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Wolfwood should’ve known this would happen eventually, really.
“VASH THE STAMPEDE! YOU’VE GOT NOWHERE TO RUN NOW!”
The familiar ambience of unrestrained gunshots fills the air.
Wolfwood peers behind him, over the rock he and Vash are taking cover behind, to the large crowd of rowdy bounty-hunters, outlaws, and vagrants all lined up and trigger-happy between smoking cars and squawking tomases. Then he looks ahead, just a few paces away, at the sheer drop off a cliff face. Forget being stuck between a rock and a hard place, the rock’s the only thing keeping them alive right now.
Wolfwood scoffs and hikes the Punisher on his shoulder to aim a rocket-launched shot into the crowd. The crowd scuttles and yells as one of those tin-can cars goes flipping, but the returning rain of gunfire tells him there’s no scaring them off at this point.
When Wolfwood made his choice to follow Vash the Stampede around, he knew it would probably be dangerous. What he wasn’t prepared for was the sheer stupidity of those dangerous situations he finds himself in.
Today’s particular stupidity is, of course, Vash’s fault again. Those brainless bounty-hunters chased them out of a perfectly fine inn on a perfectly fine afternoon yelling about bounties and humanoid typhoons and, as per usual, Vash and Wolfwood had to go sprinting from town, dodging bullets the whole way. If it weren’t for Vash’s terminal do-gooderism they could’ve cleaned this problem up nice and easy and still had beds for the night instead of getting cornered on a goddamn cliff’s edge.
“COME OUT, COME OUT, HUMANOID TYPHOON! WE WON’T HURT YA!”
Another spray of bullets goes careening around them and they both have to tuck in closer to the rock to avoid getting hit.
“Your actions and words are saying two different things!” Vash yells back with a manic laugh.
After travelling with Vash this long, he really should’ve expected they’d eventually find themselves in this extraordinarily stupid scenario.
“Ah, screw this,” Wolfwood mumbles, lining Punisher up on his shoulder again.
A gloved hand pulls him back down before he can fire off another rocket with a much deadlier aim.
“Do NOT kill them!”
Wolfwood growls and snaps, “Well unless ya know how to fuckin’ FLY we don’t got a lot of options here, Spikey!”
“Fly…” Vash mumbles like he’s come to some revelation. That’s never a good sign.
“Spikey…” Wolfwood warns, but he should know by now that no matter what he says, when it comes to Vash, he’s gonna be in for some bullshit.
“Wolfwood, hear me out. I have a plan.”
“YA CAN’T HIDE FOREVER, VASH THE STAMPEDE! HYAHAHA!”
Wolfwood cringes. “Y’heard the man, Spikey. This better be a good idea.”
Vash looks Wolfwood dead in the eye and points to the cliff’s edge. “We fly off.”
…
Wolfwood smacks Vash on the back of the head to an exclaimed “Yowch!”
“Did you hit yer head as a kid or something?!” he asks. “Don’t answer that. I already know whatever’s wrong with you is a lot worse than brain damage.”
“Wooolfwoood!” comes the predicable whine. “Just listen, okay? I can use my… uh, abilities as wings and fly us off here. Like one of those hang-gliders they had a few towns back! Then we don’t have to deal with going through the crowd.”
Wolfwood narrows his eyes. “You talkin’ about yer plant shit?”
“Yeah.”
Wolfwood thinks back to the few times he has seen Vash display those uncanny feathery tendrils. He supposes they do look like wings, when he thinks about it, even if they grow in a bit unconventionally. It’s not entirely implausible.
“I thought you were like some kind of chicken, though,” Wolfwood says, ignoring Vash’s immediate squawking response. “All glitz and glamour but the wings don’t actually do shit.”
“I’m not a chicken!” Vash protests. Wolfwood mumbles, “Ya look like one…” under his breath which earns him a sharp shove in the side. “AN-Y-WAYS, I got the feathers and the wings so I can probably fly.”
“’Probably’ ain’t exactly the reassurance I wanna hear when ya tell me to jump off a fuckin’ cliff with ya, Spikey.” A shot blasts off the tip of the rock they’re hiding behind and Wolfwood growls, blindly aiming a responding shot behind him. “Ya ever even tried this before?”
“Well, no…”
“Spikey,” he groans.
“…but there’s a first time for everything!”
