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Despite the time that has passed since Vash did this last, the nostalgia creeping tendrils throughout the dozens of other feelings he is currently experiencing is enough to nearly bowl him over. He doubts he will ever forget what it is to press his forehead to cool glass, that electric feeling of connecting to one of his sisters. He doubts the ache will ever fade, to know that his sisters are being crushed to death under all this weight and that even now there is nothing he can do, because without them all the humans will die and that’s what he’s been fighting for all this time. For the humans to have a chance on this planet, a real chance to create a better place for themselves.
He closes his eyes, fingers clenching slightly against the tank as he breathes in deeply, ignoring the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Wolfwood insisting he can’t save everyone. He knows that, has known it for a very long time. But if it’s a choice between saving himself and anyone else, he’ll always put the other person first. He breathes out, emptying his mind of everything but the Plant in front of him. He swears he can feel her hands pressed against his own, the glass barrier and lack of feeling in his prosthetic be damned.
Despite the thick wisps of nostalgia curling through his ribs, the feeling this time around is slightly different than all the times prior. In the past, Vash had always done this to help revive his sisters on the brink of total shutdown, to try and keep both them and the humans that relied on their energy output alive and healthy. Now he has to draw upon that energy himself and attempt to redirect it, and while he is offering up as much of himself as he is capable of doing to offset the pressure he still feels sick. She’s been in this tank on this planet for decades now, alone and withering, and she unfurled herself for Vash the second he reached out despite knowing he was only there to take, just as all the humans do.
He’d drop to his knees if he thought it’d be anything more than a selfish, empty gesture of false repentance. He’s no longer sure there even is a God, and if there is then He has long since stopped listening to Vash. He’s known that for a very long time, too.
He can feel the effects of tapping into his biological abilities making themselves known, things he is normally capable of hiding bursting forth now that none of his concentration can be spared to suppress them. The ruffling of feathers against his cheekbones, the icy feeling of lines carving themselves out from his eyes and across his cheeks, arcing down his neck and disappearing under his popped collar. He feels muscles in his back spasming, straining slightly as their natural strength combats the decades of lack of use, before a small fwoosh whispers in the room. He knows what he would see in the reflection of the tank if he were to open his eyes, and the knowledge only compels him to squeeze them shut tighter.
He can feel the sandsteamer slowing down. That’s all he’s thinking about right now.
He’s uncertain how much time passes with him quietly pressed against the tank. He can feel his sister gaining strength, both from him offering up his own and from the decreased demand as the sandsteamer finally, finally grinds to a halt. Vash can only hope, pray, that the lack of impact is because they stopped it in time and not that he’s simply too deep in the interior to feel it. His position against the tank has gradually transitioned into leaning against it entirely, wooziness that he knows would have his vision spinning were his eyes open overtaking him. The Plant is trying to pull back now, and Vash can hear her voice in his head, the clear worry within it enough to have him forcing himself to straighten.
And then he hears footsteps.
Three sets of them, pounding full speed towards the door that he left open like a damn idiot. Before he can so much as take a steadying breath, much less try to regain control of his appearance, he hears a sharp, horrified gasp and the sound of at least one set of footsteps backing up.
He turns around, and even the slowness of the spin is not enough to stop the room from spinning well after he’s stopped.
Despite the time that has passed since Vash was last in this position, the feelings are entirely familiar and all consuming. The panic, utterly counterproductive as it only makes the feathers pressed against his cheeks and shooting out of his back more undeniable as they puff out in response to it. The fear, spine chilling and curling cold fingers around his lungs and squeezing. The ache, decades old and ever present, sharpening and waning but never disappearing. Memories of being called monster, inhuman, shouted out of towns and attempting to dodge thrown stones and bullets as he goes. Worse, memories of desperate people begging him for help he can’t provide, salvation he can’t give out. And the desperate measures those people took when they realised Vash could do nothing for them yet refused to accept it.
Vash sees Meryl, eyes widened and looking completely stricken as her hands rise to her mouth. Judging by the positioning of her legs she was the one who stepped back. Vash sees Roberto, expression shuttered but he has taken half a step closer to Meryl, as if preparing to pull her back. Back and away from Vash.
Lastly, despite his every desire to not look, to spare himself the pain just this once, his eyes seek out Wolfwood. A magnetic draw that he is utterly powerless against.
Wolfwood’s eyes are widened marginally, though he doesn’t look as knocked off kilter as Meryl and Roberto do. Vash isn’t too surprised by that, he’d long suspected why Wolfwood was with them, with him specifically, but the look in his eyes as they trace what Vash knows to be his wings…
Vash can’t make out what that look is supposed to mean. He can see Meryl’s mouth moving, hands having dropped back down but outstretched slightly, as if speaking to a wild animal. He can’t hear her over the buzzing in his ears. He has enough time to think he’s going to have to run again, and he can only hope he’ll be able to retrieve his bag without complications or he’s really going to be in trouble, and then he feels his knees sway and buckle.
He sees Wolfwood’s expression shift to one of alarm as he sprints to him, Punisher sliding off his shoulder and hitting the ground as he goes, and then he feels his head smack harshly against the cold metal floor and everything goes black.
While Wolfwood knows he has undoubtedly been this exhausted before, he cannot remember the last time it was. At this point, all he wants is to get his stupid charge, meet up with the two reporters, find a place to stay, and then sleep for at least the next 24 hours. So when he exits the engine room, ignoring the tingling of his hands from the rapid healing, and bumps into the little missy and the drunk telling him the only place Vash could be is the Plant room, he thinks he’ll be able to achieve those goals easily and in short order.
When they enter the Plant room, he realises that Vash, as if wanting to earn his nickname, has made those goals immediately and migraine inducingly more difficult.
He knows what Knives is, all of the Eyes of Michael know, and he knows that Vash is Knives’ little brother. So from a logical standpoint, Wolfwood has known what Vash is since he first learned of the man’s existence for the sake of this job. To know from a purely logical standpoint and to see Vash lit up like a festival with feathers sticking out of him every which way are two wildly different things.
Looking at him has something primal within Wolfwood scrambling with the instinct to run, that this creature is not something he’s meant to be in the presence of and that he needs to get away now. A much larger part of Wolfwood, one that he fully intends to ignore as much as that primal urge, is caught tracing the lines of those ethereal patterns, the way the blue light of the tank behind him catches on the blue of his eyes, even through those ridiculous glasses. He looks breathtaking, and in that single frozen moment all Wolfwood can think is that this being is one he could see himself dropping to his knees for far more willingly than the God he only halfway believes in.
