Chapter Text
Despite Wolfwood watching Vash like a circling vulture these days, it takes him almost a week to notice anything is actually wrong. They've all gone through plenty of fits of moodiness before, but this...
Vash looks up at the sky for the hundredth time that day, forehead pressed morosely against the window, and sighs, like he's waiting for his husband to return from the worm wars or something.
No one's died recently. Their collateral damage has been at an impressive minimum. The bounty hunters have been weirdly quiet but Wolfwood doesn't want to question it. Overall everything has been in a—god forbid—easy lull. Except Vash.
That night camped between dunes, Vash stares blankly into the fire, gnawing mechanically on the last sticky bits of worm meat. Meryl had turned in early to rest her desert-glare eyes, and Roberto had settled a bit up the dune to avoid the campfire smoke (which, ??? the guy smoked more than Wolfwood??). They're all feeling Vash's low mood. Wolfwood glumly pokes the fire to send sparks up, hoping the wind will blow them into Vash's face and at least make him do something other than scrape his teeth over the bone, face unusually and unnervingly still. Is he even blinking?
Just when Wolfwood is about to break the silence and ask what the hell is going on, Vash tosses the bone into the fire, wipes his hands on his pants, stands, and promptly walks away. He ducks into their little shared tent without a word.
Roberto coughs pointedly from a quarter of the way up the dune. Wolfwood ignores him. A mistake, of course, because even though he doesn't chatter as much as Meryl, when he does talk it's either absolute bullshit or painfully unwanted insight.
“You two fighting?”
Wolfwood lights a cigarette, taking two draws before carefully stubbing it out and packing it back away. “Hell if I know,” he says, and, not wanting to risk Roberto prodding into anything real, follows in Vash's sand-soft tracks to their tent.
Vash is completely bundled in his sleeping bag, back facing where Wolfwood's own is laid out. Once Wolfwood's eyes adjust he's surprised to not see Vash's coat and glove and socks strewn about. He must still be wearing them? Well, if Vash wants his sleeping bag to smell of burnt meat and firestarter, that's his choice. Wolfwood shrugs off his jacket and hangs it up on a little hook against the flimsy tent wall, strips off his pants, and climbs into his own clammy sleeping bag. He rolls to stare at the bulky outline of Vash, only a few licks of hair sticking out from where Vash has tucked himself in.
After a minute Wolfwood realizes that Vash's outline is moving, and after another minute he realizes Vash is shaking. Trembling? A nightmare? Usually Vash's nightmares are accompanied by a sharp, unearthly scream and Vash sitting bolt upright, strung tight and running to the bathroom or scrambling out of their tent to heave, sometimes dry sometimes not, as Wolfwood runs a hand down his back and pushes his bangs out of his face.
They never talk about how Vash lets him do this, lets him see him so vulnerable, just like they don't talk about how Wolfwood lets Vash slump fully against him for hours in the car the morning after, exhausted, Wolfwood holding him steady against the rough terrain with an arm wrapped tight around his shoulder.
It takes another minute or two before it clicks: shivering. Vash is shivering—he's cold. The desert night is chilly but he's never seen Vash bothered by it before. Well. Whatever. No nightmare, no problem. They can both sleep through the cold. He closes his eyes and immediately Vash's dumb forlorn face staring out the window at the overcast sky fills his mind, then his blankly depressed expression flickering in the firelight. Vash's face from the past handful of days flits through his mind, a catalogue of woeful puppy eyes and flat, despairing displeasure. When was the last time Vash smiled?
Damn it. Before he can start to warm up his sleeping bag he drags himself out, grabs his own blanket and jacket, and tucks them around Vash's shivering nest. He feels Vash twitch, alert, before going perfectly still. The idiot is going to strain a muscle with how tightly he's holding himself. Wolfwood puffs out a quiet laugh, tousles the hair sticking out from where Vash has pulled his blanket all the way up.
“Go to sleep, Spikey,” he says roughly, then models excellent behavior by climbing back into his own bag and faking sleep until he hears Vash's breathing smooth out and sees his shivering slowly peter off.
The next morning Vash is lethargic and snappish by turns.