“How about ya just shut yer eyes and plug yer ears for a few minutes and let me clear us a path that doesn’t include yer first test flight.”
“You know I won’t let you do that,” Vash says. Another wild shot goes careening into the rock, shaving down more of the timer on their inevitable swiss cheese-ification. Vash returns fire this time, giving Wolfwood a second to see that hard, concentrated look in his eyes that’s usually obscured by the glasses head-on. Vash is actually serious about this. He eyes the cliff again, not believing he’s even considering an idea this suicidally dumb.
Vash slinks back down, putting a hand on Wolfwood’s arm. “Please, Wolfwood. Trust me?”
“…aaaAARGH, FUCK, FINE! Might as fuckin’ well plummet to my death with ya like a fuckin’ blindfolded tomas!”
There’s really no arguing with Vash the Stampede.
Vash’s eyes go big and watery. “Wolfwood—!”
“Quit yer simpering and focus on growing our getaway, dumbass.”
Vash holsters his gun and closes his eyes. A sharp breath in through the nose, let out slow. Wolfwood tries not to stare, but he can’t help it when the telltale signs of those strange white, leafy appendages start peeling off the edges of Vash’s face like blooming flowers. A sharp, familiar pang of trepidation goes through Wolfwood when stems like weeds poke through the seams of Vash’s red coat, sprouting feathers. He’s not scared of Vash, but the reminder of the power he contains is always sobering.
Vash opens his eyes again, feathers still stretching bit by bit up his shoulders. “On three, let’s go.”
Dear Lord, if this stupid stunt gets us killed, please let Spikey live so I can haunt his ass for the rest of his days as revenge.
Wolfwood readies Punisher for action and nods.
“Three.”
“Two.”
“One!”
In a single move, Wolfwood and Vash duck out from the safety of the crumbling rock, Wolfwood firing off a sheet of bullets before swinging Punisher back up to provide cover from the onslaught. White extends in the corner of his eye as they sprint towards the edge.
“Hold on tight!” is all Wolfwood hears before an arm catches him around the waist and they’re suddenly plummeting backwards through the air. Those strange, thin, leaf-like wings stretch further and further around him, almost as if they were Wolfwood’s own wings with Vash, vice-like, clinging to his back.
For a single horrible moment, they’re free-falling into the desert ravine below.
And then those wings explode into their full glory.
A full set of preened feathers like a hawk gleam in the light of the suns, stretching out endlessly above them. With a boom like a shotgun by his ear, the wings beat down against the wind’s strength and they bounce up, clearing the cliff’s edge where the gang of would-be bounty-collectors gawk. The momentum tips them over so Wolfwood and Punisher dangle from Vash’s grip above, giving him a surreal birds-eye view of the whole desert.
Wolfwood thinks his heart might’ve just done a full 360 backflip in his throat.
Vash laughs, high and a bit crazed.
The wings propel them up again, just in time for the whistle of gunfire to sound past Wolfwood’s ear. The bounty-hunters seem to have recovered from their shock. Wolfwood bats off stray bullets with Punisher.
“Spikey, go!”
“Trying!”
With two more flaps from gigantic wings, they propel forward and away from the cliff. Vash seems to be getting the hang of it, twisting and careening wildly as more gunfire follows them. Wolfwood can’t get the right grip on Punisher to fire back, so he suffices with providing the cover he can as they make their getaway.
Squinting into the distance, the cliff’s edge seems tiny now. “I think we’re out of range, Spikey,” he says. It’s only then that he really takes in where he is and what he’s seeing. He’s been to some places he never could’ve imagined, traveling with Vash, but this one might take the cake.
The desert gleams gold, stretching endlessly into the distance. Sand never seems beautiful when it’s stuck in your boots and caked up in your hair, but right now Wolfwood could hardly conjure another word other than ‘beautiful.’ Distant mountains look like little rocks from up here, inconsequential accents to the desert. He spots a sandworm scuttling just under the surface of the planet a few iles away, leaving mesmerizing patterns in its path. In the distant deep blue of the open sky, a lone hawk coasts along the same warm currents of wind that prop Vash and Wolfwood up.
What he wouldn’t give to be as free as this always.
“Damn good view, ain’t it?”
Vash doesn’t respond.
“Spikey?” he says, trying not to rustle in Vash’s grasp too much.
