The cotton pads and medical tape's placed back into the medicine cabinet, shut gently as not to make much noise. It's a habit—no longer with crewmates or roommates or hosts to bother—Vash has always lived with other people.

That loneliness is what wins against his better judgment not to send texts in the dead of night. There's no mistaking the Plant's heart is forever heavy with guilt, with shame, and with fear; but he was listening to them, that day on the Boardwalk.

[text]: Hi! And, sorry. I couldn't stand to live in Archimedes anymore. [text]: I won't be around there again. Sorry you've both had to put up with all these weeks of what I've done. I'm sure it must have been hard on you both… And I know I haven't been there for you. I promise, I miss you both so, so much. [text]: I'm in Burnt Umber. If you can believe it, Home's out there! Actually, I'm in there right now, typing this to you. It's more or less exactly the way things looked the last time you were over, although the crew's dwindled down to just plain old me. [text]: I was wondering… If you'd like to come live here? It's a lot more lush and lively than Noman's Land, but I don't think you'll have trouble finding where I'm at. I've attached the coordinates anyway, just in case! [text]: Just thought offering a safe place to stay would be the least I could do for you two. I've seen a lot of the coverage, heard things. I'm really, really sorry for all the trouble. [text]: Oh, sorry to text you so late, too! No new phone excuse here, just me being me.

Vash runs the faucet after setting his phone aside, leaving it face-up on the counter while he stares at it apprehensively. The thin stream of cold water running over his hands brings him some measure of calm, even if it always feels a bit like a guilty pleasure. Wasteful.

…These might be the most terrifying messages he's ever sent.

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