He spends the first few hours sleeping heavily, smooshed up against the car door and window like he wants to melt into it, or out of it. Wolfwood watches worms breach in the distance, dunes shift grain by grain, and the flat grey expanse of clouds that have muffled their stretch of the desert for a week.
They're aiming for a mid-sized town this time, somewhere Meryl and Roberto can send a reliable dispatch to their headquarters bluffing about what's taking them so long to get back, and a population big enough that Vash can go unrecognized for longer than a few hours so they can stock up on supplies.
He looks over at Vash. He's unusually pale, washed out, his ever-present sun-kissed blush faded like worn fabric. Faint half-circles purple under each eye. That damn beauty mark sits in stark, lovely contrast. It makes Wolfwood feel horribly, disorientingly helpless. He debates trying to shift Vash onto his shoulder without waking him up, or even tip him over to let him rest his head on his lap. It can't possibly be comfortable squashed up against the door with his absurdly long legs, but he waffles on it too long and a pothole in the road knocks Vash awake instead.
He comes to blearily, blinking slowly at the back of Roberto's seat before stretching his neck and peering out at the sky. He sighs, again, a maiden bereft, and thunks his head against the headrest.
“Do you wanna—” Wolfwood pats his shoulder because he's a really nice guy.
Vash's eyes slide over to him, then back away, not answering, as if Wolfwood didn't say anything. God, what a brat.
Almost on accident, Wolfwood catches Meryl's eye in the rearview mirror. Something passes between them and Meryl gives a little determined nod.
“I'm going to stop at the next station, it'll only put us 20 minutes behind,” she says casually. As casually as Wolfwood thinks she can.
Roberto grunts, Wolfwood offers a neutral, “Fine by me.”
But Vash says, irritated, “Really? You said after the last station we wouldn't need to charge up before we got there.” There's stunned silence in the car. Vash never talks back to Meryl.
“That's true,” Meryl says evenly, holding her own, “but I want to stretch my legs before the last haul. And I'm thirsty.”
Vash frowns, eyes narrowing in the closest thing approximating a glare that he can probably muster. Wolfwood has never seen him like this. Bratty, yes, whiny, stubborn, headstrong. But not bitchy. Stupidly, he kind of likes it. It's cute, the novelty of it. Makes him want to push a bit more, see how far he can rile Vash up. But that's no reason to be rude to Meryl. And there's a sharper edge to Vash's ambiguous mood that doesn't lend itself to the kind of teasing Wolfwood wants.
“Let the lady do as she pleases,” Wolfwood intervenes when he can see Vash gearing up to argue. “She's the one driving our sorry asses all over the place.”
Vash's shoulders drop and his head lolls back like his strings are cut. “Right. You're right, sorry. That's fine.”
He shuts his eyes and either goes back to sleep or pretends to.
Wolfwood wakes Vash up at the station by opening Vash's door so that he spills out onto the cracked platform.
“What was that for?!” he yelps, scrambling up like an oversized lizard to catch his surprised breath against the side.
“Oops,” Wolfwood says insincerely, tossing Vash a bag of spicy cricket sticks (the good brand, the one Vash always lingers at in the aisle but passes over), “forgot that was your side.”
Truthfully he's hoping it's enough to get Vash to vent a little, maybe instigate a friendly roughing-up, bait him into saying what's wrong or at the very least give him a chance to blow off some steam.
But, just like with Meryl, Vash deflates when pressed, folding himself back into the car. He picks at the cricket sticks quietly, eating only half as many as he shakes into his palm. It feels different than when he's not eating because the guilt fills him up too much instead. There's a dissatisfaction to this, a weariness. Eventually Wolfwood sees him give up, tucking the bag into his coat pocket.
Vash is being so annoying. Why is Wolfwood even bothering to—
“Thank you,” Vash says quietly, head tipped back against the seat again.
He turns to look at Wolfwood, really look at him and not just around him or through him, for what feels like the first time in days. His eyes are half-lidded like it's a struggle to stay awake. They stare at each other, and Wolfwood is extremely proud of himself for not flinching when Vash's hand reaches out and squeezes right above Wolfwood's knee. Vash closes his eyes and his mouth curves with the most threadbare but genuine smile.
It is absolutely stunning and completely lethal. There's no way Wolfwood can let it go.
Alright. Fine. Wolfwood is extremely adaptable. He can change tactics. He can work with this.