“Sorry… I think… we’re going to go down now…”
And then they begin to tilt.
“Hey, hey, hey, HEY—SPIKEY!” Wolfwood exclaims, one death grip on Vash’s arm and another on Punisher, that beautiful gleaming desert getting a lot less beautiful the closer and faster they get to it. “VASH?!”
They tilt further until they’re in a meteoric nose-dive, collision-course set for the surface. “UP, UP, UP, UP, VASH! UP, VASH! VASH!”
An involuntary gasp of air fills Wolfwood’s lungs and his eyes squeeze shut. Just as he thinks they’re about to meet their end, Wolfwood’s heart does another jump from the pit of his stomach to his throat as powerful wings beat down just before the surface of the planet.
And with one final bounce, Vash and Wolfwood make their graceless fumble back into the sand.
…
“Holy shit,” Wolfwood says once he gets his bearings again, queasiness subsiding little by little. Miracle of miracles, he doesn’t think he even broke anything on that fall. “That was so dumb.”
He glances around for the needle-noggin, finding him inelegantly face planted in the sand, wings splayed around him making him look like a squashed worm. “You alive, Spikey?”
“Ermfghfrhd.”
“Well, ya get points for not killing us,” Wolfwood says, pulling Vash up by the arm, “but ya gotta work on yer landings before next time.”
Vash laughs guiltily, sitting up. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
It’s then that Wolfwood notices the tightness in Vash’s expression. And any expert in Spikey-ism would know that means, “Hey, you get hurt?”
He sinks to his knees alongside Vash, checking for injuries systematically. Arms, chest, neck, face – nothing suspicious so far besides some fluffed up feathers. “I’m fine, Wolfwood, nothing’s wrong, don’t worry.”
A small wince when Wolfwood grazes his shoulder doesn’t escape notice. “Like shit ya are,” Wolfwood grumbles and his eyes catch red where it shouldn’t be. Over Vash’s shoulder, there’s blood dripping down a wing.
Moving around to inspect it despite Vash’s protests, Wolfwood only hesitates for a second before shifting the odd, shifting tendrils around until he can see the injury properly. Vash jumps at the contact, so he tries not to touch too much, but it’s enough to see the problem. A gunshot is unmistakable.
“Ah, hell. They get ya while we were in the air?” He realizes this must be why Vash suddenly crash-landed. He eyes a spot of shade by the rocks close enough to them. “Come on, we gotta treat this.”
“It’s fine, Wolfwood,” Vash says. “The wings will go away once I calm down a bit.”
Wolfwood moves back around to see Vash’s face. It’s red-tinged, avoiding Wolfwood’s gaze. “The wings will go away, but will the injury?”
“I wouldn’t even know how to treat it,” Vash insists.
“We’ll figure something out,” Wolfwood says, getting an arm under Vash’s shoulders to pull him up by force. “At the very least, we can try to stop the bleeding in the meantime.”
Vash sighs but doesn’t say anything else as they stumble over to the rocks. He doesn’t seem to have any trouble walking, at least, but Wolfwood can tell the pain from the bullet is giving him trouble.
“Sit,” Wolfwood instructs. “Ya still have the first-aid stuff in the pack you brought with ya, right? Give it here.”
Vash does as much as Wolfwood moves around to Vash’s back. He plops down in the sand and gets a good look at what they’re dealing with. Vash has scooted so his wings lay on either side of him, twitching slightly in pain or maybe just the latent desire to fly off again. The blood is dripping down the left wing, closer to its base, gruesomely staining the feathers around it. He places a tentative hand against the feathers where they seem to sprout from around the fibers of Vash’s coat and Vash immediately flinches. “Eep!” He drops the hand. “Uh, Wolfwood?”
He glances up. Vash offers up the small first-aid kid over his shoulder. Wolfwood says, “Thanks. Sorry, I’ll try not to touch where it hurts.”
“Ah, it’s fine.”
“I’ll give you a warning each time.”
“’Kay.”
Wolfwood digs out a cloth and dips it in a bit of water from the kit. “Gonna touch now.” Vash nods lightly.
Carefully, he places one hand on the wing and once again, Vash tenses up with a gasp. The wound is buried under long feathers, almost slippery in texture, so Wolfwood lightly tucks fingers underneath and splays the feathers out. He’s briefly distracted by the surprising softness of smaller downy feathers at the root.
