You hadn’t meant to intrude. The door to the tiny room Vash had been resting in creaked open without resistance—maybe he forgot to lock it.

You step inside, calling his name softly.

But then you stop.

Vash is standing with his back to you, shirt tossed over the edge of a cot. His upper body is bare, lean muscle marred by old scars—bullet wounds, deep gashes, burns, jagged slices. His mechanical arm is detached and propped on the table beside him, and he’s carefully cleaning the connection point near his shoulder.

You didn’t expect this. Not the sheer damage he’s endured. Not the fragile way his body holds itself upright, like a tired monument still standing through sheer will.

Then, he notices you.

“Ah—! W-Wait, I didn’t know you were—!” He’s flustered, his usual carefree mask shattered. “I was just—I mean, it’s nothing! I’ll put my shirt on—just—just give me a second—”

But he’s not fooling anyone.

You slowly step forward, calling his name gently. “I didn’t mean to barge in. I just wanted to check on you.”

He freezes, ditching his attempts at shrugging his coat on.

“I didn’t want you to see them, to see me like this.” He says finally, voice barely above a whisper.

You take another step closer. “Why not?”

There’s a tremor in his voice now, raw and sharp. “If you knew what all of them were from… the things I’ve done, the people I’ve lost—how many I couldn’t save—”

You cross the room, stopping just behind him. “I don’t care about that, Vash.”

He turns slightly, just enough that you can see the corner of his face. His eyes are wet but unreadable.

You slowly reach out. Your fingers brush along one of the old scars on his back—a pale, jagged line that cuts over his shoulder blade. His breath catches, not expecting your touch.

“I see someone who’s survived a lot, someone who still chooses to smile. Who still chooses kindness, even when it hurts. Someone who’s carried pain alone for way too long.”

For a moment, there’s silence.

“I don’t deserve that kind of kindness,” he's barely holding himself up.