He pats Vash's hand, and when Vash doesn't pull away, rests his hand on top, digging his fingertips gently into the grooves around Vash's joint plating. Meryl manages to find a warbly music station, signaling that they must be close to town.
It's near dusk when they pull into town, though the sunset is muted and monotone behind the oppressive clouds. Roberto's been here before, a few years ago, yet manages to navigate them to a suspiciously nice hotel where the manager, Maria, kisses him on the cheek and calls him Berto.
Roberto doesn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. He shrugs and—yikes, Wolfwood sees him preen, slicking a hand through his too-long hair. “Helped her kid out of some debt once. Bunch of gamblers forging past-due loan slips.”
Maria barely looks at the rest of them which, combined with the discount she offers, is the warmest welcome they've had yet.
Meryl and Roberto each have their own room, but Vash and Wolfwood share. Wolfwood realizes that none of them, not even Maria, thought to separate them or even ask how many beds.
Vash doesn't flop on the bed like he usually does when they're blessed with a roof. They neither argue nor wrestle over who gets to shower first. Vash doesn't even complain about muscles sore from hours in the car. Instead, Vash tucks his duffel away, hangs up his jacket, unlaces his boots, and perches on the edge of the bed to do a few arm stretches.
The silence drags between them as Wolfwood does his own tidying, trying not to get too distracted by the flex of Vash's muscles under his tight black turtleneck and the glint of his prosthetic in the soft hotel lighting.
“Nice place,” Vash finally comments. His voice is so full of cheerfully false affect that it almost sounds sarcastic.
“Are you trying to make small talk?” Wolfwood asks, unimpressed. At that, Vash pauses, shoulders sagging, and finally does flop back on the bed. The one bed.
“Sorry. I know I've been—I'm not the easiest to deal with today.” He lets out a little self-deprecating laugh that makes Wolfwood's heart twist. “You can leave me here, go get a drink or dinner or something, I'll be fine.”
Wolfwood decides to ignore that last part entirely. “Today? Try the whole week. Spill, blondie, what's eating you?”
If he was going to be put off by Vash being well, Vash, he would have stonewalled their whole thing as soon as Vash said that terrible pickup line in the worm gut back when they barely knew each other. Unfortunately, getting to know Vash more has only increased how much Wolfwood likes him.
Vash sighs (pathetic), puffing a bit of hair out of his eyes (too damn cute).
“It's just,” he waves meaningfully at the small curtained window across the room, “It's just not enough, you know? When it's like this, when it doesn't change for so long. I'm not supposed to need it, that's what everyone told me, but I think I still do. Part of me does.”
“Spikey, look at me,” Wolfwood says, and waits for Vash to reluctantly hold his gaze. “I have no idea what the hell you're talking about.”
“Ugh,” Vash says, rolling over to smash his face into the pillow. Then he rips his head back up and suddenly rants, “The sky, Wolfwood! There's no sun! It's been cloudy every single damn day, the morning looks the same as the afternoon which looks the same until it's night and then you know what? More clouds! I barely get any moonlight! I'm cold all the time, and I'm so hungry, and nothing even tastes good. No matter how much I sleep I'm still fucking tired! I'm—I'm wilting!”
Vash ends by rolling onto his back and kicking his heels against the mattress once in aimless overwrought frustration. Wolfwood stares at him, speechless. He's never heard Vash curse before and the way he does it is kind of cringey, like he's not even used to it himself. The overall effect is sad and adorable.
That said, despite Vash's dramatics, he does seem genuinely upset. Part of Wolfwood is so relieved it's just the weather messing with Vash and not—not Vash getting sick of him. Another part of him wants to shove Vash off the bed for not saying something earlier. And another part of him doesn't want to miss the easy openings, like Hungry? I can fill you up or I can make you...not...wilt...hm, that one might need some workshopping.
Regardless, at least he knows what Vash needs.
“Alright,” Wolfwood says, tugging his jacket back on, “Go take a shower. Warm up. I'll be back in half an hour.”
Vash looks at him, eyebrows pinched in confusion, mouth starting to pout. “I—”
“No,” Wolfwood points at him, “No arguments. If I get back and you haven't showered, I'll be mad and not in a fun way.”
