Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ A Night To Forget ❯ A Night To Forget ( Chapter 1 )

Special credits go to to lilithisbitter for her providing me with the script to episode three (which I quoted verbatim for the tailor shop segment and in a few other places) and for helping me work out a few of the details as to setting and other things ~_^

I'd also like to thank everyone who, when I mentioned the idea of a serious Frank Marlon x Vash pairing, encouraged me to write.

Warnings: Spoilers for later episodes, strong lime, alcoholism and an alcoholic binge (but that's canon for these two), yaoi, references to past twincest, and violence.

Rating: R

Pairing: Past Knives x Vash, present pairing Frank Marlon x Vash.

"A Night To Forget"

"You understand it, don't you? Brother? No one can love you like I can, no one ever will. . ." The words, soft, yet with a hint of the malice that lurked beneath, echoed inside his mind. "You're so beautiful, my brother, my love. . ."

At that, Vash snapped awake, suppressing a shriek of terror. The object that had touched him, slid over him was not Knives's hand, rather, it was a snake. For a second while he caught his breath, he couldn't decide what was worse to awaken to in the desert.

He soon decided that he would prefer the snake's company, as he sat up, brushing himself off. Sighing at the memory, forcing himself not to think of the nightmare from which he had been awakened, he settled into his training routine.

No way was he ever going to be taken advantage of again, he had vowed to himself, when he and Knives had finally parted company.

* * *

Vash held a map in shaking hands, looking up at the direction of the suns and at the only star that shone in the morning, then checking the compass to be sure of his direction. It had been a week alone in the desert already, and he was running out of traveling necessities fast.

Alone. The word seemed to reverberate in his mind like a bell. Maybe he wanted it that way, maybe it was best that he wasn't near anyone to cause them pain. Notwithstanding, he had wanted companionship, wanted much more than that.

A sense of honor and of not wanting to exploit humans had forced him not to seek the temporary solace offered by brothels in almost any town he visited. Although he had given in to that temptation a few times in his years, it never lasted.

It was his fear of what he was and of his brother that made him isolate himself from anything more than a paid lover: he had remembered it all too well. July. . . bounty hunters . . . and more. It was the fear of loss, of another person either being too weak for him to protect or too strong to want anything from him but his bounty.

He sat there for a moment, trying to will his hands not to shake, before finally giving in and drinking the remaining liquid from a bottle of seventy proof cold tonic.

Now, he really had to hope that map was true.

* * *

He had arrived in Warrens City at nightfall, buying several salmon sandwiches and a beer at Ann's Café before checking into the inn.

It was yet another slap of disappointment: not only was the Marlon Forge apparently dark and abandoned, the tailor was also gone for the night, so not only would the misfiring gun not be repaired anytime soon, but the repairs to his coat and the clothes other than the bodysuit that he had wanted would also have to wait.

The blonde kicked the wastebasket with enough force to send it to the opposite wall, swore, then decided that he might as well sleep.

* * *

Meanwhile, a drunk ex-gunsmith shuffled off to his small house across town after being threatened with death and suffering a kick to the face by some people who had previously bought him drinks.

It really didn't matter to him anymore. Although he liked the kinship of being in a full bar with others drinking themselves into oblivion, he was old enough, wise enough even through the alcoholic fog that pervaded his days to know just how false it was.

What they said was true. He was nothing but an old drunk, not someone who could ever find a friend again, much less someone to love. More than that, he was afraid of the idea.

After all, his wife and child were dead, had been for ten years today. They had meant the world to him in his younger days, had given him a reason to live, to practice his craft and to make money.

He never knew until that day that they would die because of his ability to make a gun.

Frank Marlon slid a straw into a bottle of whiskey and began to drink. Cheap stuff, tasted like rotten Thomas urine in his opinion, but he wasn't one for quality anymore. Quantity was what mattered, and the stuff worked, whether it was his home-brewed moonshine or the cheapest the general store had.

Drinking alone wasn't so bad, he reassured himself, then sighed, staring into the mirror. "Nothin' but a drunk."

* * *

Vash had taken his first drink in his adolescence at two years old, and as with almost everything else he had done early in life, it had originated as Knives's idea.

The platinum blonde twin had found a stash of alcohol in one of the crashed ships, and had brought it back for them to "have a little taste."

Over a weekend, in his estimation, of their getting drunk, they had learned their limits somewhat, although, only Knives usually kept to what he had learned about himself.

