Technicolor silver sand drifted in lazy dunes past the stubbled outcropping they'd taken shelter beneath for the night.

Up above, the three main moons and their two more distant siblings hung bright in the black-starry sky.

It was a moment of peace that Nicholas D. Wolfwood was actually grateful for. A moment that was broken by his companion's snore.

He looked over at Vash, curled like a child next to their meager fire, his sweet face stark between blue shadow and orange light. Without his heavy red coat, his bright-gold hair weighed down with days of dust and sweat, he didn't look like Vash the Stampede. He didn't look like anything-the-stampede. Certainly not a Human Typhoon. He was just a man. One who was a little more innocent than he had any right to be in their hell-hole of a world. They'd been riding for three days on the way to Kansas, and the whole way he could feel Vash's heart beating against his back, stronger than the vibration of his old motorcycle.

Wolfwood stubbed out the last of his mangled cigarette before he smoked it to the filter. He'd heard, once, that on Earth, they'd been made with real organic material, not some recycled synthetic nicotine-substitute that tasted like burning insulation.

Either way, he was hooked.

He reached over and brushed a dirty strand out of Vash's face.

He was hooked.

(I'm supposed to protect you. Do you know how hard you make it, with your crazy ideals? I'm supposed to guide you. You make that hard too, you stubborn fool.) He pulled his jacket off, draping it over Vash's snoring form. (I'm not supposed to die for you, you know... but you make me want to.) He gave the sleeping figure a grouchy, dark stare for a moment before softening again.

(Ever since I met you, I wondered what was under that red coat. You look like a target in that, y'know? A big, fool target. And, god. In Little Jersey, you showed me. Showed everyone with that idiot dog stunt.) Wolfwood let his tar-stained finger rest on Vash's cheek, tracing the mole right beneath his eye. "Why do you let them hurt you like that?"

Aquamarine blinked open, and Vash stirred beneath Wolfwood's quickly withdrawn hand. "hmh?"

"Sorry. Didn't realize I was thinking out loud. Go back to sleep."

Vash stretched, yawning, and rolled to look up at him. "You're gonna get cold without your jacket." he finally said, plucking at the dirty black fabric.

"My faith keeps me warm." Wolfwood winked back at him with a chuckle. "'Sides. You were shivering."

Vash looked at him for a long moment, then sat up, scratching through his hair with another enormous yawn. He dragged himself the scant inches to Wolfwood's side, and curled up against him like an oversized child, nestling his head on the preacher's shoulder. "There. We both stay warm." He murmured, pulling the jacket over them both.

"You're something else, Vash the Stampede." He absently traced his fingers over the ugly burn puckering the skin on the back of Vash's real hand, resting lightly in his lap. "Don't you ever get tired of it?"

"Of what?" He felt Vash's eyelashes blink against his throat and felt a tremor shiver his spine.

"Of being so good." he forced out, tilting his head to look down at the smooth curve of his jaw, and the hint of his mouth in the shadows.

"I just want to save everyone." Vash whispered, his hand moving to twine his fingers with Wolfwood's. The preacher startled for a moment, looking down at his hand as if it were someone else's, before lifting it towards his lips, pressing a kiss to Vash's scarred flesh.

"You're a hard road to follow."

"But you are.."

"Yeah.."

"Why?"

"Don't ask stupid questions." The chill wind drifted across the plain again, and the fire guttered and sparked.