Color returns full force rising from his neck all the way up his cheeks to his ears. Wolfwood wants to lick it it's so vibrant. He bets the blush roots down to Vash's chest, wonders if he could make it go all the way to his belly.
He doesn't wait for Vash to answer. Wolfwood grabs his wallet, leaves the Punisher, makes sure he has a couple knives just in case.
“And leave me some hot water,” he tosses over his shoulder.
It's a large enough town that people are still bustling about, coming home from work or heading out to a night shift, running errands, restaurants and bars filling up in the grey-blue evening. Since their hotel is not the cheapest place around it's actually located somewhat near the center and not on the fringes. Wolfwood keeps his pace casual, like he's just out for a stroll, tracking people with shopping bags and arms full of groceries until he finds a night market just starting to open.
Stalls line either side of a short main street—it's not huge but everything smells delicious. Roasted snake skewers, huge bowls of thomas-egg noodles, twists of fried nut-flour dough, neat bundles of dried herbs and strings of tiny peppers looped festively from an awning. Wolfwood wishes Vash were up to coming with him, thinks it would have done him some good, but maybe he can convince the journalists to stay one more night if everything stays quiet for them.
Wolfwood gets a few fluffy warm buns stuffed with sweet beans for Vash and ploughs through a couple stewed sparrow and lentil ones himself. He picks up a pack of some kind of dehydrated cactus that the vendor says will rehydrate to five times its size and can be cut like a loaf of bread, and, in a fit of irritated gratitude brought on by the cheerfulness of the market, a single blue glass bead on a thin leather strap for Meryl. To thank her for whatever it was that had passed silently between them when they caught eyes in the mirror. For taking care of Vash, too, in her way. Roberto, Wolfwood decides, gets nothing because the man is constantly stealing his cigarettes.
It's definitely been over half an hour by the time Wolfwood finds what he's looking for. A small stall sits at the end of the market with only a few customers and a table covered in an array of shallow baskets. In each one is a different imported fruit—not Plant-coded, the real deal, painstakingly wrenched from the planet's soil. The prices make his teeth grind the filter of his cigarette. Damn. Vash better appreciate this.
He puts on his most charming smile, leans forward to make himself show a bit of cleavage, and says to the stall owner facing away from him, her dark hair gleaming and loose, “Hey lovely, any deals going on tonight?”
The most gnarled old man, with, apparently, the healthiest longest hair Wolfwood has ever seen in his life, turns around with an eyebrow raised. Wolfwood keeps his smile turned high out of frozen shock.
“Well,” the old man croaks, smiling back, eyes catching on Wolfwood's chest before sliding back up, “for a big boy like you, I can consider it. How much did you want?”
Wolfwood swallows and points at a basket labeled apricots. They're a warm orange, a much softer color than the suns, with a little rub of pink that nearly glows under the stall's electric lights. Wolfwood can't clear away the clouds but, he hopes, maybe this will help. He also hopes the fruit isn't disgusting.
“Just the one,” he grins, “not too much at all.”
The owner drops his smile. “No deal. Bulk only.”
Wolfwood leans back, draws in and releases a sigh that puffs out his chest, a desperate bid that he knows won't accomplish anything. He runs a hand through his hair, dropping into a slouch.
“Don't think I have the collateral for that. One will do.”
“When do you want it?”
“What?”
The old man rolls his eyes, clearly done with Wolfwood despite his impressive cleavage. “When do you want to eat it?”
“Oh—tonight. Probably.” Vash might be asleep when he gets back. “Or in the morning. But, hopefully, tonight.”
The old man nods, then starts gently sorting through the basket of apricots. He picks one out, weighs it, and tells Wolfwood the price. It's the scariest thing he's seen in months.
“I'm a priest?” Wolfwood tries, gesturing at the crucifix nestled in his chest hair.
“Then I'm thanking the lord for providing a living to this humble fruit seller,” the old man deadpans back.
Wolfwood empties his wallet. He empties the secret pocket inside his jacket, and then the other secret compartment on the sole of his shoe. It's not enough. The old man waits, holding the apricot hostage. Damn. Wolfwood really didn't want to do this but....he takes out a pocket knife and carefully cuts a short line under the collar of his jacket, wiggling out a coin no bigger than his thumbnail. It's pure silver, stamped with a saint Wolfwood doesn't recognize, but he does know it is has the highest monetary value of anything he has. Besides Vash, of course.