Then he hears the little missy’s sharp gasp next to him, Roberto’s heavy footsteps, and the moment is broken. He actually looks at Vash, and can see the man is swaying on his feet, the way he nearly stumbled to the ground when he spun to face them. He’s already trying to ease Punisher to the ground as Meryl speaks up.
“Vash…?” she begins, voice surprisingly steady despite the tremors running through her carefully outstretched hands. “Are you alright?”
Vash remains frozen, giving no indication that he heard the reporter at all, let alone offering up any sort of response. There’s no expression on his face, and the wrongness of that in particular sends a spike of unease through Wolfwood’s heart. Vash, somehow, despite never revealing his true feelings, wears his heart on his sleeve, and to see him so blank is almost more striking than the patterns and the feathers. They all watch helplessly as Vash’s eyes, also run through with those bizarre patterns, move sluggishly to gaze at each one of them. And then he sways dangerously, eyes losing what little clarity they had possessed, and Wolfwood curses harshly under his breath.
He lets Punisher fall to the ground, knowing it’ll survive the drop, and sprints for Vash. That second delay in his reaction costs him, however, as he watches Vash hit the ground with a sharp crack, head bouncing unforgivingly against the metal floor. Wolfwood slides out of his sprint to his knees, halting at Vash’s side. This close to the tank, Wolfwood’s enhanced hearing is able to pick up the low hum of the Plant within it, and his gaze is drawn to it.
Its hands are still pressed against the tank, wings eerily similar to Vash’s spread out behind it. Its eyes, previously locked onto Vash, turn to meet Wolfwood’s, and he feels dread slice through him so sharply that he almost thinks to check for blood. Then he hears more footsteps and he sees Meryl crouching down onto Vash’s other side, hands reaching out but pausing before making contact. Wolfwood’s eyes dart over to meet her gaze for a moment and she looks just as lost as he feels, all of them drowning in this situation so far above them. Then her gaze hardens and her hands cup Vash’s cheeks, thumbs brushing against the lines still glowing against his pale skin. This close to him, Wolfwood can see that Vash looks as if he’s been run over, sweaty and exhausted and even paler than normal.
When Wolfwood looks back over to the tank, the Plant has curled back in on itself. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to make of that, if anything.
“He’s not waking up,” Meryl’s voice cuts through the silence of the room, and he returns his gaze to her. She’s shifted Vash so his head is resting in her lap instead of on the ground, and one hand is running through his messy hair methodically. She then pulls her hand back with a wince, and Wolfwood goes cold at the blood on her fingertips. He could almost pretend that this is just another unfortunately normal instance of the idiot charging off somewhere getting involved in something he shouldn’t and suffering the consequences for it, if he were to ignore the lines. And the wings.
He’d been mostly ignoring them until this point, but it’s impossible to do so now, having to watch where he places his feet and knees so he doesn’t accidentally step on them. They’re difficult to make out, almost as if the feathers can’t decide how they’re supposed to lay, and horrifically rumpled, but Wolfwood can see that there’s at least two sets of them. The ones coming out of his back are considerably larger than the ones spreading out from around his hips, though neither are small, and they’re folded awkwardly from the fall and Meryl’s adjustments.
Wolfwood reaches a hand out to feel through Vash’s hair, finding the beginnings of a bump forming around a nasty cut Vash must’ve gotten from the grated floor. “We gotta stop the blood,” he mutters, cursing under his breath at his own foolishness. After this he swears he’s going to start carrying around a first aid kit specifically for this stupid blondie. For the moment, their options and time are rather limited.
As he wracks his brain trying to think of what they can use as a temporary bandage, he hears the sound of cloth ripping. He turns and sees Roberto having torn a few strips off of the cloth used to wrap Punisher, and he shifts to rise a little taller, a noise of protest breaking past his lips.
“Oi, old man, that ain’t trash you can just do whatever with y’know!” Roberto’s answer is to simply throw the balled up cloth at Wolfwood’s face, leaving him spluttering as he flounders to catch it before it can hit the dirty ground.
“Quit yer whining,” Roberto huffs, hand on his holster as his eyes dart between the three of them on the ground and the door. “We don’t really have time for this. Steamer’s already been stopped for a good while now, they’re likely gonna check the Plant first chance they get. We need to move.”
Wolfwood grits his teeth, folding one of the strips into a makeshift gauze pad and pressing it to the cut on the back of Vash’s head. Even completely unconscious, Vash’s face screws up in pain, and Wolfwood is as gentle as he can manage as he uses the remaining strips to wrap around Vash’s head, bandaging the wound as best he can for now.
“Where are we even supposed to go though?” Meryl asks anxiously, thumbs rubbing against the feathers and lines still laid against Vash’s cheekbones. “There’s still the sandstorm.”
Wolfwood finishes tying off the bandages around Vash’s head, thinking the same thing. If they could get into town, he knows there are at least a couple of inns they could stay at. Or they could stay at the orphanage, he knows they wouldn’t turn him away. Though he’d definitely rather avoid that. Either way, that requires them to get out of the sandsteamer and into Hopeland, avoiding staff and navigating the storm as they go. He huffs a sigh, craving a cigarette.
“We need to focus on getting out of here, first,” he says, looking down at Vash. The lines are still pulsing on his visible skin, but the feathers seem to have receded a little bit. There’s still plenty of them, but the wings aren’t quite all there anymore. That’ll make it a little easier. Wolfwood adjusts Vash’s coat as best he can to cover the feathers, pulling the oversized hood up and bringing it down so it hangs halfway down his face. It isn’t perfect by any means, but it’s about the best they can manage. “Old man, you take care of my cross, yeah? I got spikey.”
Roberto eyes Wolfwood warily. Wolfwood knows the old reporter doesn’t really trust him, especially around Vash, but Wolfwood is easily the stronger of the two and he would be able to keep a grip on Vash should the man wake up while they’re moving. Roberto must agree, because he gives a begrudging huff but still crouches down and hefts up the Punisher. Wolfwood turns back to Vash, trying to figure out the best way to carry him without aggravating the head wound or any other potential injuries. Eventually he settles on simply picking him up bridal style, as it’ll provide the best support for Vash’s head. Curled up and covered by his massive coat, the lines and feathers are mostly concealed, only visible if someone were up close or looking for them. With any luck, they’ll be able to avoid everyone, though considering present company he doubts it.
Meryl looks between him and Roberto, clearly nervous but there’s a fierce determination blazing in her eyes. She nods once to all of them, then turns to the door to the Plant room. “Alright, then. Let’s do this!”
Vash drifts.
He doesn’t know what happened after he collapsed, but he can tell now that he’s moving. There are strong arms holding him close to a firm chest, his aching head resting in the crook of the person’s elbow. Each pounding step they take sends agonising vibrations through Vash’s entire body, and he lets out a pitiful little sound that he’d have bitten back if he were just a bit more aware. He feels the arms holding him tense, and then tighten their grip on him slightly.
