Archive of Our Own ^beta

Every time Vash came by, Meryl and Milly’s house breathed out a sweet, tempting scent.

Today was no different. Butter and vanilla drifted through the air before he even raised his hand to knock. It was like the gingerbread witch’s house from a fairy tale, luring lost children inside.

Vash sniffed audibly. His mouth watered.

“Come in.”

Meryl opened the door almost the instant the bell rang, wearing a white apron.

“You’re earlier than I thought. We haven’t even started baking yet.”

Vash lifted a hand in an overly enthusiastic wave. “The second I hung up, I headed straight here!”

He drew in a long breath, as if tasting something invisible. “Ah— smells amazing… I could find this place with my eyes closed just by following the vanilla. I could still manage to eat two whole trays.”

Meryl stepped aside to let him in, then shut the door with a firm thud. Her smile was half teasing, half serious.

“If you eat that much, we won’t be able to bake fast enough. Not unless someone helps.”

Vash tilted his head, thinking. Then he straightened like he’d just accepted a mission.

“I’ll handle all the heavy lifting,” he declared, rolling his shoulders to warm up. “I work hard, I eat a lot, and I don’t complain!”

Meryl smacked her fist into her palm, as if she’d found the perfect solution.

“Fine. You can be our assistant and help mix the dough. In exchange, you get two trays of scones,” she muttered. “Then it won’t matter how much you eat… but there’s one condition.”

She pointed toward the kitchen. “Don’t wreck my kitchen. Got it?”

Vash grinned. “Never! I swear on the honor of a man who loves peace!”

Meryl let out a small huffed. “I’m not worried about peace. I’m worried about flour.”

The moment he stepped into the kitchen, Vash found himself inside a world made of flour. Fine white dust drifted through the golden light pouring in from the window, turning the air soft and hazy.

“Scones,” Milly said, looking up.

She was working butter into a glass bowl on the table. So that was where the pleasant smell was coming from. “Just the plain kind today, with a little vanilla added.”

Meryl set down a measuring cup. “That’s more than enough to make it smell incredible already.” She closed her eyes for a second, her expression bright, as if she could see the future laid out in front of her. “Once we spread jam on them and eat them with hot tea…”

Milly clapped her hands lightly. “Wow, now I can’t wait for the afternoon to come!”

Meryl nodded fast in agreement. “After working nonstop, the two of us deserve a break.”

Vash walked closer to the bowl and dragged a finger through the mixture of butter, sugar, and vanilla. He brought it to his mouth.

“Mmm.” His eyes lit up. Then he jolted, shoulders hunching. “Brr! That went straight to my brain. It’s freezing.”

“Well, it just came out of the fridge,” Milly laughed. “It’s good, right? But once it’s baked, it’ll smell even better.” She said it with quiet pride.

Vash took off his red coat and hung it outside the room. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his turtleneck to his elbows with dramatic determination. “Alright. I’ll help.”

He picked up a spatula and set it in an empty glass bowl, just like he had seen the girls do before. Then he grabbed the bag of flour and lifted it like a gun, ready for a duel.

“I’ll stir it until it turns smooth and wet—”

“No!!”

Meryl lunged forward and caught the mouth of the bag just in time, before disaster could strike. A small cloud of flour puffed into the air.

“You only need to mix the flour with the butter,” she said, staring him down as she tapped the bag with her finger. “And stir it roughly. That’s all.”

She emphasized the word, sharp and clear.

Vash immediately raised both hands in surrender. “Got it, got it. Rough is fine.”

Meryl let out a sigh and went to open the wall cabinet. “But first—”

She took out a neatly folded piece of fabric and handed it to him, her expression serious. “You have to put this on.”

Vash unfolded it and shook it open. It was a large white apron with frilly ruffles all around, the same kind the two of them were wearing.

“This is…” He held it frozen in his hands, looking like he had just seen his own wanted poster nailed up in the middle of town.

Milly said brightly, “We bought it at a princess-style clothing shop in the city. It was on special sale.”

“Put it on, so you won’t get dirty,” Meryl said quickly. “We need to finish the baking.”

Vash laughed awkwardly. “You really want me to wear this… right now?”

Meryl planted her hands on her hips. “Milly, help him. At this rate, we won’t get the scones done in time for tea.”

“Okay!”