He drops it into the owner's waiting hand. To Wolfwood's smug satisfaction, the owner's eyes go wide at the weight of the coin, then shift around Wolfwood like he's expecting trouble. Wolfwood keeps very still. After what feels like an eternity, the old man tucks the silver into a pouch at his waist and counts out Wolfwood's change. He hands it over along with the precious apricot, the crown jewel of the desert, the priciest thing Wolfwood has ever bought in his miserable life, in a small brown bag.
Back at the hotel Vash is closed away in the bathroom. There's no sound of running water, though, and Wolfwood starts to feel a little worried. He'd been gone for a little over an hour.
“Hey, Spikey,” he calls, rapping on the door, “you're gonna get waterlogged in there.”
Wolfwood hears a light splashing and what might be an acknowledgement but nothing else. Alright. Enough. He grips the top of the paper bag, determined.
“I'm coming in,” he warns, and, without waiting for an answer, steps inside.
A cloud of steam hits him. Vash's clothes are in a pile by the sink, his prosthetic arm resting on top, and Vash is sunk up to his chin in the bath. His knees jut up like skinny mountains, and his thighs—god, his thighs. Packed tight and lean with hard muscle. The skin between scars pebbled with the temperature difference between the bath water and the air.
“Can you close the door,” Vash says wearily, “you're letting out the heat.”
Vash definitely didn't save him any hot water.
Wolfwood settles on the toilet lid, the bathroom small enough that his knees are almost bumping the edge of the tub. Vash has his eyes closed, his hair limp and curling from the steam, and he ignores Wolfwood entirely. He's pouting, Wolfwood realizes. Wolfwood watches him, hit with how utterly and totally fond he is, some weird mash of too many feelings twisting in his chest like a honeyed knife.
It feels too complicated. And, it feels very simple. He's never met anyone he likes so much, in so many ways, who knew him so instantly and powerfully that it was terrifying for that first second, and the one after, realizing that Vash could crush him in a hundred ways but chooses not to every time. He was known by Vash in an instant and yet Vash keeps learning the rest of him, keeps choosing to untangle him, never shying from Wolfwood's shame or failure or anger. His scarred up heart and Vash's abused body. What a pair they make.
Vash opens his eyes to peek, sees Wolfwood staring, and petulantly flicks water at him.
“What?” Vash asks.
Wolfwood leans forward, reaches out to flick water back at Vash. “Thought I told you to save me some hot water.”
Vash shrugs, perking up at Wolfwood playing along, and gives him a little mischievous smile. “You were gone too long. Took a shower but it didn't really help, and you told me to warm up, so.”
Good, good, he's so damn good.
“Well, aren't you a good boy,” Wolfwood says, and Vash sinks down to his nose and splutters out a stream of bubbles. Wolfwood laughs at him, not unkindly, shucks his jacket, rolls up his sleeves. “Got you something. You want it now or whenever your wrinkly ass crawls out of the bath?”
Vash flicks water at him again, harder this time. “Rude. And that depends, what is it?”
Wolfwood reaches into the bag and pulls out the apricot with a flourish.
Vash sits up suddenly, water sloshing over the side of the tub. Wolfwood is unprepared for his full chest being on display, water streaming down, a vision filtered soft by the steam. Wolfwood feels nervous, suddenly, butterflies in his stomach chasing away his bravado and leaving only laughable sappy clarity. He wants Vash to like the apricot. He wants Vash to be happy, if only for a few minutes, and he wants to play a role in that happiness.
It's a testament to how surprised Vash is that he doesn't have his usual self-consciousness over Wolfwood seeing his scars. Wolfwood holds the fruit up, turning it a little to give Vash a full view.
“It's an—”
“Apricot,” Vash whispers, like Wolfwood is holding something holy. He pronounces it a little different than what Wolfwood thought in his head. “Can I...is it okay if...?” and he holds his hand out, palm up, cupped gently.
Wolfwood sets it dumbly in the cradle of his palm. Vash's hand is a little larger than Wolfwood's, more square, his fingers longer, and the fruit looks so small held there. Should he have gotten a bigger one? Will it be enough?