A shudder seems to run through Vash’s whole back at the movement.
Wolfwood shakes the distraction off and gets back to it, finally able to see the wound at the point of contact. He needs to work fast, the way Vash is practically trembling. “Gonna wash it off a bit now, alright?” he says lowly.
He lightly dabs at the wing, cleaning up some of the surrounding blood stains as well. When it’s to Wolfwood’s satisfaction, he puts the cloth down and grabs the gauze.
“Yer lucky the bullet didn’t get stuck in here. I’ll wrap it up now. Touching again.”
He repeats the same motion as before, fingers light along the undersides of the feathers. Once again, Vash full body shivers. It’s a really strong shiver too – Wolfwood can feel it under his hand. Such a strong shiver, it’s… not stopping?
It’s then that Wolfwood notices the strange sound emanating from Vash. Curious, he lightly glides his thumb between the base of the wing and the long feather it holds back. The shiver and the sound both grow stronger at the contact. It almost sounds like…
“Are you… purring?”
“What?! No!” Vash exclaims as he whips his head around, a high blush on his cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Wolfwood narrows his eyes. He reaches out and runs a hand along Vash’s other, uninjured wing. The effect is instant, Vash practically melting into the touch and letting out a purr loud enough to rival Angelina II’s crappy motor.
“Holy shit, you purr.”
“Shut up, no I don’t!” Vash whines, still clearly purring.
Wolfwood smirks evilly, eager to immediately abuse this newfound power. He pets down the right wing the same way he would a little kitty and delights in the way Vash is helpless against it. “Haha, what a cute trait. I can’t believe all it takes to defeat the big, bad Vash the Stampede is a good scritch, hahahaha.”
“You’re such a bully,” Vash pouts even though he’s also leaning back further and further into Wolfwood’s lap and very much still purring. Wolfwood continues to glide one hand down the wing and places the other at the back of Vash’s neck where tantalizing bits of white lay flat below his hairline. Vash lets out a happy chirp and tilts his head all the way back as if chasing the feeling, his weight entirely in Wolfwood’s lap at this point. He looks a second away from falling asleep, eyes closed in blissful satisfaction.
“Hey now, yer words and actions are saying two different things. Ya want me to keep petting you, or no?”
“Don’t say it like that… ‘petting me’, I’m not a dog,” Vash complains. He opens his eyes, pupils wide. “But don’t stop, please.”
Wolfwood chuckles lowly. Vash is like a whole sandsteamer motor in his arms. Unable to help himself, he reaches down and gives a little scritch under Vash’s chin where smaller feathers still cling. Vash’s eyes flutter shut again, looking content as can be. “Dog ain’t exactly the comparison I was gonna make.”
“Not a cat either,” he slurs.
They stay like that for a few minutes, Wolfwood petting through wings and around Vash’s chin, cheeks and hair – wherever those particularly sensitive feathers seem to sprout up. Something is melting in Wolfwood with each rumbling purr, maybe his resolve, maybe that persistent, instinctual fear that clings to his heels around Vash, maybe something else. Whatever it is, it turns his voice gooey and soft when he says, “Still need to get that wound wrapped, Spikey. Don’t want ya bleeding out on me.”
“Mn…”
“If ya can flip around, I can get to it and ya can keep snoozing in my lap.”
“Keep petting?” he mumbles. Wolfwood chuckles silently. What happened to not calling it ‘petting’?
“Sure.”
Vash smiles goofily. “You’re being particularly nice today, Wolfwood.”
Wolfwood pinches his cheek and ignores the ‘ow, ow, ow!’ “I’m never nice. I’m a big bully, remember?”
Vash sits up and turns around, mindful of his wings. His smile has turned soft and honest, Wolfwood’s favorite expression to see. “It’s too late, I’ve learned the truth, Wolfwood.” He plops down again, cheek squished sideways against Wolfwood’s thigh. “You’re actually a big softie.”
Wolfwood wisely does not respond. A hand running down feathers ends the conversation nicely. Vash sighs helplessly and purrs away on his lap. It’s only then that Wolfwood wonders if maybe suggesting this position was a mistake, the way he can’t stop his blush at how warm Vash is on his thighs and under his hands.
He swallows and his fingers brush at a spot of red.
The sight of the still-bleeding gunshot wound sobers him enough. With cloth in hand again, he dabs at the fresh blood. “This still hurt?”