Vash preferred whiskey most of all, or at the least strong beer, and from the beginning drank for the buzz or to get so drunk he would have a momentary escape from their situation, from feeling like he was to blame for it all. Knives, on the other hand, preferred fine wines, and drank for the taste.

* * *

An image flashed through the gunman's mind as he lay on the bed in the inn room that night, unable to sleep: Knives holding him, gently whispering something to him. It would have almost been normal, except for the kisses and touches that followed, what Rem had told them both never to do again, after she had caught them once on the ships. . .

"Another flashback," he sighed, staring at the ceiling, not wanting to acknowledge that he was more than a little turned on by the memories and thoughts. "It's a physiological reaction. Like my hand going to my side holster when I hear the slightest noise. That's all it is. . . I like women. No one's ever going to take advantage of me again. Calm down," he told himself, staring at the ceiling as he finally drifted to sleep, willing himself to dream of that marshal from the last town.

"Marianne. . ."

* * *

As much as the aging gunsmith did not want to think of his past, as much as he drank to forget it, it would always come back to him at night, especially a night like this, before his Bernardelli injury stipend arrived at the bank and he could afford enough booze to have a few nights of blissful forgetfulness.

Now, he was just dazed enough to want to sleep, but unable to either pass out or sleep of his own will, and he remembered it all.

He'd lived his entire life in this settlement called Warrens City. Childhood had been both normal and the only time he could look back on with happy memories: talking to his grandfather, the city's then-founder and a Fall survivor, hanging around his father's forge after school, going along with his mother on trips to the store or the small town playground. Life had been so simple then.

It was his decision to drop out in his last year of high school, to help his then-aging father run the Marlon Forge, to practice the skills he had learned through the years. Soon enough, it became known that the only gunsmith as good as "Old Man Jim" Marlon was his son.

Life was still simple in those days, in some ways: make the guns, send them to whomever wanted them, mind their own business, and stay in business. Both father and son Marlon were too concerned for anything else, until the day that Frank had gone to the truck depot to check on a shipment of metals and had seen someone he couldn't forget, for a while, anyway.

A male artist, in his early twenties as well, sat by the truck depot that day, sketching the trucks as they went into and out of the depot, then sketched the surrounding landscapes. Over the next weeks, as the shipment was apparently held up in other towns, he had kept coming back to check, and finally, bored on one of these trips, had asked the artist to sketch him, in trade for thirty double dollars.

The artist had looked over the sketch on that day, so many years ago, then had deeply looked into his eyes. "You're a beautiful man."

"Um. . . need to go get that stop payment order," Frank had mumbled, forcing himself to ignore the blush and the temptation to look back and say the same thing.

That would be the last time a conversation between them would ever end so abruptly.

"Maybe he could have defended himself. Maybe he wouldn't have died. Maybe. So many maybes." With that thought, Frank Marlon turned over and finally fell asleep.

* * *

Across town at the Drop Inn, Vash blinked one eye open, realizing it was still predawn at roughly five in the morning. Of all the things he hated most about his life, not being able to sleep in was the worst: usually, when he tried it, he'd find himself face-to-gun barrel with a few bounty hunters.

So, he kept to the schedule, despite knowing that the town itself wouldn't be awake for at least a few more hours. The training took up its usual thirty minutes, then around five seconds of his attempt at meditation, then, he worked at making some kind of breakfast from the kitchenette in the room.

"See, Knives, I can cook something without starting a fire!" he yelled at the wall, as he tossed an omelette on its side in a pan. Of the foods on the planet, eggs were easily the most plentiful and easily found, since the settlers had learned from the beginning how to raise greenquail, pigeons, ostriches, and an especially hardy breed of chickens.

A tear slid down his face as the domesticity brought back a memory of those innocent days, before they had learned of Tessla, before Steve's abuse escalated from taunting and spitting, before Knives had developed his hatreds: he, Knives, and Rem had been, of all things, playing house.

Somehow, although the memory had dimmed in time, he still remembered it, Rem walking in from the "door," actually just the door to another room, slightly bending down to embrace him. "Hi there, honey," she had said, playing the role for all it was worth.

In Vash's mind, that thought formed into his fantasy of how it was supposed to be. He and Rem and Knives, living somewhere on a beautiful planet like a second, better earth.

"But you had to kill her and everyone else! You killed her, Knives!" he raged to his brother, but more to himself. Swearing, he moved his hand to his side holster, drew the gun, and angrily fired two bullets into the mirror across the room.