Milly stepped away from the butter bowl, wiped her hands, and promptly slipped the apron over Vash’s head.

Meryl helped straighten the ties and tied a large bow at his back with practiced ease. She dusted off her hands and stepped back to inspect their work.

“All done.”

Milly gave him a thumbs-up. “It suits you perfectly.”

Vash looked down at himself under the frilly apron and let out a strained laugh.

“At least no one else is here to see me like this.”

Meryl quickly pushed him into position in front of the bowl and placed the spatula in his hand like a starting signal.

“Alright, Pastry Chef Vash. You may begin.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Vash answered like a brand-new recruit. He held the edge of the bowl and tilted his head, staring at the dough as if his life depended on it. His hands moved cautiously while he muttered to himself, “Slowly… roughly… don’t mix too hard…”

Milly poured milk into a small cup and tipped it into the bowl. “Gently fold it together, okay? Don’t do it like you’re choking a bank robber.”

“I don’t choke people,” Vash protested. He tapped the dough with the spatula, light as if he were petting a cat. “Is this okay?”

Meryl nodded. “That’ll do.”

Vash puffed out his chest. “See? I learn fast.”

He kept stirring, a small smile on his face. …Today felt unbelievably peaceful. No gunfire in the city. No one being chased. Just pastries and tea.

He murmured to himself, “It feels like a dream.”

Milly laughed. “Then don’t turn it into a nightmare by ruining the dough.”

Vash was about to answer, but—

The doorbell rang, cutting him off.

Meryl paused with her hands on the oven, then glanced at the clock on the wall.

“Huh? We’re not meeting him for another hour, are we?”

Vash looked up. “The milk delivery guy?”

“No one delivers milk at this time,” Meryl shot back.

Milly walked out of the kitchen with a bright, cheerful bounce. “Coming!”

She cracked the door open and peeked outside.

A tall man in a black jacket stood on the doorstep, a cigarette hooked at the corner of his mouth.

“Yo… am I late?”

“No, you’re actually early,” Milly said as she unlatched the chain.

“Huh…” Wolfwood stepped inside, the cigarette still hanging from his lips out of habit.

“Guess I got the time wrong. What’s that smell…? Damn, it’s good. Are you ladies makin—”

His voice cut off halfway.

His gaze slid past Milly, past Meryl, and stopped dead in the middle of the kitchen.

Where Vash the Stampede stood in profile.

He was wearing a frilly white maid-style apron, a big bow tied at his back. Both hands were dusted with flour. His posture was earnest, almost domestic, like a newlywed housewife devoted to baking for a peaceful little family.

“…”

Wolfwood’s cigarette slipped from his mouth and hit the floor with a soft thud.

“…”

He blinked once.

And twice.

“…I think I walked into the wrong house.”

He turned as if to leave. At the same moment, Vash turned around.

“Oh! Wolfwood!”

He lifted a hand to wave, forgetting his fingers were coated in flour.

“You’re here early.”

Wolfwood stared, eyes wide, and pointed at him. His finger froze in midair.

“…What is that?”

Vash looked down at himself. Sunlight striped across the apron.

“Oh, this?” He gave an awkward laugh. “It’s an apron. To keep me from getting dirty.”

Meryl added flatly, “Labor in exchange for pastries. That’s today’s deal.”

Milly beamed. “Vash is helping us mix the dough.”

Wolfwood went silent for a full three seconds. Then he lifted a hand and covered his face.

“…Gosh,” he groaned, low and helpless, like the feeling couldn’t be put into words.

Vash took a step closer. “Are you feeling sick or something?”

“Don’t move. Don’t talk. Don’t walk any closer!”

Wolfwood snapped his head up and barked it out, like someone who’d just been shot point-blank.

Meryl crossed her arms. “Why are you acting like you’ve seen a ghost? He’s just helping us bake.”

“Your ‘just’ does not apply to a sight like this,” Wolfwood said, pointing at the oversized bow tied at Vash’s back.

Vash even twisted around to look at it himself.

“It suits him, though,” Milly argued.

“No,” Wolfwood said at once. “This world should not contain Vash the Stampede in a maid apron.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever reach this point either,” Vash admitted, scratching the back of his neck. A smear of flour ended up in his hair. “But the smell of scones beats everything, you know.”