“Take it easy, tongari. You’re fine.”
Vash doesn’t feel fine. He feels like his head is about to explode, the pain enough to leave him feeling fuzzy and nauseous. He can barely even squint his eyes open from how harshly it sharpens the pain.
“W’lfwood…?” His voice comes out as an uncertain slur, and Vash regrets speaking immediately. He knows he’s been described as brash and annoying, but has his voice really always been so loud?
He must make some sort of face, because he feels himself being squeezed briefly. “Easy. It’s fine. We’ve got you.”
Something about that doesn’t feel right. Something about him doesn’t feel right. He feels cold, and lightweight wispy brushes against his cheekbones and the nape of his neck, and something about that is bad, isn’t it? He has somewhere he has to go, doesn’t he? He attempts to move, but he’s so tired, and his prosthetics don’t seem to want to respond. His struggles don’t get very far anyway, the arms around him tightening again, this time a bit less gently.
“I said easy, Vash.” Ah, there’s that usual curt annoyance when Wolfwood addresses him, the prior almost softness that was in his tone entirely disappeared. “Don’t even think about trying anything.”
His jacket is bundled up around him, the hood pulled up like he almost never does. Despite how cold his skin feels, the arms and chest pressed against him are warm. What was he trying to do? He can’t remember, but he figures it’d be better to placate the other man, then maybe it won’t progress into a fight. And he can maybe stay in these strong, warm arms for just a little bit longer. All he manages to get out is a slightly muffled “‘kay…” before he sinks into the arms underneath him, his temple resting against Wolfwood’s side.
He hears Wolfwood let out a slightly strangled noise before he once again loses his grip on consciousness.
The next time Vash is awake, there’s roaring surrounding him that’s almost deafening. He’s been readjusted in Wolfwood’s arms, face pressed into the crook of his neck and there’s a weird grainy feeling in his throat. Wolfwood’s movements are frantic, and Vash can feel panic bubbling up in his throat at his own uselessness. He shifts, wanting to at least walk on his own, he has no idea how long Wolfwood’s been carrying him and he can hear the man’s huffing, though it sounds strangely muffled.
Vash has barely even moved before one of Wolfwood’s hands comes up and cups the back of his head, pressing it back down into Wolfwood’s neck. Vash still tries to squirm, but Wolfwood holds him tight. “Wolfwood…” he rasps. His voice is scratchy, and he can feel a cough building in his chest. “Let me– I can–”
“Shh,” Wolfwood murmurs. “Keep your damn mouth shut, idiot. And quit squirming!” Vash lets out a little distressed noise that trails off into a cough, and the pain that radiates throughout his skull has large black splotches blotting out his vision, nausea curling through his gut. He gasps harshly at the end of the cough, the world tilting in alarming, uneven spins around him. He feels like he’s falling. He thinks sometimes that’s all he was made to do, is fall. One of his hands weakly bumps against Wolfwood’s chest and he clumsily fists the fabric of his suit jacket.
“‘m sorry,” he says, and it sounds cacophonous to his own ears, ringing and painful and so loud, but he has to get it out, has to make sure Wolfwood hears him. He’s been alone for so long for this very reason. No one should have to take care of him, no one should be worried about him to the point they feel it necessary, he shouldn’t have anyone around him at all. If he’s alone, then it’s just him. No one else gets swept up in his typhoon with him, no one else has to suffer, it’s okay so long as it’s just him. He can take it, and he hates making other people worry about him, fuss over him. His chest feels tight, throat burning, but he still tries to force the words out. “I’m sorry, Wolfwood, I didn’t–”
Wolfwood’s hand is still on the back of his head, holding it in place, but Vash feels his fingers twitch for a single moment of uncertainty before they start carefully brushing through the short, coarse strands of hair they were previously splayed against. “Vash, hush. The hell’re ya even trying to apologise for, huh? Geez, just relax. I’ve got you.” Despite the bluntness of the words, Wolfwood’s tone has softened slightly. Vash buries his face into where it’s pressed against Wolfwood’s neck, breathing in and smelling cigarette smoke and sweat. He rests his forehead there and closes his eyes, trying to remember what compelled him to apologise to the other man. His thoughts feel slushy, running into each other and drifting in and out of his reach. His head throbs, and the next time he blinks he finds himself completely unable to pry his eyes back open.
It is a while before he’s awake enough to be truly aware of his surroundings again. At one point, the atmosphere around them shifts, and the roaring has stopped. He hears voices, too many to be just Wolfwood and the reporters talking to each other. The other voices are familiar, though Vash is far too out of it to place them. He hears shuffling, footsteps breaking off in different directions. He feels a hand gently cup his cheek, one he can only assume to be Meryl’s based on the fingerless leather glove on it. He turns into it, intending to tell her he’s okay and to not worry, but he doesn’t quite manage to get the words out, a pathetic wheeze being the only thing to show for his efforts. It must’ve been enough, though, as he hears Meryl let out a soft, fond huff before the hand drops and he hears her footsteps fade away as well.
He feels a different pair of arms sliding under him, start to pull him away from cigarette smoke and a dusty suit jacket, and the hand still grasping onto it tightens. A pitched whine tears out of his throat, and he shakes his head once but is unable to continue from the dizziness.
Still, he’s pretty sure he can speak now, and he forces himself to do so through the rough gritty feeling coating his throat. “No, no, no–”
“Hey, Vash, it’s alright, we’re just gonna get you fixed up–” The voice is comforting, and so familiar, and it’s not Wolfwood. He squirms as much as he can given his position, curling further into Wolfwood and trying to get away from those other arms.
“Oi, maybe it’d be best to wait til he’s more awake for all that. He’s gonna hurt himself worse.” There’s that familiar baritone, and Vash presses himself even closer, like a plant bending towards the sun. He hears the voice arguing with Wolfwood, but the words are shot off at each other far too quickly for Vash to keep up with right now. Eventually, those other arms pull away, so he figures it’s fine.
There’s more walking, and in the brief times Vash is able to slit his eyes open he sees bright white walls past Wolfwood’s dark jacket and tan skin. Too bright for him to look at, not without sending a spike of agony through his brain, and he keeps his eyes shut. After a bit, there’s a soft whoosh, and then he hears no other voice and no other footsteps, just Wolfwood’s slightly strained breathing. He’s being lowered, set down on something soft and warm, and then Wolfwood is pulling away. Vash keeps his hand fisted in the man’s jacket, leaving him unable to truly pull away as he heaves a breath to try and speak. It pulls into his lungs wrong though, and he’s choking on that grittiness, a coughing fit overtaking him that has him gasping and clenching his eyes against the pain it brings. His ears are ringing.