Then, calming a bit, he picked up the cold, burned omelette and began to eat.

* * *

Frank Marlon sighed as he awakened, having slept the restless sleep of a barely satiated drunk. Glazed eyes darted toward the picture on his desk, oddly enough, the only one he hadn't shot out or turned over.

In it were a beautiful woman and a little girl. His little girl.

"Look, son," his father had told him at twenty-five years of age. "I'm more than sick of your carousing around with that artist boy, what's his name-"

Frank had slammed his fist on the table, cursing in the worst language he knew. "You could at least say his name," he spat between profanities. "It's Lane. Lane Howards."

"All I know," the old man roared, with equal venom, "is that two limpwristed queers can't have someone to carry on the family name, to own the forge, to do everything I worked my whole filthy life to give you. Look at you, you're twenty-five years old and still not really your own man. Only a real man can live his life like I have."

He had thought it over that night, and, a month later, had married a mail-order bride from June City, someone his father had said "wouldn't mind your little quirks too much."

Alice, as she called herself, had soon fallen in love with him, despite the lack of reciprocation. Although their relationship, aside from their attempts to have a child, had been colder than the beer served at the Blast Cat Saloon, it was comfortable, it was safe, and it allowed him to once again become the workaholic that he used to be and her to be alone. After all, he had a family to provide for now, with the birth of his first and only child, a daughter.

Her name was Sybil Frances Marlon, and she soon became one of the only things he lived for aside from work and hitting the bars. Although nothing completely filled the ache of losing what he believed was his true love to business and family considerations, he had to admit that becoming a father, learning an entirely new kind of love with no connection to physicality was fulfilling.

"Got nothing now. They're dead," Frank Marlon snarled, as he drank the last drop from the bottle, a tear welling in his eye as he thought of seeing his six year old daughter lying on the bank floor in a pool of blood. "I did it to you."

* * *

The nearly broken cowbell attached to the door rang out its pitiful announcement as Vash closed it behind him. "Hi, is anyone here? I'm looking for the clothes maker here if there's-"

"Don't make such a fuss," the shorter man sighed, pushing up his milk-bottle glasses on his nose. "I'm Glenn Stevens, the tailor in residence. What may I do for you?"

"Kinda need some new clothes," the blonde mumbled. "Hope you don't have to take anything off to do measurements."

"It would be more accurate that way," the tailor replied, "but as you seem so averse to the idea, I can measure you in your coat."

"Oh really? That's great," Vash said, with a sigh of relief at the idea. The scars, after all, still embarrassed him. "By the way, why was the Marlon Forge dark?"

"You want to see Frank Marlon?" the man asked incredulously. "Why?"

"Well," Vash said, nervously scratching the back of his neck as the tailor prepared to measure him. "I heard he's the best gunsmith around."

"Give it up. He's not the man he was ten years ago. Now he's just a lush," the short man said as he measured, nodding disapproval at something or other.

Vash squirmed a bit, looking down at his hands.

"They say he was once a genius gunsmith. But he changed after his wife and kid got killed," the tailor commented offhandedly, as if it were nothing but gossip, old news twice warmed.

"No. I can't believe it. He lost someone too. . ."

"They were in the bank when it got robbed. But to him the real tragedy was that he made the guns which shot them. Not only that, he apparently gave them the guns himself," the tailor mumbled, with a sad nod.

No further words were exchanged.

* * *

After receiving his Bernardelli pay at the bank, Frank Marlon made a beeline for the place he was known best at in town: the liquor shop.

"Can I 'ave a little nip to drink here," Marlon slurred, pushing his remaining money over the counter. "Please."

"It will be delivered to your house, sir," the cashier hissed in thinly veiled contempt for the town drunk. "We don't allow boozing it up on the premises."

"Please," Marlon again mumbled, this time, extending a shaking hand. "The bar don't open for another hour, and look at me."

"All right, all right, here you go," sighed the clerk. "Don't tell the mayor."

"Now that's more like it!" he yelled, guzzling the bottle in a minute, then dangling it between his fingers. "Thank you."

He remembered back in the old days, when he was twenty or thirty and not forty-something, how he used to look "cool" here, hoping the new clerk would remember too. He'd lean on the door and exit it in reverse, yet not stumbling over the doorstep.

Little did he know that he'd fall right into someone.

* * *

It wasn't exactly the first sound a man liked to hear when he was sitting in a street having just hauled himself out of a Thomas trough.

"Over here, buddy!"