Wolfwood stared at him. “…You put… something like that on… willingly?”

“Well… half willingly,” Vash said with a light laugh. “The other half was the girls forcing it on me.”

Meryl crossed her arms. “If you complain, Vash, I’ll make you wear a matching hair ribbon too.”

Wolfwood sucked in a sharp breath and turned his flushed face away, because the image in his head was far too vivid.

Vash grinned and straightened up proudly. “You should try my scones. Meryl even said I’m way better at folding the dough now.”

“No.”

Wolfwood answered at once. Then froze.

“…I mean, no— wait—”

He pointed toward the oven. “You shouldn’t be standing that close to something with that much heat.”

“Why not?”

Wolfwood glanced at the frilly apron, then let his gaze drift to Vash’s flour-dusted hands and cheeks.

“…If something explodes,” he muttered, sighing and veering off into another thought, “I don’t want to remember that the city’s next great disaster started because you wanted to bake scones.”

Milly burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. Meryl made a face. Vash stayed where he was in the middle of the kitchen, apron and all, smiling brightly as if he didn’t quite catch the sarcasm.

“Then will you watch me for a bit?” he asked, voice clear and earnest. “So I really don’t make the oven explode.”

Wolfwood looked at him in silence. Then he bent down to pick up the cigarette butt that had gone out on the floor and let out a long sigh.

When he straightened again, he found Meryl pointing at the mixing table in the center of the kitchen.

“Alright. You too. Come help. We’ll finish faster that way.”

Wolfwood flinched. “Me too?”

“Of course.” Meryl smiled in a way that left no room for escape. “More hands means more output. Then we can finally sit down for tea and pastries.”

Wolfwood looked at the bowl of dough. Then at the oven. Then at Vash in his frilly apron once more. He narrowed his eyes. “…Damn it.”

Milly hurried to grab another apron from the cabinet. “Then you can wear this one—”

“No.” He cut her off, sharp and final. “I still need my dignity.”

Milly pouted and fluttered the apron in her hands. “Really? It’s cute, though—”

“No,” Wolfwood repeated, firmer.

Vash went back to the bowl and started stirring again. “I don’t think things like that have anything to do with dignity.”

Wolfwood shot him a glare. “Easy for you to say. You’re the one wearing it.”

Vash gave a thin smile beneath all that ruffle and lace. “But I’m still me, you know.”

Wolfwood didn’t answer. His gaze slipped to the bow tied at the small of Vash’s back, then jerked away at once. He ground out through his teeth,

“…Forget it.”

He shrugged off his jacket, leaving only his shirt, and grabbed another bowl. His voice came out rough and annoyed. “Just tell me what to do.”

Milly handed him a spatula. “Stir slowly, okay?”

“That’s it?”

Wolfwood went at the task immediately. A little too hard. Bits of dough flew out of the bowl and splattered the table, and a pale cloud of flour puffed into the air.

Vash laughed. “Wow, that’s like a tiny storm. If you do it like that, the dough’s going to turn to mush. You’re supposed to stir gently. Like when you pet a cat’s head.”

Wolfwood growled. “What kind of comparison is that?”

“I’ll show you,” Vash said quickly, reaching for the bowl, ready to demonstrate.

But Wolfwood yanked it back at once, stubborn as ever. “I don’t need you to. I can handle something this simple.”

Their pulls met in a sudden tug-of-war. The bowl of scone dough tilted back and forth between their hands, and then—

Poof!

A burst of white flour exploded upward and smacked straight into Wolfwood’s face.

“…”

Wolfwood stood perfectly still. Half his body was dusted white, from his hair all the way down to the hem of his shirt.

Silence spread through the kitchen.

Wolfwood lifted a hand and slowly wiped his face. The blended scents of butter, sugar, and vanilla drifted into the air.

“…Uh,” Vash let go of the bowl and swallowed. “I’m so—”

Thump!

A lump of dough flew back at Vash and hit him square in the forehead, hard enough to knock him backward.

“Hey!”

Milly gasped.

Meryl screamed, “You two, stop right now—”

But it was already too late.

Flour and dough sailed through the air like a miniature snowstorm. Neither of them backed down.

“Why did you start it?!” Vash shouted from the other side of the table.

“You dumped dough all over me!” Wolfwood fired back at once.

“I was just trying to show you how to do it!”

