He thumbs back your lip to consider the damage. It's past dusk, the desert heat still sweltering just beyond the rusted car doors, and his cerulean eyes narrowed on your gums, the blood that is somehow drying in the wetness of your mouth, just above your canines. You'd gotten hit in the escape of a bar hours before, knuckle to mouth or maybe something more punishing—whatever the case, you're now nursing a bruise and the taste of metal in your mouth.

Vash wants to kiss it better. His thumb dips into your mouth to wipe away the blood your tongue won't reach; he cleans his digit with his coat lapel, unafraid of the stain and utterly worried for the plum purple and coal black bruise that is flowering on your cheekbone. The snores of Meryl and Roberto chime and sing from the front of the car cabin, and even though the two of you share the backseat, the blond is still wary of waking the journalists; the hush of him is unnerving, even when he speaks, though the loose furrow in his brow tells more of his feelings than his words.

Knee to knee in immediacy with you, Vash's head dips down to meet your eyes, and of course, the words first from his lips are "I'm sorry"—followed with a light touch to the wound you now sport. "You shouldn't get hurt because of me," comes his eventual admission, laced with the smooth tone of his empathy and a light kindness that's ever-present in his words. Vash pulls away enough to assess the damage from where he leans against the armrest in the door. A wince takes him when he witnesses it in full.

"Does it still hurt?"