“Not that much now,” Vash says. “Your hands feel nice.”
Wolfwood works quietly, grabbing the gauze and wrapping the injury as best he can. He realizes Vash might’ve been right that this was a bit pointless, knowing how Vash’s plant features recede back into himself when the crisis is over. He wonders if the wound will transfer to somewhere else on Vash’s body then – or maybe it’ll become internal? Internal bleeding’s a real pain in the ass to deal with.
All this worrying has Wolfwood wanting something to chew, so he takes a moment to light a cigarette. Maybe they’ll get lucky and stopping the bleeding will make it heal fast enough to not be a problem when Vash starts wanting to hide everything away in that big coat again.
“Hands again, please?” Vash whines in between long, rumbling purrs that vibrate all the way through Wolfwood too.
“Yeah, yeah, ya clingy baby,” Wolfwood says around the cigarette, hands returning to their sacred duty. “Yer all patched up now. Best I can get it, at least. Don’t put away the wings for a bit though. Wanna make sure we’re in range of a town before doing anything reckless.”
“Mn, okay,” he says. After a few moments, he continues, “Wolfwood?”
“Hm?”
“Can we stay like this for a while?”
Wolfwood smiles, unseen by Vash. “Sure.”
They slip into silence for a few minutes, Wolfwood exploring which ways to scratch and pet that elicit the loudest purrs. Getting his fingers under the feathers to glide along the downy patches seems to do well and the areas closest to the root of the wing itself seem most sensitive. Hands rubbing circles along Vash’s neck and down the back of his collar earn those high chirping sounds, bubbling over the deeper purrs.
“Did you know you could purr before?” Wolfwood asks.
“No,” Vash says. Almost hesitantly, he adds, “No one’s ever touched me when I’m like this before.”
The statement and its implications make Wolfwood’s face grow warm.
“Learning a lot of new things about yerself today, huh?” Wolfwood says and thinks, and so am I. “Are the feathers and wings a recent discovery too?”
“No, I’ve known about that since the beginning,” Vash explains. He’s more forthright when he’s sleepy like this. “Used to get the feathers on the cheeks as a kid sometimes. The, uh, wings didn’t show up until puberty though.”
Wolfwood thinks of how old Vash is. “And when was that for you?”
“Hmm, sometime around age 50 to 80?”
“That’s a big margin of error ya just allowed for, y’know,” Wolfwood snarks. “So you’ve had wings for a hundred years already and today’s the first day ya thought to try using them to fly?”
“I never really had reason to before,” he says. “I’ve never liked using my plant abilities.”
Wolfwood can imagine why. “Why today then?”
Vash turns his head slightly to peek up at Wolfwood. “For you.”
Wolfwood’s heart jumps at the unadulterated honesty.
Vash laughs and nuzzles back in. “I heard that.”
‘Don’t like using my plant abilities,’ my ass!
“Anyways, you should practice flying more, when we’re on the road outside of the towns. We could be getting places a lot faster if ya get good at it.”
“You just want to use me as your own personal sandsteamer…”
“You don’t drive, it’s only fair! You should be my Angelina III as compensation for the number ya pulled on poor Angelina II.” Wolfwood says, poking at Vash’s forehead. “Plus the scenery can’t be beat from up there.”
“Hmm,” Vash hums, “maybe I will try again, then. I didn’t really get a good look today.”
They lapse into silence again. The suns are beginning to set and Wolfwood has half a mind to put together something like shelter for them for the night. There’s no way they’ll make it to another town with what’s left of today. Vash managed to hold onto his bag, so they at least have one sleeping bag between them.
“Spikey,” Wolfwood says. “I gotta get our sleeping situation together. Gonna need ya off my lap for a bit.”
“Noooooo.”
“I’ll go back to giving ya scritches in a few minutes, kitty cat.”
“Meooooow,” Vash says mournfully and scootches off him. The loss of rumbling warmth is almost enough to make Wolfwood change his mind.
Wolfwood laughs and shakes his head, both at Vash’s typical antics and the absurdity of the situation he finds himself in. While Wolfwood gets up to rummage through Vash’s things and obtain the sleeping bag and an extra blanket, Vash curls up, napping by the rocks. The purring has subsided enough that it sounds more like odd snoring now.