Flour covered Vash’s face so completely that his eyes were barely visible. He kept throwing dough back just as seriously, the frills and white bow of his apron fluttering wildly with every movement. Wolfwood ground his teeth, muttering curses under his breath, then hurled the next clump with deadly accuracy.

They dueled across the kitchen through flying dough and curtains of white dust.

Meryl clenched her fists, shaking with pent-up rage, then shouted at the top of her lungs.

“Enough!!”

Her voice rang through the kitchen.

Both of them froze at the same time, stranded on opposite sides of the table. Their hair, faces, and clothes were so coated in flour there wasn’t a clean spot left.

Meryl took a deep breath, forcing her anger down. “…This is a kitchen. Not a firing range.”

Flour still hung in the air, like gun smoke after a clash.

Vash slowly raised his hand first. “I’m sorry…”

Wolfwood looked away, then straightened. “…Yeah. Fine, that’s enough. But Needlehead started it. He got me dirty first.”

Milly couldn’t hold back a laugh. “But it did look kind of fun…”

Meryl snapped her head around. Milly jumped and clapped a hand over her mouth, going silent in an instant.

“You two, get outside and wait. Now!” Meryl pointed at the door, her eyes sharp enough to spark fire.

Wolfwood brushed flour off his shirt. Vash hurriedly took off the apron. Neither of them dared argue with Meryl when she was like this. They retreated from the kitchen almost in unison, leaving behind the sweet-smelling scone dough and a battlefield of white.

Not long after, the two culprits finished washing up and came out to stand in front of the house. Even so, clumps of white flour still clung to their hair, and their clothes were blotched with pale stains like an uneven map.

Wolfwood flicked his lighter and lit a cigarette. A short distance away, Vash dropped into a crouch, clutching his head with both hands, utterly miserable.

“Do you think my two trays of scones still count?” he groaned. “I made Meryl mad…”

“You’re unbelievable,” Wolfwood muttered dryly through a veil of smoke.

Vash looked up at him, eyes already starting to water. “You’re not into sweets. You don’t get how good they are. I only tasted a little and I was hooked.”

Wolfwood shot him a sideways glance, then exhaled slowly. “It’s just flour and butter. How good can it be?”

Vash smiled faintly. “Good enough to get kicked out of the kitchen. And now I can’t stop whining about it.”

Wolfwood was quiet for a moment. Then he gave a short, breathy laugh.

“…What a mess.”

The midday wind passed through, carrying the warm scent of butter and vanilla from inside the house. The duel in the kitchen wasn’t over. This was only a temporary ceasefire.

The warm scent of freshly baked scones slowly pushed aside the chalky smell of flour in the kitchen. The oven chimed softly, like a small declaration of victory.

Meryl opened the oven with care. Inside, rows of golden scones waited on the tray, their surfaces cracked just slightly in that unmistakable homemade way. The aroma was so rich and comforting that, for a moment, she forgot all about the flour-splattered disaster behind her.

“…We did it,” she murmured, letting out a long breath.

Milly wiped the sweat from her forehead and dropped into a chair with a relieved sigh. “Just in time for tea.”

A small wooden table had been set neatly out in the garden, with four chairs around it.
It was the result of Vash and Wolfwood trying to make amends.

The four of them gathered around the table. Meryl poured hot tea for everyone while Milly set down the tray of scones, alongside bowls of strawberry jam and fresh cream. Thin wisps of steam drifted upward in the warm afternoon light.

The sweetness of the pastries and the gentle fragrance of tea slowly restored Meryl’s energy. The sparkle returned to her eyes.

She fixed Vash and Wolfwood with a stern look.

“After you’re done eating, you two are cleaning the kitchen. No slacking.” Her voice sharpened. “And no fighting again. If you do, I’m not inviting you over for tea and sweets next time.”

The two of them exchanged a quick glance. Vash let out a dry laugh, while Wolfwood gave a half-hearted grunt of agreement.

Vash took his first bite of the homemade scone. It tasted better than he’d expected, so good that he suddenly wasn’t sure his promised two trays would be enough.

He leaned back against the chair, cradling his teacup, and closed his eyes. The scent of tea and warm pastries carried his thoughts into the peaceful moment.

“It’s really good,” he said softly.

…It had been a chaotic day. But it was peaceful, too.