"Oh, great, gonna laugh in my face, huh? I should shove YOU headfirst into Thomas slops." Vash narrowed his eyes and looked side to side, eyes finally landing on the man who had walked into him.

"Yeah, you! What do you say when you crash into somebody?" the tipsy man taunted.

"Another stupid town drunk. Not worth my time, I'll just put on the dumb act and get out of here while I still have some pride intact." Vash feigned a surprised look, finally raising a hand as if to wave.

"Hello?" he said, nervously, looking for a way out. Instead, he felt a strong hand clamp onto his shoulder.

"Better keep up the dummy act."

"Ow, ow! My shoulder hurts 'cause of you!" the man snapped, appearing oddly calm a second later. "Buy me a drink."

"What in the-"

"Instead of medical compensation, I want you to buy me a drink," he said, smiling at the shocked expression on Vash's face as the blonde began to crawl away.

Emboldened by the alcohol he'd already consumed, looking at in his opinion one of the most beautiful men he'd seen in a long while, Frank used his best pickup line. "Don't be shy!"

"Shy? What-" Vash laid there for one shocked moment after being pinned to the ground, remembering it all too well: Knives was about as subtle when he wanted his brother in that way. "NO! You are not doing this to me, no one is, not in front of an entire town!"

The man smiled. "We're pals, aren't we?"

The words flashed through Vash's mind as Knives said them so long ago. "We're brothers, aren't we? It's what twin brothers do."

"BUT WE ONLY JUST MET!" Vash yelled, in the whiniest possible tone of voice, flailing, hoping to repel what he saw at that point as an attack.

"Come on, buddy!"

The blonde arched back, trying to pull the man off of him. "What are you doing to me?! No way. I'm not letting some random town drunk do me because he thinks it makes him look good. If I have to shoot you there, I will."

People, of course, gathered around the scene, and Milly and Meryl, the insurance girls Vash had seen earlier, were no exception.

"Stop! Stop it!" Vash yelled, finally pushing with a bit more strength.

"Just a drink, bro!"

"Knives-"

"Don't forsake me," the man begged.

"Alright, alright! Just let go!" Vash whimpered, struggling against the man's grip, thinking of when he had attempted to fight off Knives and had never won.

Meryl sighed and began to walk away. "Ignore them," she said, pulling on Milly's sleeve.

"Insurance girls!" he screamed as loudly as he could, looking up from the struggle.

Milly looked at Meryl. "Ma'am. . ."

"What, you're going?" he wailed as both women walked away, a sense of panic boiling within him. He really didn't want to even injure a drunk who was just acting as he probably had on some occasions. . . but he also didn't like where this situation was going, and decided that maybe crying would work on a human.

"How could you be so cold?!" he yelled to Meryl, knowing that she was leaving.

"Don't be so cold, little brother!" the man yelled, kissing Vash rather passionately for a stranger.

"Knives. . .no. . ." Vash whimpered quietly, then screamed. "AHH! HELP!"

* * *

"Ya didn't have to make such a scene," the man mumbled as he led Vash to the bar. "It wasn't like I was gonna take you right in the middle of the town. I'm just lonely, thassh all."

"Oh, that's a relief. I was kinda afraid."

"You're a man with a past, kinda like meself. Come on, a few drinks won't hurt."

"All right."

* * *

They had walked into the bar together, had started with small talk, and neither still knew, really, who the other was until that moment when Vash had handed his silver gun to the barmaid, and Frank had commented on its disrepair.

That was the moment Vash actually had realized to whom he was speaking, although Frank had kept up the facade a little longer, through a few more drinks.

"Yeah, what?"

"Do you know a Frank Marlon?" Vash asked. He'd learned the trick a long time ago, when he and Knives would occasionally watch reruns of an old detective show on the ships. It was called the "Columbo method," to act dumb, yet know what one was going for exactly.

"Dunno the guy."

"Yeah, and I'm a Thomas." The blonde faced the bartender. "Hey, lady!"

"Pardon me, miss?" he badgered, a few minutes later, putting on his best flirty look. "He's famous, isn't he?"

"Yeah, he's famous. He's the hero of this town," the woman drawled. "A long time ago, this town was attacked by bandits. Marlon, the gunsmith, went from door to door passing out guns he made himself."

Vash stared in both wonder and sorrow at the gun mounted above on the wall. The bartender chose that moment to break his reverie. "What do you want with him?"

"I just want him to fix my old heap."

"Forget it, he'll just pawn it for booze."