Vash lets out a huff, almost a laugh, but more in disbelief. His eyes are wide and burning blue. He rubs his thumb over the soft fuzz of the fruit, tracing the small swell of it, and Wolfwood swallows down a strangled noise.
“It's,” his voice breaks a little when Vash delicately drags his thumb down the apricot's crease, “it's for you,” he says, unnecessarily, as if that wasn't glaringly obvious. “Terran grown, not Plant-generated. So it's probably had a lot of light from those blazing suns you miss so much. I don't know if it's any good but you're a sucker for pretty things, and it's supposed to be ready to eat. Ripe. Tonight, or, if you don't want it tonight it'll be ready in the morning. You also don't have to eat it at all but I nearly had to—“
“Nicholas,” Vash interrupts, and Wolfwood realizes with horror that he was rambling. At some point he started staring at the tile above Vash's head like he's a schoolboy in trouble reciting rules. Wolfwood shuts his mouth, clenches his jaw, steels himself and looks at Vash.
The smile Vash is giving him is like no other Wolfwood has seen. It's big and goofy, content, genuinely surprised, a little teasing, impossibly sweet, entirely real and honest and it's all for him. Wolfwood feels something akin to joy race through him. Adrenaline, but without all the gunfire and running. Wolfwood can't help it. He grins back, smiling like a fool.
“I love it. I don't even want to know how much this cost. Wait,” Vash pauses, eyebrows drawing together, “you didn't steal it, did you?”
“Oi!” Wolfwood yelps, offended, “I bought that with my own hard earned cash!” So he had stolen the silver saint coin years ago, but that was beside the point.
“Hmm,” Vash hums, suspicious but letting it go. Wolfwood is thrilled to see this thread of selfish desire, thrilled that Vash wants what Wolfwood gives him more than he cares about the morality of acquisition. Vash leans back in the bath, sliding down so the water laps at his collarbones. “Alright,” he says.
He holds the apricot to his nose, inhales deeply, rubs his lips against the thin skin, then eats half of it in one bite.
Wolfwood really, really did not think this through.
If he was struggling with Vash just fondling the fruit, he nearly loses his mind at the sound Vash makes at the first taste of it. An onslaught of nearly pornographic magnitude attacks him. Vash's groan so low and long it's nearly a purr; juice dripping down his chin; the wet squelch of the pulp; Vash frantically slurping so as to not spill any; swiping his tongue against the open half; flash of sharp teeth nibbling at what Wolfwood sees is a large pit; the fruit pinched between forefinger and thumb; Vash's eyes going hazy and half-closed when he lets the bite slip down his throat after holding it in his mouth; a swallow so light and easy that Wolfwood barely sees his throat bob. Wolfwood is electrified from his toes to his fingertips. The warmth of the bathroom and the steam of the bath make him dizzy.
“Messy,” Wolfwood murmurs, intending to chide but falling a hundred iles short. Vash hums, keeps his eyes closed.
After a long minute Vash returns to himself. He wipes the juice from his chin with the back of his hand. As if Wolfwood isn't having simultaneously the most erotic and religious experience of his life, Vash reaches out with the remaining half-apricot in hand and waves it.
“Do you want the rest? You bought it, after all.”
Wolfwood is about to tell him no, it's okay, but he doesn't think he can actually survive Vash eating the rest without embarrassing himself even more. Why the hell did he leave his cigarettes on the nightstand?
“Sure,” he says, and his voice sounds far away from himself.
He reaches out to take it but Vash jerks his hand back at inhuman speed. Wolfwood's body acts before his mind, snatching after it automatically.
“Sorry, sorry,” Vash says at Wolfwood's glare. He holds it back out and Wolfwood huffs, reaches to take it, only for Vash to pull away again.
“Damn it, do you want me to eat it or not?” Wolfwood grouses. It's hard to be mad when Vash's gloominess from earlier has evaporated.
Vash bursts out laughing like this is a particularly hilarious joke. “You should see your face! Okay, I couldn't help it, here, I promise.”
Instead of reaching for the fruit this time, Wolfwood quickly grabs Vash's wrist to hold him in place, goes to his knees at the side of the tub, and yanks Vash's hand to his face, snatching the fruit with his mouth.