As the first sun dips below the horizon, Wolfwood has the sleeping arrangement set up by a nice alcove in the rocks that won’t be seen by any passersby.
“Come on, Spikey,” Wolfwood says, nudging his side, “let’s get you to bed.”
Vash turns over, little face wings fluttering by his sleepy smile. “Carry me?”
“Yer heavy as shit, no way.”
“Boo.”
Using his own two legs, Vash gets up and follows Wolfwood to the alcove. As they both sit, Wolfwood eyes the wings, happy to see no new blood has leaked from the wrapping. He squints at the way the wings seem merged with the fibers of Vash’s red coat. “Unbutton yer coat. I wanna make sure there’s no damage underneath.”
“Trying to undress me? How scandalous,” Vash teases. “Nothing feels wrong, so it’s probably fine, you know. Plus, I, uh, don’t think I can get the wings untangled without getting rid of them.”
“Shut it, dumbass. I’m just being thorough and I know ya wouldn’t say nothing if I didn’t check,” he says. “It’s fine if it doesn’t come all the way off. Just unbutton the front.”
Vash hums and does as told, holding the jacket open as if to say, See? Nothing wrong.
It doesn’t look like there’s any new injuries amidst the myriad visible on Vash’s torso. “Scootch closer, I’ll check yer back.”
With a sideways smile, Vash does so and asks, “How do you plan on doing tha—oh.”
Wolfwood slips hands underneath the coat and around to Vash’s back in a strange embrace, feeling the area where his bodysuit doesn’t cover, then slipping fingers under the edges, carefully observing Vash for any signs of pain. Vash is watching Wolfwood with rapt attention, looking the opposite of perturbed.
“Feeling me up now?” Vash asks, just above a whisper. “That’s an abuse of power, Mr. Preacher-man.”
“No,” Wolfwood smirks and runs both hands along the roots of the wings at Vash’s shoulders, the feathers strange and stretched where they’re stuck between skin and coat. It’s interesting the way the roughness of Vash’s torn and damaged skin gives way to the glossy smoothness of the wings. Vash practically squeaks, sitting up ramrod straight as he descends into purrs again. “That’s an abuse of power.”
Wolfwood chuckles as Vash goes liquid, melting into his arms once again. “I’m assuming that means there was no pain, right?”
“Mmmrmgfm,” Vash says intelligently, face buried against Wolfwood’s shoulder.
“Okay, okay, you pass inspection,” Wolfwood says, releasing Vash’s back. “I’ll stop teasing ya.”
As soon as Wolfwood tries to peel the urchin away from him, Vash goes on the counterattack, arms circling around Wolfwood’s waist. He pushes Wolfwood onto his back on the sleeping bag, using enough force that it couldn’t be called gentle, but not enough to do real harm. Like a viper with its prey, he locks his arms and legs around Wolfwood, pinning him into place, then smirks mischievously from where his head rests on Wolfwood’s chest.
“Careful, Mr. Preacher-man. Don’t forget what you’re playing with.”
Behind him, his wings stretch wide, blocking out the stars, the rising fifth moon behind his head like an unholy halo bearing the mark of exactly what Wolfwood is playing with. The tableau is like something out of one of the Eye of Michael’s warped churches, though this kind of reverence is probably not what they had in mind.
Wolfwood swallows, trying not to let his heartbeat give away exactly how affected he was by that little maneuver.
“A little kitty?” Wolfwood snarks instead, using a free hand to scritch under Vash’s chin. He succumbs to it comically easily.
“No, a mountain lion!” Vash still insists between drawn out purring fits.
“The hell’s that?”
“Old, earth animal…”
“Okay then, mountain lion. Ya got me where ya want me. What’re yer demands?”
Vash grabs the edges of the open sleeping bag, throwing them carelessly along with the extra blanket over their lower half, avoiding the wings which form a blanket of their own as they relax over top them. He snuggles in tighter, scootching up so his head fits by the crook of Wolfwood’s neck.
“Stay like this with me.”
The statement is almost too honest, too raw. A repeat of the question he asked earlier, made serious by that slightest tinge of desperation. They’ve been playing the game they always do, daring each other wordlessly to get closer and closer, playing with fire but never crossing the line. It’s dangerous.
Wolfwood doesn’t make such a reckless promise.
Instead of answering, he runs a hand down Vash’s back under his coat. