left the two of us. It's a heavy burden to carry. But it's there if you ever do want to, even if it's just in pieces. One thing I know for sure, though, is that a friendship doesn't have to 'do' anything for me for it to be worth existin'."

"I do slow down and smell the roses," Aurelius counters. "We have a garden behind our clinic that's well-maintained. The flowers there are spectacular this time of year."

"You really should come and see for yourself."

Granted, it seems harder than pulling teeth to get some of the people he knows to actually step foot through Sanctus Clinic's doors. Was his presence too intimidating? It wasn't as if he did all the counseling there...

But his eyes trail down to the pot in time, as well as the task presented to him. Aurelius doesn't find it too difficult—anyone can work with tools, much less an angel like himself. He floats his glass of sweet tea over and takes a refreshing sip first—it's the perfect drink for summer.

Then the angel rises to his feet, takes off his suit jacket and vest, and strips his gloves. He's already tossing them back onto the chair as he walks down the steps and inspects the pot of soil.

"It's kind of you to supervise," Aurelius observes, before bending down and picking up the pot. He grabs a nearby trowel on the way and heads back up the steps, setting his burden on the porch table so he doesn't have to crouch. "But the task seems simple enough."

With that said, he digs in for his first shovelful of soil and dumps it on the table.

★ --;; The less-than-subtle hint isn't lost on him. It wouldn't even be the first time Vash had been nudged in the direction of the angel's clinic. Hell would probably freeze over before he actually went there of his own free will, though-- but Aurelius would probably like that, anyway.

"I'll keep that in mind," he says flatly as the man rises to his feet, not at all planning to actually do so. Honestly, he's a little bit proud of himself for not rolling his eyes so hard they'd fall out of his head at the other not even bothering to exert himself to lift a damn glass- a bit of unimpressed affect won't do any harm.

It only makes his eyebrows raise, then, when Aurelius considering the difference in weight. Doesn't even complain when it gets set on the table, even when it would probably be a better idea to do this sort of thing down on the ground and sitting on a porch step.

And then there's dirt all over his table, and Vash audibly squawks.

The table's not the only victim- there's dirt on the grapes still left in the dish and even a few flecks in his own glass of tea. All that on top of the fact that now he'll have to clean it all, after being so careful to not make a mess of the furniture and the wood--!!

"What're you-?!"

"J-just disturb the dirt! Make an indent! There's still plenty a' space in the pot for the plant n' soil n' everything--!!" The man visibly starts deflating from his spot on the railing. "You didn't have to dump it out everywhere..."

#[ ic. ]#hollowfaith

sinscythe

A violently blaring siren has been lingering in the back of his mind for over a century. It's so eerily familiar that it doesn't wake him up with a violent jolt or a racing pulse - it takes several moments for Knives to gather that the sound isn't yet another memory brought back by a state of fatigue. A shudder runs through his spine as he drags himself up from the floor, the frown on his face tensing.

He isn't alone. But he can't bring himself to panic, watching in silence as dozens of others rush out of their prison cells - if the structures can be called such, given how they seem to open on their own once everyone is back on their feet, shouting and running towards the first exit.

There's an uncomfortable stir in the pit of his stomach, a flare of terror that shoots up and grips his cranium - the only visible reaction is the slight stagger in his step as the familiar sensation thrums through his system.

Waking up is the second most unsettling part of it.

He hadn't slept or been unconscious since waking up on the edge of the spiral. Had he, and everyone else in here, died again? Seems like an odd thing to forget. The last memory he can recall is an evening stroll through Mistwood.

It's like he had blinked and suddenly found himself imprisoned.

The narrow hallway is empty by the time he exits the room, glad to leave the sight of the prison cells behind him. The walls surrounding him are white and sterile, the small buttons on the control panels blinking in and out as he passes by.

It's all a bit too familiar for comfort. Knives remembers sitting in front of similar screens for hours on end, studying each button and combination, refusing to budge. Not until his concentration was broken by-

His head snaps up towards the call of his name, half of it audible in his ears and the other half inside his head. The static electricity whirs through his mind, making him quicken his pace. A single turn around the corner puts him face to face with his brother - and his ex-employee.

" - what is all this? "

/ @cerebralbleu

cerebralbleu

This was a position that Legato Bluesummers did not harbor positive feelings towards; standing between the twin Plants had spelt disaster for him again and again. First, the near absolute destruction of his master, then, the obliteration of his bodily autonomy, and then finally, a bullet through his skull to end his tumultuous life. He could handle one or the other just fine-- but both of them at once?

Legato frowns with frustration, remaining still on his feet like the steel columns that held the ceiling up.

" We're being toyed with. The sooner our captor is discovered, the sooner they can be terminated. I have no plan to stay in this miserable cage, " the puppeteer remarked with an unpleasant sneer on his face.

He had reasons to believe that the brothers would be ill-suited for teamwork.

As sirens continued to blare overhead, and the denizens of Spirale rushed past them like a herd of farm animals escaping their pen, Legato cracking his neck. Lifting his hand, he twitched his fingers to test the strength of his threads. To his dismay, the very same limitations he was cursed with upon arrival to this world had returned to him.

" Our abilities are dulled. Still. . . " His thought trails as the sound of metal-on-metal impact thunders down the hallway with a low groan.

" It is either claw your way out, or wait to be killed, " Legato cut a glare at Knives in particular. Words lingered on his tongue: pull your own weight.

But he dared not say it. Not right now.

It seemed as though the commotion had summoned an unpleasant guest to their torment.

@amoirsetpacis -> @/sinscythe

★ --;; Before he can properly school it out of himself the familiar twitch of fingers makes Vash flinch on instinct. When nothing comes, no familiar sting in his muscles and nerves, the feeling is replaced with what can only be labeled as shame, hot behind his ears and down the back of his neck.

Legato Bluesummers had done little and less to Vash and his own- as far as he knew- since that horrific day in the mists. Really, they had done a pretty stand-up job of avoiding one another completely, even after whatever all those memories had been flooded back to him, along with all the conflicting emotions they'd brought along with them. And he's been here long enough, too- it's safe to assume that, if he had wanted to, he could have very easily ripped Vash's world apart at the seams.

And yet he hadn't. If anything, one hearing the way he speaks, it sounds as though Bluesummers wanted nothing to do with either of them.

Huh. News to Vash.

There's no time to mull it over, though, nothing to allot to any possible spiral of his own thoughts. Frightened shouts rise up in a cacophony along with the horrible, loud clanking of something- and then their company has arrived, big and metal and mean, and the Colt is out of its holster in an instant.

He's lucky it's loaded- can tell by the weight of it- but the volley of bullets that comes traipsing up along the metal floor and towards them is decidedly not. Neither is the fact that, as he leaps out of the way ( "Watch out--!!" ), he's realizing that the only ammo he's got on him are the bullets in the cylinder, their number paling in comparison to the thing barreling towards them.

He's done more with less, he has to remind himself. This isn't any different, present company be damned.

Whatever stragglers had been at the rear of the pack blessedly dash past and away ( there's blood on the floor, part of him registers, and worry sits like a lump in his gut, but there's nothing he can do about it right now). Vash rolls to a stop in a crouch, armored shoulder taking the brunt of the impact, aims and fires all in one fluid motion. The sound of the bullet going off reverberates through their metal echo chamber. The shot lands, metal lodging itself into metal as it comes in contact with the leg joint of the machine; the large bolt there may as well have been a bullseye.

The thing staggers, a few sparks fly, the leg crumples-- but it does little to show any effect past that. Instead Vash's eyes widen as yet another gun seems to materialize in less than a blink out from its carapace, and there's no hesitation when it starts firing once again.

@sinscythe > @/cerebralbleu

It feels unnerving to witness the ease at which the other Vash seems to reach for blame that isn't his to have.

"Far from it. How you treated him doesn't change how you'd told him 'no'."

Aware of it now, Vash consciously eases up on his anxious hold of his arm. He's careful to watch his volume and tone, softening it without changing his choice in words. "N'how he felt about it was his responsibility to handle, not yours."

They're gonna go nowhere fast if the other guy's gonna keep up these what-ifs and what-abouts.

"When we met, you taught me that—or advised me to respect that, myself. Didn't you? ... To listen to what others want. N'now I get what you meant by that."

★ --;; "That doesn't--"

Vash frowns, eyebrows furrow. It doesn't negate the fact that he hadn't been around like he should have been, not for either of them, even after he had promised to be. It's a debt he still owes, one he's proven time and time again to be bad at paying off.

The fact that maybe, apparently, something had stuck from their previous meeting doesn't even necessarily feel... good. He's not entirely sure how it feels, exactly, if he's being honest. Maybe this was why his successor had always gotten so frustrated with him-- why he'd gotten so angry in return. It's hard to listen to.

Instead of escalating into yet another argument ( though he had yet to have a proper one with this man, hadn't he? ) though, Vash sighs and runs a palm down his face in an attempt to keep fire starter from meeting kindling.

"Okay," he starts.

"How do you figure? Just-- from hearin' those?"

The line in the sand drawing the differences between his sisters and himself always felt impossibly broad, no matter their list of similarities. The younger Stampede drawing a bridge between them as he is feels ill-earned.

" 'Cause like I said, I do appreciate the thought, n' all. Just-- don't really know what to do with it, y'know? 'Sides sayin' thank you." Regardless of whether or not he actually wants it.

"You never answered me," he goes on, as if that were any sort of explanation. "Figured you'd had enough of me, already- but, well. You know what they say about assumin' things."

Vash grimaces, shaking his head in clear disapproval. Brows only knit tighter, tenser.

"No. I—I heard the same thing you did. It's clear t'me that he kept disrespectin' your boundaries, no matter how much you tried t'make him understand."