Frank tossed a glass at the wall nearby, at a glare from the barmaid, then sat down, pouring himself another glass. "You really wanna give your gun to a complete stranger?You'll have yourself to blame if you get shot in the back. You'd have to be a fool," he snarled, gulping his drink and slamming the glass down. "A hopeless, pathetic fool."

Vash slowly reached for the bottle of bourbon, pouring him a fresh glass. "You're an intriguing man, Frank Marlon. I think I do want to know you better."

Frank gazed back, blankly to hide his surprise. "That's the first time I've seen a real smile on you all day, pretty boy."

* * *

Alcohol slid into glasses and then down their throats. Both would occasionally eye the other swallowing a drink, that was, when they weren't riotously singing along to some song only both of them really knew (it had surprised both when they had realized the other loved Old Earth ancient classics), laughing on and on about something, or trying to pronounce the names on the bottle labels.

They talked, sharing their equivalent of war stories, yet, unable to mention the things that had left them wanting to drink like this. Vash talked of bounty hunters and attempts to mediate peace in towns that were war zones, Frank talked of the daily travails of a drunk, and before that, of the bandit attacks on the town.

Glasses blended into bottles, bottles into more bottles. As the night drew on, and as they became too drunk to really care anymore, the thought had came to them at almost the same time.

"I'm tired of being alone."

They held hands as they drank the next round, and found themselves dancing with the evening crowd in the bar. Then, both men shared their first real kiss in months, with each other.

"You kiss good." Frank had slurred, breaking away. "I'd swear you'd done it before with a man."

"Really?" Vash had replied, feigning innocence and telling a half-truth. "I'm not that good. I felt sick the whole time."

The gunsmith burst into a peal of drunken laughter. "A real man don't feel sick when he's havin' fun, if ya know what I mean!" he yelled, with an elbow to Vash's ribs.

"Oh. . . I. . .don't know. . ." Vash slurred. "Not that I have. . . with many. . ."

"You know ya want me. . ." Frank whispered, stroking Vash's back as they held each other. "Or do you want to just chicken out like ya always do?"

"No one challenges me on anything without getting what they ask for," the blonde Plant mumbled. "Fine, you know somewhere private?"

"This bar has a good wine cellar," he whispered. "A great wine cellar."

Neither, in their drunken and rather sex-starved state, realized where the wine cellar was.

* * *

The bartender sighed as she stared at the crowd that night. She was an older woman, in her late forties, and was not hesitant to "run a square house." She didn't mind people getting drunk, but the second anyone broke out a weapon, started a gambling game, or, in any other way in her words, "cause trouble," they were out on their ear, and she had the physical strength to toss them from the bar.

She hadn't minded Frank Marlon and the new man in town so far: all they seemed to be doing was drinking, which padded her payroll the more they consumed, and as long as they were "harmless drunks," she was OK with it, and even more so now that they seemed to have wandered off.

At first, she thought the scratching sounds she heard from below were mice having once again invaded the wine cellar. After all, she also kept a supply of cheese in that room directly below the bar, and hence, mice were frequent invaders.

The night was fairly slow now that they had left, she had to admit. There were a priest and a saxophone player at the far end of the bar, both apparently in some serious conversation regarding something, and one of the more temperate regulars had just arrived. She walked to meet him.

"Hey, Joe. How's the bank manager business going?"

The rather rotund banker nodded. "Good, good. I think I'll have a low-alcohol cider, if you don't mind."

"Yeah, coming right up," she sighed, glaring at an odd noise. "I think I need to call the exterminators again. Got something in my wine cellar."

A slurred, drunken voice resounded across the bar. "Shop pullin' at my hair! I know ya like it already!"

"What. . .was that?" Joe timidly asked, looking at the bartender, then at the saxophonist across the bar, who had appeared to have spat his drink over the bar laughing.

"Hey, Nick, it's been a day since we-"

"Don't ask me," the bartender sighed. "Ask them."

"Naah," the banker replied. "Guess we're all just hearing things."

A series of sharp moans pierced the silence again, then, another slurred comment. "This isn't gonna. . . work. . ."

With that, the priest proceeded to spit a mouthful of whiskey across the bar, laughing, slamming his fist against the hardwood, then yelled toward the floor. "Try it again, give yourselves a little time if you're that bombed-"

The bartender couldn't believe her ears and eyes, as she stormed toward the far end of the bar and seized the priest by his shirt collar. "What kind of priest are you anyway?"