“–ikey, relax! Jesus, I’m not going anywhere, calm down!” Wolfwood’s hand reaches out and grasps his own seeking one, and Vash can feel the calluses there despite his glove covering most of his skin. Wolfwood sits down on the edge of the bed at Vash’s side, thumb brushing over his caught knuckles, and Vash can’t remember what he was so worked up about now that he isn’t choking on the feeling and the filth in his throat and lungs. In fact, he can’t really remember what he’s doing awake at all. Sleeping sounds so much better right now, and his eyes slip shut once more despite Wolfwood’s squawked protests.
The bastard’s out again.
Wolfwood heaves a sigh, his free hand rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath his sunglasses as the other is trapped by Vash’s unconscious grip. He can feel heat settled high on his cheeks, and he’s grateful that Vash can’t see him, though he’s not really sure whether his loss of consciousness is more a blessing or a hindrance at this point. He’s still bundled up in his jacket, boots, and he’s covered in sand.
Wolfwood remembers the guy, Brad he thinks, pointing out a restroom on their way here, with functional showers, but there’s no way he could keep himself and Vash steady long enough to get the blondie clean. And that aside, despite the time they’ve all spent traveling together, Vash has never revealed more skin than what little is shown by his usual getup. At this point, it has to be deliberate, another one of the many things about himself that Vash keeps hidden, and while in ordinary circumstances Wolfwood wouldn’t particularly care, something about breaching Vash’s hard won trust specifically makes him feel scummy. No, Wolfwood’s best option is likely to just remove the jacket and boots at least and clean what little he can see, at least until Vash wakes up.
He needs to clean himself first, though, or he’s just going to be spreading even more sand. They’re lucky these people found them, because wandering aimlessly in a sandstorm was really not his finest moment. He carefully extricates his hand from Vash’s, moving slowly so as to not wake the other man. Wolfwood knows his head’s gotta be throbbing with the blow it took, even more evidenced by just how out of it he’s been ever since. Even unconscious, Vash’s face pinches at the loss of contact, head turning as if trying to find where he went. Wolfwood grits his teeth, angry and unsure why, as he leans down and carefully brushes his hand through Vash’s floppy bangs.
“I’ll be right back, alright spikey?” he says, despite knowing Vash can’t hear him. “So just rest.”
Vash, as if to disprove him even now as he so often does while awake, turns towards Wolfwood’s voice, pressing further into his hand as he does so. The furrow between his brows lessen, the feathers still laid against his cheekbones look a little less ruffled. His breathing deepens, though it still wheezes out on the exhale. It’s heart stoppingly cute, and Wolfwood quickly pulls his hand away before that thought process can go any further.
He dashes off to the bathroom, intending to wash himself off and get changed as quickly as possible. Something tells him it’s not a very good idea to leave Vash by himself for very long.
That instinct is proven correct when, about twenty minutes later, Wolfwood reenters the bedroom, sand free and dressed in the plain white and gray toned clothes they had been provided, to find Vash on his hands and knees on the floor beside the bed. Vash looks up at the sound of the door opening, eyes still sliding in and out of focus. The feathers visible are puffed up once more, and the pulsing lines seem to be uncertain what to do, fading in and out and receding and expanding. He looks pale and sick and vaguely guilty as he silently tries to meet Wolfwood’s gaze, though he never quite manages to actually land on him. Wolfwood heaves a tired sigh, truly wanting nothing more than to lay down somewhere and sleep. It’s been an impossibly long day, and he really doesn’t have the energy for whatever nonsense Vash has gotten into his head this time. He places his dirty clothes on the nearby desk and then approaches Vash, who is now struggling to pull himself up to standing. Wolfwood crouches down in front of him, not quite reaching out yet, though the urge is strong as he watches Vash’s human arm shake and tremble simply from the effort of holding himself up.
“What the hell are ya doing on the floor, spikey,” Wolfwood asks, though it comes out as more of a statement than an actual question. Looking at how Vash is faced towards the door, it isn’t particularly hard to tell what the man had been trying to do.
Vash flushes, the red on his cheeks contrasting with the icy blue lines on his skin. “I… was just trying to get my coat off.” Despite the fogginess still clear in his eyes, Vash sounds much more present, and the tension lining his shoulders makes it clear that he’s more aware of himself than he has been in the past few hours.
Still, Vash has always been a shit liar, and that holds true even now. Wolfwood simply quirks an eyebrow at him, supremely unimpressed. “Really, now.” Vash ignores him, focusing on trying to rise. Wolfwood takes pity on him for the moment, letting the subject drop and offering a hand. Clearly, Vash wouldn’t be able to get very far anyway. Vash looks at Wolfwood’s offered hand for a moment, and he finds himself caught by those bright blue eyes. Vash so rarely has those goofy glasses off, keeping them on even when dozing in the van, and now Wolfwood can take a guess as to why as dozens of emotions flit through his eyes. They pass through too quickly for Wolfwood to be able to identify every single one, but even he can tell that Vash is obviously conflicted, and there’s confusion there, too. After that pause of hesitancy, Vash does take Wolfwood’s hand and allows himself to be helped up. Wolfwood lifts him easily, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. Vash sits there, still more present than he has been, but Wolfwood can see now he’s largely forcing himself to be, slightly swaying in place as he looks down at his metal hand. Wolfwood remembers hearing electricity crackling followed by a bizarre crunch when they’d been attempting to move the cannon, but he’d not had the opportunity in the following chaos to even think about it. He can see where the sound had come from, now, fine cracks running through Vash’s metal palm and arching upwards towards his forearm.
He gives Vash a few moments, but when it becomes clear he has no intention of moving he crouches down again, working at the frankly absurd number of belts and loops on Vash’s boots. “The sandstorm’s still going, y’know,” he says, working to keep his tone casual as he moves onto the laces. “Be pretty stupid to go out in that.” This time, Vash doesn’t do either of them the disservice of attempting to lie, though the slight wince is enough of an indication that Wolfwood was correct. He wants to be mad, wants to be absolutely furious at Vash for seriously trying to run in his current state the second he was left alone, and a part of him is, but his own exhaustion combined with the fact that Vash made it no further than the floor at the foot of the bed makes the anger pretty hard to hang onto. They sit in tense silence as Wolfwood finishes unlacing his boots, and he’s in the motion of removing it, being mindful of the sand he knows must be in there, when Vash’s organic hand latches onto his wrist in a vice grip, halting his movement.
Wolfwood looks up at Vash, who appears almost as startled as Wolfwood feels, though he makes no move to release his hand. “A-ah, that’s really not necessary. I can take care of that myself.” Vash’s voice is pitched a little higher as he speaks, and Wolfwood can see a hint of something almost resembling fear settled in the lines of his face.