It's a tale exactly as old as they are. Some naïve Independent Plant sees fit to do what was best for someone else's sake, without even trying to ask if that's what they wanted—without asking what it is that they wanted at all.

"I'm sorry. You deserved better. And... And I want you to know I don't intend t'make the same mistakes he did."

★ --;; He doesn't know what face to wear.

So he doesn't. Lets it play out there, plain as day, yet again. To this person who really, probably, shouldn't see it. He'd know, though, probably, if Vash had pulled one out of the dusty old wardrobe, no matter how much he wants to.

The smile that cracks across his face isn't a falsehood-- nor is it a happy one, either, nor is the quiet laugh that accompanies it.

"I treated him so poorly. I can't blame him for what he met me with in return."

"It's funny. You're sayin' you don't want to make the same mistakes, but I'm the one who keeps makin' 'em."

What must if have been like? Being 'new' for the first time was hard enough, but to be so yet again, with everything hanging in the air around his successor-

"I shoulda' done more to reach out to him. Maybe then he wouldn't've felt that way so much. Shoulda' reached out ta' you, too. Before now. Not left it all on you."

@amoirsetpacis / from [ here ]:

Careful eyes search the other's face, noting composure and curiosity where Vash wants to see it; yes, six months seemed like it was about enough for him to have moved on. A deep breath. Vash's gloved hand flinches, holds at the inner elbow of his prosthetic arm. Old habit.

"The messages," he starts, and stops.

He's misspoken already. Those hadn't been messages—not if they were never really meant to be found. His stomach feels like it's twisting in knots all over again, just thinking about it. "What he left behind. I wanted to apologize properly. To you.

"Even if I dont remember saying all of that, it… Those words were disgusting. I'm really, truly sorry for the way he's treated you."

The Plant holds his own look of concern steady, fingers curling in tighter.

★ --;; "It's-"

Habit. Before the younger Stampede even gets a chance to finish, of course he finds himself barging in. To say he's sorry, that the reason they were like that was--

He's beaten to the punch, anyway. Left blinking in confusion, staring at his counterpart. Still can't wrap his head very far around anything other than the fact that he should still be the one apologizing.

It takes a moment- he always seems to be good at that, no matter which one. Stealing the words right out of Vash's mouth.

Finally, finally, he thaws. Shakes his head.

"Nah."

"Listen. I appreciate it, I really do. But he was right, actin' that way. Ta' me, at least. Had it comin'."

"So you want me to take the long way around," Aurelius muses while he listens to Vash work. Of course, as soon as the refreshments were set on the table he was stepping forward to join them—leaving his cloud courteously floating over the porch instead of his head this time for extra cover and shade.

He sinks into one of the chairs, crossing his legs and propping one elbow on the table as his knuckles tap his cheek. "I'll admit it's a novel concept. Even mortals gravitate towards methods that save them time."

"I suppose plants simply prefer to soak in the details."

Aurelius claps for Vash when he returns, pot and dirt together. For all his grumbling, the Plant did get things done as requested.

"Thank you. It's like congratulations for a new child."

★ --;; Vash fights back a snort at the concept being called 'novel'- he's trying to stay civil, still, even as the angel continues to tap dance across his nerves. Even the small respite from the heat in the form of the cloud expanding over the porch, while it should have been a relief, only continues to grate. His nose wrinkles at the clapping, but quickly straightens itself.

"It's worth it, sometimes."

"Slowin' down." He'd spent a very, very long time not doing so, after all. "Smellin' the roses, so to speak."

Pot retrieved and hands empty does leave Vash with a predicament, though, never mind his grumbling at having done the previous tasks. That being-- he now has no way to properly get out of continuing to be in the presence of Aurelius.

... He was really going to have to sit on the porch with this man, wasn't he? It couldn't even properly be called shootin' the shit. He didn't even have a beer.

Well. Then it would stand to reason that he didn't have to recline in the chair, wouldn't it? He can at least take that much for himself.

Grabbing a handful of grapes off the bunch, Vash hauls himself up onto the railing, one foot planted alongside himself and the other leg dangling.

"You'll get your congratulations if it goes well," he huffs, popping a grape in his mouth. "Not before then. I'm givin' you a running start with the soil, if anything." Then, a thought; "First step-- you oughta' put that thing in the pot before you go. Your own hands and a trowel only."

#[ ic. ]#hollowfaith

"...I have something I need to say to you."

"Um."

"O-okay?"

The tone still sounds... serious. Or at least, it does to his won ears. Looks like the story he'd imparted on their last meeting hadn't stuck, the time between then and now not time for it to soak in but rather for it to slide right off, oil and water.

That guilt still, inevitably, rears its ugly head in his gut. That he should have been around, should have put himself out there for the younger Stampede, seeing just how much he had changed-- never mind that he'd never gotten a response. It was on him, wasn't it? To try and bridge the gap that had been forcefully widened between them yet again? Supposes he's got whatever this is coming to him, anyway.

"Shoot."