Yet more moans and grunts echoed through the bar. "Ahh. . . now that's more like it, faster. . . more!"

"I'll leave you for now," the bartender snapped at the priest. "Just get out. Oh, and Mr. Rivers, I'm sorry about this," she yelled to the departing banker, as she ran for the steps to the wine cellar.

* * *

Vash laid against the wall of the wine cellar, almost entirely exhausted a moment later. "Mmm. . .think shomeone's coming down here."

"Other than you?" Frank laughed, snuggling against the blonde. "Took ya long enough. Thought most men were a little faster than that. Maybe it's that ya can't bear to take the clothes off."

"I drink I thank too much." Vash whispered. "I deally roo."

The cellar door opened at that moment, and both men scrambled to get the few clothes that had been removed back on, somehow, Vash ending up with Frank's necktie looped around his face.

"OUT, both of you," the she-mountain of a bartender roared.

"Aren't we?" Frank laughed, the joke only made funny by the massive amount of alcohol both men had consumed.

"I mean it!"

"I don't move like feeling."

* * *

Five minutes later, the bartender had roughly thrown them out.

"What's the idea, witch?! We were just trying to enjoy a drink," Frank slurred, still in the mood for ridiculous double entendres.

The woman glares silently.

Vash realized, in that moment, that the bartender still had the gun, one of the two known angel arm capable guns in existence. Not that he could eventually do what he wanted to without it. "G. . . gimme back my gun, lady!"

The bartender tossed the gun back at him hard enough to cause serious injury, smacking him in the face.

"What's wrong, brother?"

"My head shuddenly started too hurt," Vash sighed, catching the falling gun and holstering it.

Frank slapped him on the backside. "Oh, thatsh not goo. All right, we'll drink it better at my place!"

Vash leaned against him. "Oh, hush up."

* * *

"You still drinking, brother?"

Vash resisted the urge to vomit welling up within him. "I'm plotzed. But I don't think you'll be in any shape for work tomorrow."

The gunsmith stopped drinking from the straw in the bottle he had for a second. "I got that covered. I only do charity work. The world is full o the weak and neeedy," he slurred. "It's my job to help them."

"Huh." By this time, Vash's brain was almost incapable of processing anything. A noncommital answer, he thought, would be best.

Frank took a swig from another bottle and fell behind the table. "But now I'm helping those who aren't in need."

"Wha. . . what do you mean?"

"Itsh wrong too discrim. . . discriminate, right? Help out one person. . . and anosher pershon chuffers. Thash what the worrld iss like."

"Oh," Vash replied, too stunned by booze to argue with his new lover.

"That's why I've decided to do nothing. Do nothing but drink." Frank sighed, stretching out on his bed. "This is equality."

"You think so?" the Plant mumbles, gently pulling a blanket over the sleeping man. "Least I can do. . ."

* * *

Vash wandered around the outside of the house for a bit, as the alcoholic daze began to clear somewhat. It was odd, some days he could sober up fast, others, he would have almost daylong hangovers, and it didn't seem to depend on what or how much he drank, as it did for humans.

The memories of the previous night drifted back to him, invoking an equal reaction of pleasure and disgust. "I am never getting that drunk again. I am not gay. I like women. No. It was just a one time thing. . . all right, all right, two male lovers I've had now, so what! I'm a normal, straight male. . . who. . . now he's gonna think I'll be there for him, but I can't. Why did I ever get myself into this?"

* * *

Frank Marlon was thirty years old again, standing at the counter of the Marlon Forge as the men walked in. "We want two of your best guns each, and we're willing to pay top double dollar. Got something we need to do."

He knew it was best not to ask. "Fine, give me the money and come back here by noon tomorrow."

The next visage in his mind was that of the marshals which patrolled the Warrens City zone in its absence of a sheriff. "Mr. Marlon, ballistics tests have indicated that the bullets that killed your wife and daughter came from guns produced by you personally. . ."

He woke from the nightmare to screaming. The man lying next to him was making the horrible mewls every few seconds. "Knives. No. Knives, stop. It hurts. You're hurting me. . . Knives!"

Vash blinked his eyes open a second later. "Nightmare?"

"No worse than yours."

"Will you tell me?"

"No more than I'm telling you. Just relax, go back to sleep. . ." Frank began smoothing his hands over Vash's back in a rough attempt at a massage, as the blonde snuggled against him and began to caress him.

"Not used to this. . ." Vash mumbled.

"You can have it. . . ya just got to know where to find it."

*end*