Wolfwood huffs, finding that, while anger is still out of reach, annoyance is as ready as it always is when dealing with Vash. “You can’t even look at me without going cross-eyed, tongari. At least lemme help with your boots and coat, I’m sure all that sand has gotta be getting uncomfortable.” Wolfwood knows he’d nearly staggered with the relief of removing that disgusting, grainy feeling from himself, knows it must be even worse for Vash as the idiot had no sort of facial covering on him, and keeping his hooded head buried in the crook of his neck could only do so much. What kind of moron regularly travels the open desert and has no sort of gear to handle sandstorms, anyway?
Vash doesn’t relent, if anything his grip tightens slightly as he insists, “No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine. I can handle it.”
If Wolfwood were just a little less exhausted, he would likely practice the mercy he only halfway seriously preaches and give Vash an out. He knows perfectly well that Vash has never let himself be seen without his many layers, and while Wolfwood could take a few well educated guesses as to why that might be, it really doesn’t matter at this point. He knows what Vash is, and now Vash knows that he knows, if the man hadn’t already suspected it because Wolfwood truly doubts he’s survived as long as he has being as naive as he acts. Wolfwood is exhausted, though, and he just wants to get Vash out of the sandy clothes and boots he’s in and help him to the bathroom so he can clean himself off and then both of them can sleep for the next decade.
Given present circumstances, he finds himself straightening up to make sharp eye contact with Vash. “If you can make it to the bathroom without any help,” he grinds out, frustration clear in his tone now, “then I’ll leave you alone.” And Vash, God damn him, actually tries. He tucks the undone laces of his boots inside of them to avoid tripping and then, in one swift movement, forces himself to stand. Wolfwood watches as all the color drains from his face and he’s doubled over, dry heaving and gasping. He would’ve toppled to the ground again if Wolfwood hadn’t reached steadying hands out to grab him by the forearms and keep him balanced. Wolfwood eases him down once again to sit on the edge of the bed and moves his hands to hold Vash’s elbows as the man shakes. “Are you done being so stubborn, huh?”
To Wolfwood’s horror, Vash’s expression crumples, and he raises a hand to cover his face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Wolfwood, I don’t mean to– I–”
Wolfwood moves to grab onto Vash’s shoulders, tilting his head down to try and force eye contact. “Hey, hey, take it easy, spikey, for God’s sake. I’m not going anywhere, yeah? I just wanna help you.” Wolfwood hears what sounds like the beginning of a distressed whine in the back of Vash’s throat, but it’s swiftly cut off before he can be certain. When Wolfwood reaches towards Vash’s boots again, there are no hands snatching his wrist to stop him. He carefully eases off the first boot and, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, immediately realises why Vash had been so hesitant.
Vash is one of the most confounding men Wolfwood has ever encountered. He preaches love and peace, is pacifistic to a fault, and will always, always put others before himself, even if said other has a loaded gun pointed at him. Wolfwood calls him naive, but he knows that isn’t really true, because as blindly trusting as he acts, Wolfwood also knows that Vash plays his cards extremely close to his chest. Anything that could be perceived as a vulnerability is not acknowledged at all, as if Vash ignoring it will make it go away. Despite the time they’ve spent traveling together, there’s precious little that Wolfwood knows about Vash beyond what he was told when he initially took this job and what he has learned through observation. Wolfwood has never met someone so open and simultaneously so wary of trusting others. When Wolfwood removes Vash’s boots to see cold metal where his feet and legs should be, he understands this to have been an attempt at hiding a vulnerability, a large one at that. Vash has never made any attempts to hide his metal arm, but Wolfwood has also seen the man use it to catch bullets. Prosthetic legs are much more easily exploited.
Vash still has a hand covering his face, and Wolfwood can see the slurry of emotions passing between his fingers. Shame, embarrassment, panic, fear. Wolfwood wonders how many people must’ve hurt this man, for him to so consciously and consistently choose hope and still have this fear ingrained in him. Wolfwood keeps his face neutral, expression plain as he sets the boots to the side and out of the way. He’ll dump the sand out of them later, when Vash is actually resting again and not pretending to so he can run.
“Do you need your prosthetics off to wash up?” Wolfwood asks, trying to sound as casual as possible.
There is still an uncomfortably long silence before Vash responds. “…Yes.” Vash hesitates for a moment, but he likely knows by now that if he doesn’t do anything then Wolfwood will start doing it for him. He shucks off his coat, revealing the skin tight black turtleneck he wears underneath it. It only has one sleeve, presumably to account for the prosthetic arm, and Wolfwood can’t help the sharp inhale at the sight of Vash’s skin around the start of the prosthetic. It’s absolutely mangled, the scars wrapped around the entire arm thick and brutal. The pulsing lines on Vash’s skin scatter apart when they hit the scars, sputtering out and stopping and starting as the raised skin breaks apart the patterns. Wolfwood is careful to not react, knowing Vash is watching him and that if he sees even a hint of anything negative there will be no stopping him from leaving.
Vash’s flesh hand reaches around to the back of the prosthetic, close to his shoulder, and Wolfwood can hear what sounds like buttons being clicked and mechanisms being disengaged before the arm finally pops out of the socket with a faint hiss. Vash winces slightly, but once the arm is fully removed the discomfort swiftly changes to relief. Wolfwood thinks of how long they’ve been traveling together now, and how in all that time Vash has likely never given his shoulder a break and removed the prosthetic. He can only imagine how long it’s been since he removed his legs. Vash simply sits there for a moment in silence, holding his metal arm and seemingly bracing himself for something, before he sets it down on the bed next to himself and locks eyes with Wolfwood.
“I–” His voice cracks on the first syllable, and Wolfwood waits as he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tries again. “I’m going to need help with my legs.”
Which, yeah, Wolfwood kind of figured, though he’d been expecting it to be another fight, to have to sit here and watch Vash struggle before finally accepting help. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Wolfwood comes up to the edge of the bed and crouches before Vash, forcefully shoving aside thoughts of how he’s wanted to do this for a while now, but in different circumstances. Besides, something about all of this feels far more intimate. Almost uncomfortably so, but this is about Vash, not him. He can suck it up. He looks up at Vash from where he’s kneeling, and he at least feels a little better knowing he isn’t the only one affected by this. Vash’s pupils are blown wide as he looks down at Wolfwood, and he knows it isn’t all from the probable concussion, and the feathers dusted along his jawline and cheekbones are puffing out. Wolfwood doesn’t touch just yet, resting his hands to either side of Vash’s hips as he rasps, “What do you need me to do?”