It's too big of a mouthful for him but like hell is he going to spit it out. It's the most divine thing he's ever tasted. A hundred sunrises, bright and warm and airy. His teeth clash on the pit but it doesn't stop him from chewing every bit of pulp he can scrape off of it. When it's as clean as he can get it, he takes out the pit and lets it drop onto his lap.
“Good?” Vash asks softly, breaking him out of his reverie.
Wolfwood opens his eyes to find Vash right in front of him, elbow on the edge of the tub, wrist still caught in Wolfwood's hand. His pupils are blown wide, eyes darker than usual, clear as ice but as warm as the apricot.
Vash loves humanity. Vash loves humans. Wolfwood knows this. Wolfwood has seen him bestow looks of gentleness, sorrow, regret, has seen his eyes plead for forgiveness and glint hard with determination to save everyone except himself. He's seen him look at children, old women, and outlaws with equal amounts of care. They are individuals to Vash, all of them, but they are also collected into one writhing mass of demand and debt so that Vash's looks of love have always been distant, like he has to pull back far enough to hold all of humanity in his gaze at once.
He's never seen Vash look at anyone the way he looks at Wolfwood right now.
Like Wolfwood is the only one here, which he is, but the only one here, on whatever plane Vash is on. Here, with him. Like wherever Vash goes, he knows Wolfwood will be able to find him. His entire gaze collimated to rest on him and him alone. The intensity is nearly unbearable, because...because Vash is looking at Wolfwood like he loves him. Not as a human, not as part of humanity, not as a man who needs saving, or as someone who saves Vash's ass on the regular.
Vash is looking at Wolfwood like he loves him, just him, as he is, Nicholas D. Wolfwood. Nico. Nick.
“Yeah,” Wolfwood says, his voice sweet from the apricot and hoarse from overwhelm. “Yeah, it's good.”
One of Vash's eyes crinkles up a little more than the other when he smiles again and that's what finally breaks Wolfwood.
He dips his head, closes the scant distance between them, and kisses Vash with not a single thought other than Please, as if that's any real way to pray. Please let me do this for you. As if anything ever came from begging.
Vash exhales sharply through his nose and Wolfwood really shouldn't be surprised that Vash kisses him back at this point but it rockets through him just the same.
It's chaste and impossibly sweet. Vash's mouth is damp and pliant, Wolfwood's nose tucked against his cheek, both of their lips tacky with fruit juice. Wolfwood feels a tingly current buzz into him, almost like static electricity, something he can't quite place and wants to feel on his tongue, his fingertips, his stomach, everywhere.
Vash whines in his throat when Wolfwood pulls back. Wolfwood feels entirely out of breath in a way he's never felt from cigarettes or running for his life.
“Hi,” Vash says, knocking their foreheads together.
“Hey,” he answers, knocking back.
“You were right.”
“About what?” Wolfwood asks. He strokes the underside of Vash's wrist with his thumb.
Vash looks directly at him. “I am a sucker for pretty things.”
Wolfwood groans and drops his head to the edge of the tub. “That was awful. Don't tell me a line like that actually works for you?”
Vash twines their fingers together and says, smug and merciless, “Seems like it worked just fine.”
Wolfwood glares at him, the effect ruined by the heat he feels at the tips of his ears. They fall quiet, then, Vash resting back against the end of the tub with his knees up again and thighs drawn together, blocking the view of anything below his waist. The leaky tub faucet drips a rhythm into Vash's bath, slow and calm, and Vash starts to idly play with Wolfwood's fingers.
Wolfwood is going to lose his mind. He wants to kiss Vash again, immediately, but doesn't know how to break the spell. He doesn't want to spoil the moment but he wants to spoil Vash, wants to bury his nose in his hair and bite his neck and fit his hands around his waist and lick the scarred, delicate arch of his foot and if he's lucky suffocate between Vash's thighs. He wants Vash's back to bow in pleasure instead of pain, to see his beautiful eyes go glassy with tears from everything Wolfwood can give him rather than everything he has lost.
Just when he can't stand it any longer, Vash shivers all over.
Wolfwood drops a kiss onto Vash's knuckles, delighting in the little noise Vash makes and the deepening of the blush that never really faded from his cheeks. He stands, stretching his back out.
“Dry off,” he says, tossing a towel onto Vash's head. “I brought back a few more things if you're still hungry.”
He grabs his jacket and leaves Vash to finish cleaning up. Back in the main room he calmly changes into worn-out drawstring pants and his last clean shirt, folds the apricot pit into a tissue and tucks it into Vash's bag. He sits on the bed, clutches his head, and turns brilliantly, embarrassingly red.
Holy shit. Holy shit. Wolfwood is wrapped around Vash's finger and is happy to be there.
“Holy shit,” he whispers to himself. He's fallen so hard and so bad he may as well be at the planet's core.
The thing is. They've kissed before. Twice. Sort of.
The first time was really stupid and Vash will never let him forget it. Vash had volunteered to walk on foot to the nearest charge station because Meryl for some godforsaken reason cannot remember to keep the spare charged. Wolfwood would rather swallow rocks than be stuck in the car with just her and the old man, so he went with.
The wind had been kicking up all day, the air charged, and after an hour of walking, heat lightning started streaking across the sky. And. Well. Lightning, flat desert, and the Punisher don't make for a great time. A bolt hit the Punisher, Wolfwood's hand was wrapped around the metal buckle of one of the belts, and before he knew what was happening his entire skeleton felt like it had vibrated apart.
When he came to he was flat on his back, Vash's mouth sealed over his, his chest aching as if he'd been hit by a truck (again). He gasped awake and Vash pulled back quickly.
“Oh thank god,” Vash said, head thunking down onto Wolfwood's very sore chest, right over his sluggish, painful heartbeat. “I didn't know if that would actually work. I've only seen it in old movies, like, really old, older than me. Remind me to laugh at you later once I recover from you being dead for the past thirty seconds.”
The second time Wolfwood figures probably counts more, seeing as how he's the one who did it, but it was still Vash's fault. They got stuck in a shootout with barely any cover, low on bullets, and Vash wasn't letting Wolfwood use the Punisher as anything other than a shield. They'd been back-to-back until, suddenly, Vash was shoving him to the ground. A bullet clipped Vash's temple, right where Wolfwood's head had been less than a second ago. Another thudded into Vash's shoulder and Wolfwood rolled them, pressing Vash flat to the ground with his body, the third shot stuttering into the dirt.
“You're so fucking stupid!” he shouted, panicked, right into Vash's bloodied face.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” Vash yelled back, eyes struggling to focus, “But it was going to—” Wolfwood didn't want to hear another word so he kissed Vash hard, their teeth clacking together, before shoving himself up and throwing the Punisher with brute force at the wooden watchtower they were being shot at from. The tower collapsed in a cacophony of splintered wood and a choking plume of dust, buying them enough time to scramble behind a building.
So: two kisses. Kind of.
And now, three.
The kiss in the bathroom had been nothing like the first two questionable examples. The kiss in the bathroom was the kind of kiss normal people do. People who aren't hunted and feared, people who have a home, and boring conversations with their neighbors, and collect (Wolfwood guesses) miniature ceramic cats instead of ghosts and scars. People who want to have a future together. People who can have a future together.
Wolfwood scrubs at his hair and lights up a cigarette. He takes a deep drag. Vash clatters around in the bathroom. He thinks of the look Vash gave him. The patience Vash has for him. The space they've made for each other, fought about and fought for. Blows out the smoke. He cares about Vash too much to start something he can't finish.
Well. He and Vash might always be hunted, might never have neighbors or collect ceramic cats. But they have a home in each other, in a way. A place to prop their souls against one another when one of them gets too tired. Isn't a future just one day after the next? One tomorrow following another? As far as Wolfwood can see down the stretch of tomorrows, he'll choose to be with Vash each of those days.
It doesn't feel quite so terrifying when he thinks of it that way.
The bathroom door opens and Vash emerges in his sleep pants and an oversized long sleeve shirt. He's re-attached his prosthetic and is ruffling his hair up with the towel. He's pinked all over from the bath, soft, at ease, distracted by his hair. He's the best thing Wolfwood has ever and will ever see.
Wolfwood stubs out his cigarette and waves Vash over.
“Come here, blondie. I'll dry your hair for you.”