[ If Vash had even been paying a little attention he would have been impressed how much skill was going in to this impromptu handy man job. Impressive in that Vash didn't even realize this guy was tinkering away. Not a sound. If the man wasn't stalking over towards him with such an ugly expression and menacing aura, Vash might have had the gall to ask for tips on how to blend so seamlessly in to the air. But he has lived far too long to have any optimism that this will turn in to a friendly chat.
Trying to evade the inevitable, he's staring stubbornly at the peeling paint on the house above his head like it's the most interesting thing in the world. He's fighting the mad impulse to wriggle under the death glare or even take off running, which he was sure in this quiet world would sound nothing short of a stampede.
But finally he has to admit defeat as suddenly there is a large hand in his personal space. He is honestly shocked that his collar hasn't been grabbed or slammed against the wall, but he'll take it. His knee jerks a little in surprise and all but one of the pastries on his lap roll off on to the ground. He catches the last one in the napkin with his only hand. He could cry a little. All that doughy goodness gone in one cruel act of fate. He looks up at the guy, reflexively plastering on a stupid smile that he has crafted just for deescalating situations like this. Not that that has ever worked once in his life.
He waves back, pastry still in his hand, so it's more of a fist than a flat palm. He looks at the pastry, then at the stranger. Then at the pastry. He extends his hand and holds it out.
Who doesn't like a peace offering? He's got a very eager and accommodating expression on his face as he's craning his neck up. They can be friends. Nobody wants bad blood, right? ]
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Trying to evade the inevitable, he's staring stubbornly at the peeling paint on the house above his head like it's the most interesting thing in the world. He's fighting the mad impulse to wriggle under the death glare or even take off running, which he was sure in this quiet world would sound nothing short of a stampede.
But finally he has to admit defeat as suddenly there is a large hand in his personal space. He is honestly shocked that his collar hasn't been grabbed or slammed against the wall, but he'll take it. His knee jerks a little in surprise and all but one of the pastries on his lap roll off on to the ground. He catches the last one in the napkin with his only hand. He could cry a little. All that doughy goodness gone in one cruel act of fate. He looks up at the guy, reflexively plastering on a stupid smile that he has crafted just for deescalating situations like this. Not that that has ever worked once in his life.
He waves back, pastry still in his hand, so it's more of a fist than a flat palm. He looks at the pastry, then at the stranger. Then at the pastry. He extends his hand and holds it out.
Who doesn't like a peace offering? He's got a very eager and accommodating expression on his face as he's craning his neck up. They can be friends. Nobody wants bad blood, right? ]