Vash visibly swallows as a flush spreads across his cheeks, only barely visible through all the markings and feathers. “The prosthetics start above my knees.”
Wolfwood watches Vash’s expression as he lets the barest hint of a teasing smirk lift his lips. “Well, we were gonna have to do that anyway, yeah?”
And to Wolfwood’s immense relief, some of the tension eases in Vash’s face as he whispers back, “Yeah.”
Wolfwood is careful in his movements as he reaches for the waistband of Vash’s pants, both to try and avoid making Vash any more skittish than he already is, and to try and prevent dumping sand all over the floor. Wolfwood undoes the buttons and zipper and then tugs the pants off, folding them down as he goes to keep any sand from falling out. He also keeps his gaze down as well as he’s able to while being this close. Vash is still in his boxers, but he also isn’t exactly subtle about how he feels about his body, and Wolfwood is trying to keep this as painless as possible. He can’t help the way his stomach bottoms out as he gets the pants all the way off, looking at the scars looping Vash’s thighs, the point where milky skin becomes harsh, cold metal. He can’t let his expression change, but he can’t help but just kneel there for a moment. He’d press his forehead to the ground, prostrate himself before this man and he could convince himself of his priesthood, if it would make Vash believe he is holy. He acknowledges in this moment what he has known for some time now, since the first time he saw baby blues soften and that singular dimple as a genuine smile curled those lips. Maybe Vash really is rubbing off on him, because there’s no way he can deliver this stupid, self sacrificing beautiful idiot to his brother like a lamb to slaughter.
He looks up again after setting the pants to the side and sees Vash looking at him in the same way as he had been when Wolfwood started this process, as if he hasn’t looked away once. Wolfwood opens his mouth to ask what next, but the words freeze on his tongue when Vash reaches out and takes hold of one of Wolfwood’s hands. Vash maintains eye contact with him as he guides Wolfwood’s hand to the backside of his mechanical knee. He moves Wolfwood’s thumb to settle against what feels like a small latch.
“This disengages the lock,” Vash breathes, and even the softness of his voice feels too loud for this moment. Wolfwood doesn’t speak, simply presses his thumb against the latch and carefully flips it. The kneecap extends down slightly, and this close Wolfwood can hear the mechanical whirs of what must be the lock. Wolfwood holds his hand there for a moment, cupping Vash’s knee, but a shaky inhale makes him look up. Vash looks stricken, just toeing the line of being completely overwhelmed, and that’s the last thing Wolfwood wants.
He carefully moves his hand up, settling it against the edge of the prosthetic and rubbing his thumb carefully along the flesh of Vash’s thigh. The plant markings are glowing a little duller now, pulsing a slow and steady beat, and he can only hope that’s a good sign. “What next, blondie?”
Vash’s hand shoots down to Wolfwood’s, the grip tighter than the last time, and Wolfwood immediately stops his thumb’s slow movements. Vash’s hand is shaking around his own, and he doesn’t move for long enough that Wolfwood’s about to pull away, call this whole thing off and find someone better suited for this sort of thing. Vash tugs his hand along his thigh before he can, moving it to the underside of his thigh and right along the ragged edge of flesh. Vash interlocks their fingers to guide Wolfwood’s to press along a series of buttons lining the very edge of the prosthetic.
“These,” Vash rasps, voice sounding raw, “disconnect it from the nerves.”
Wolfwood keeps his fingertips pressed against the buttons but doesn’t push down against them yet, looking up to Vash. “Does it hurt?”
Vash smiles, that hollow, empty smile that Wolfwood can’t stand for the way it hurts to look at. “I’m used to it.”
And Wolfwood is sure he is, he’s likely had these prosthetics longer than Wolfwood’s been alive. It doesn’t make the action of doing it any easier, but he knows it’s necessary, and he’s also sure the relief of having them off will far outweigh the brief pain of removal. Still, he holds eye contact as he asks, “Ready?”
Vash swallows. “Yes.”
Wolfwood presses the buttons, watching as Vash inhales sharply at the sensation, and the prosthetic jerks slightly towards Wolfwood. He carefully pulls it off, setting it to the side along with Vash’s arm. He then follows the same steps for Vash’s other leg, no longer needing the man’s hand to guide him through them. He sets the second leg by the first, seeing Vash using his one remaining hand to gently knead at the stumps of his legs. The skin around all three metal grafts that the prosthetics insert into look pretty red and inflamed, likely irritated from the constant overuse. Wolfwood watches Vash work at the muscles, the process slow going considering he’s down an arm, and Wolfwood decides he may as well throw caution to the wind at this point. He reaches out and places his hands on Vash’s thighs as the other man is working on his shoulder. Vash immediately startles, gaze whipping around to lock onto Wolfwood, who remains unmoving as blue eyes scan over him intensely. Whatever Vash is looking for in Wolfwood’s dark gaze, he must find it, as when he slowly begins imitating the movements he just watched Vash do he is not pushed away.
They spend several minutes like that, Vash becoming less and less tense as they go, until Wolfwood finally breaks the easy silence they’ve settled into. “You ready to wash up?”
Vash nods, releasing his shoulder to scrub his hand over his face, though it quickly settles back down against his side when his fingers hit the feathers. He shifts in his seated position as much as he can, face flushing a slight red again as his eyes skitter away from Wolfwood’s. “If you just…can get me there, I’ll be fine on my own.”
Wolfwood almost wants to argue, to insist that he stay because the thought of leaving Vash alone still makes him nervous, but looking at Vash’s expression has him caving practically immediately. He’s way more relaxed than he was when Wolfwood first found him awake, but there’s still a line of tension between his brows, and, well. Wolfwood really can’t blame him for wanting to be alone for this next part. He doubts his own pride would allow anyone else to assist him with bathing, so he really can’t fault Vash for the same. Still, there’s one last matter that needs to be addressed before Wolfwood can drop Vash off in the bathroom.
“What about your turtleneck?”
Predictably, Vash tenses back up immediately. “I can manage.”
“With one arm?” It’s probably a low blow, but Wolfwood desperately doesn't want to lose the progress they’ve made. “Tongari.” Wolfwood carefully settles his hands on Vash’s hips, feeling how stiffly he’s holding himself, but he doesn’t move away. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Vash’s eyes dart to various points around the room, his discomfort obvious as his flesh hand grabs onto the sheets and twists them in its tight grip. But eventually, Vash fixes his gaze on the wall as he breathes out, “Do it.”
Wolfwood reaches out and grabs Vash’s hand, gently prising it from the sheets and using his free hand to tug the sleeve down. Vash’s expression stays stony as Wolfwood eases the shirt off, and he nearly chokes on his spit forcing the gasp that wants to come out back down his throat. He can’t help his face falling however as he holds the turtleneck with a white knuckled grip, horror and nausea and anger alike coiling in his gut as he looks at Vash’s torso.
The scars on Vash’s stumps are bad enough, gnarly and vicious looking, but the rest of the scars leave Wolfwood at a loss for words. There’s hardly any patches of clear skin, Vash’s entire torso covered in lines of botched stitching and strips of metal. There are several places where it looks as if bits of flesh have been torn completely from Vash’s body, leaving gouges and caverns in his skin. The most jarring to look at by far though is the metal grate that’s been grafted onto his chest, right over his heart, the skin underneath it raised and ruined.
“Jesus Christ, Vash,” Wolfwood gasps, the words slipping out entirely against his will as he looks at the patchwork of hurt and misery spread against Vash’s very skin.
The effect the words have on the other man is immediate. Vash’s hand flutters to a half risen position but doesn’t really settle anywhere, seemingly torn between covering his body as best as one arm is able to or covering his face and hiding the obvious shame resting on it. His lips pull into a grin despite it all, so plastic and fake it feels like a physical blow to his stomach when Wolfwood looks at it. “I’m sorry,” he half chuckles, high pitched and grating and so fucking fake. “Sorry, I’ve been trying to warn you. It’s really ugly to look at, I know, sorry.” His hand finally does rise all the way, going to rub at the back of his neck, as if trying to downplay the self loathing to mere embarrassment. Wolfwood knows better.
Wolfwood tosses the shirt still in his hands on the bed, landing in an unceremonious heap on top of Vash’s jacket. He carefully grabs Vash’s wrist, guiding his hand away from himself and holding it between his two larger ones. He has to swallow a few times before he’s confident he can speak without his voice cracking. “Why are you apologising?”
Vash’s breath hitches and Wolfwood feels him try to tug his hand out of his grip, clearly trying to cover his face. Wolfwood holds fast, and Vash begins squirming. Wolfwood has been observing Vash from the moment they met, far beyond what is required for his task of keeping the man alive. He can practically see the walls slamming back up, the way Vash’s expression closes off behind that fake grin. He knows a losing battle when he sees one, so he cuts his losses for now and shelves that particular line of questioning. It’s definitely something he’ll be coming back to, but he can’t afford to lose Vash now. He runs a thumb over Vash’s knuckles, even that tiny patch of skin not free of scarring, and he takes in a steadying breath.
“Alright, blondie,” he breathes out. “Let’s get you to the bathroom.” He tries not to feel anything at the obvious relief on Vash’s face, instead looping his arms around Vash’s shoulders and thighs and lifting him carefully. Vash’s remaining hand instinctively latches onto Wolfwood’s collar, and Wolfwood can only imagine how unsteady he feels at the moment, down three limbs and no doubt still feeling the blow to the head. Wolfwood’s thumb rubs a careful circle into the skin of Vash’s back, careful to find a patch free of scars. “It’s alright, tongari. I won’t drop ya.”
Vash exhales roughly before slowly, almost timidly, curling further into Wolfwood's chest, the hand gripping his collar loosening into a simple hold rather than the desperate clutch for balance it had started as. “I know,” he whispers, and Wolfwood can feel where the words are pressed into his neck, Vash’s breath fanning out across his nape.
Vash takes longer in the bathroom than he ever usually does.
There are a few reasons he could chalk it up to. Despite being well used to handling things on his own by this point, being down all his prosthetics will always draw out this process quite a bit. His physiology does allow him to heal faster than a human would, but his head is still pounding and if he moves it too quickly the world around him sways, as if struggling to keep up. There is also a lot of sand to wipe clean as apparently Wolfwood had carried him through the sandstorm, something his brain still short circuits over whenever he thinks about it too hard.
All of these are perfectly valid reasons, but here in the familiar walls of Ship 3, curled up alone in the bathtub, Vash can be honest with himself. He’s stalling.
Vash has spent a lot of time by now both seeking out humans and avoiding them in equal measures. He knows what inevitably happens if he spends too much time in populated areas, but he’s also too weak to wander the barren deserts entirely alone except for the overbearing weight of his brother’s distant gaze resting on his shoulders. As a result, he’s gotten very skilled at reading others, even if he never really lets on what he notices. Wolfwood is no exception to this rule. He knows the man was sent by Nai, has known it since they were alone together in the worm. Wolfwood is clearly very capable with Punisher, and Vash knows there’s no way he would’ve shot an escape hole into the worm’s flank accidentally. The only thing Vash had been confused on was the why, as despite what he seems to think of himself, Wolfwood is a good man, and Vash can’t see him getting mixed up with the Eyes of Michael without good reason. He supposes he has that reason now, remembering Wolfwood’s desperation to save the orphanage.
Vash just doesn’t understand the… almost gentleness, that Wolfwood has been treating him with since he collapsed. And he remembers hearing the reporters talking to Brad and Luida when he woke up on the ship the first time, that means they’re still with him too. They could’ve easily stayed on the steamer, blended in with the rest of the passengers and never had to deal with him again, so why didn’t they? Vash knows they had to have seen, his markings are still faintly pulsing against his skin even now, and he can feel the feathers, though he is doing his best to ignore them completely. Every time his fingers pass over them he has to pull his hand away from his skin entirely lest he give into the urge to rip the damn things from his skin. He doesn’t want to cause any more trouble.
He doesn’t want to cause any trouble at all, but he can’t run, either. Not from Wolfwood, not knowing what Nai will do to him if he returns empty handed. It leaves him feeling twitchy and jumpy, nauseous, because he’s always run from these situations and he can’t now and Wolfwood hasn’t even brought it up, has acted like the markings and the feathers aren’t even there. And while it’s likely that Wolfwood knew before they ever even met what Vash is, it’s different to know something and to actually see it. Vash knows the effect seeing his wings has on humans and he can feel the other shoe hovering over him, ready to drop at any moment and squash him like a bug.
Still, he can only stall for so long. Wolfwood is waiting right outside the door for Vash to call to when he’s done and carry him back to the bedroom, and Vash can see how exhausted the man is. He doesn’t want to make him wait any longer than absolutely necessary. He quickly cleans himself, ensuring the various scars and gouges and bits of metal grafted into his skin are free of sand. He dunks his head under the water and scrubs his fingers through his hair, getting all the sand and blood out of blonde strands and then washing it. He washes his face last, and if he scrubs rougher than strictly necessary at the feathers there until his cheeks burn but all he can feel there is flesh, then that’s his business. He settles there for a moment, hands pressed against the now raw skin, preparing himself, before finally draining the tub. He scrabbles at the side of the tub, pulling himself to sit on the edge of it and ignoring the shakiness of the limb. He manages to get his underwear and the pair of pants Wolfwood brought in pulled on, but he knows he’s going to need help with the shirt. He begins toweling at his hair as best he can one handed as he hesitantly calls out.
“Wolfwood?”
He hears shuffling outside the door, what sounds like the other man standing up, and then the door opens. Wolfwood has the stick of one of his suckers dangling in his mouth, and Vash isn’t sure if it’s a rare show of respect or simply the result of him being out of cigarettes. The man tentatively enters the room once he sees Vash is covered, huffing as he does so.
“Blondie, I told you to tell me soon as you were done, I’dve helped,” he sighs, coming right up to Vash and taking the towel from his hand. He begins tousling Vash’s hair, the motions easy and self assured, as if this is normal, as if they are anyone other than who they are and these gentle touches are things that can be exchanged between them without consequence. Vash is far too weak and selfish to pull away though, and he can only be glad his face is hidden from Wolfwood, feeling his cheeks burning.
He lets out his usual somewhat awkward chuckle in response to Wolfwood’s admonishment. “Ahah, sorry, just figured I’d do what I could first, you know?”
His head goes to tilt instinctively, but a tug on his hair keeps him from moving it too far. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, quit squirming.”
Vash sits silently for a few more minutes as Wolfwood continues, and he could almost pretend the silence is comfortable if he ignores how the very air of the room seems to be pressing down on him. Like this, at least, his face is hidden away, and so is Wolfwood’s, and it’s the best chance he’s going to get without the answer destroying him completely.
“Why haven’t you asked?”
He feels Wolfwood’s hands pause, and he feels his heart seize in his chest, tension bleeding into every inch of his frame as if traveling along the markings he still hasn’t been able to will away despite having tried since he woke up mostly cognisant. He can’t keep waiting for the blade hovering over his neck to drop, but he can’t stand having asked, as if that alone will make Wolfwood realise exactly what he’s touching and the man will walk out. He feels even worse for how desperately he doesn’t want that, knows if he encourages the way he occasionally sees Wolfwood looking at him it will only end in pain for them both, and while Vash deserves that suffering, Wolfwood doesn’t. But he can’t help it, even after all this time he’s still as selfish as he was as a foolish kid clinging to the legs of people he got killed.
A tanned hand suddenly enters his line of sight, the tip of the middle finger pressed to the pad of the thumb, and Vash has just enough time to realise what’s coming before Wolfwood flicks his nose. It’s not even remotely hard enough to hurt, but Vash still grabs for his nose with his single hand, looking up at Wolfwood with an expression that sits somewhere between embarrassed and scandalised. Wolfwood is looking at him with clear exasperation and Vash opens his mouth to apologise but Wolfwood cuts him off before he’s able to get the words out.
“Quit thinking so damn loud, spikey.” Wolfwood gives his hair one last, firm tousle before pulling the towel away. He takes care in how he folds it before setting it off to the side, clearly either buying time or attempting to avoid Vash’s eyes. “Don’t think either of us would benefit from asking questions we already know the answers to.”
Vash’s heart seizes in his chest, and he knows it’s as close to an admission as he’ll ever get from the priest. He regrets ever even asking in the first place, wishes he’d learned at some point in the near two centuries he’s spent alive to shut his mouth, but he hasn’t, and more words come tumbling out before he can even attempt to stop them.
“But you…saw. It’s different, when people…” he trails off, remembering the very few times humans have seen his wings. They come out during fights, rarely, when he’s caught off guard, but there have been a handful of times Vash showed them to people he thought he could trust. It never turned out well.
Wolfwood is silent for a while, but he still manhandles Vash into the shirt he’d been provided. A turtleneck, as opposed to the short sleeved tee Wolfwood had been given, and Vash can feel the warmth in his heart at the simple show of care. Wolfwood even ties the left sleeve to keep it from dangling in his way and Vash’s heart aches as he keeps his head turned away, resolutely staring at the wall. As Wolfwood is looping the sleeve through itself, he speaks again.
“Yeah. I did. So’d the reporters.” Vash flinches at the reminder, and then a hand is grabbing his chin, forcing his gaze to lock with Wolfwood’s dark brown. “And we’re all still here, ain’t we?” Vash feels himself flush, and he has to forcibly prevent himself from swallowing.
Wolfwood makes it sound so simple. It can’t be that simple, it’s never been that simple, not for him, Vash the Stampede, the Humanoid Typhoon. He can’t remember a time where he revealed himself as he did on the sandsteamer and all that came out of it was soft words and a firm grip holding him steady. “Wolfwood–”
Vash is cut off by what he’ll never admit is a startled squeak as he’s lifted into Wolfwood’s arms, his arm pinwheeling briefly before his hand instinctively reaches out to latch onto his shirt for support. Once settled, he looks up at Wolfwood and feels all the air leave him at the soft look on his face.
“God almighty, tongari, a concussion ain’t even enough for you to give your pretty lil’ head a break?” he huffs, carrying Vash out of the bathroom and back to the bedroom they’d been occupying. “I already told ya to stop thinking so loud.” Despite the bluntness of his words, Wolfwood is gentle as he eases Vash down onto the bed. The spread of the bedroom has heat swimming in Vash’s chest, both of their clothes folded on top of shelves and the desk, Vash’s prosthetics having been moved from the bed to rest atop Wolfwood’s folded suit jacket. Off to the side of the desk, both of their glasses sit folded next to each other. It’s achingly domestic. Wolfwood sits on the bed with Vash, then settles down against one of the pillows, reaching out and dragging Vash down with him.
“Wolfwood–!”
Wolfwood wraps an arm around Vash’s shoulders, pulling him in against his chest. Vash can’t tell if he’s more embarrassed by the action itself, or the fact that Wolfwood’s scent is familiar after all the times Vash has pressed himself against him today.
“Just rest, alright?” Wolfwood says quietly, fingers hesitantly reaching up to scratch at the dark hair at the back of Vash’s head. The action feels oddly familiar. “None of us are going anywhere, so don’t worry about any of the rest of it right now. Just rest.”
Vash can still feel his marks pulsing dully against his skin. He can feel every set of his wings hidden away, crumpled and cramped and aching from the energy he’d expended today. He knows there’s no future in which this works out, not for someone like him. He knows it’s monstrously selfish, but he can’t help himself. His eyes slip shut as he incrementally relaxes into Wolfwood’s hands. He can still feel that ever present tension at the base of his spine, the desire to run away from these people who have been so good to him and shouldn’t be swept up in the storm that is always nipping at his heels. But it eases, just a little bit, as the exhaustion of the day catches up to him once again and he drifts off to the comforting sound of Wolfwood’s steady breaths.