Knives doesn't say anything again right away, but his expression shifts subtly. There's no lie in it as far as he can tell, though he was hardly an expert. Vash had his tells when trying to be deceptive, and he couldn't pick up any of them. One hundred and fifty years wasn't at all long enough.

That was about the time of when he'd all but ruined the world. But Vash wasn't flinching away, hadn't drawn a weapon, didn't seem suspicious and hostile, and that set a tightness to the back of his throat he's not expecting and swallows hard around. The echos of fear and hatred had been company for so long, to see them missing is almost painful, in the stinging way of pulling off a stuck bandage.

And then he raises one hand, towards his brother, palm up, drawing a brief, slow breath. "Come here." The butcher of millions' voice is quiet, but he knows he'll be heard. "I won't harm you, or make you harm anyone else. Even the humans. I just want to see something."

Touch had a way of enhancing their inherent gifts.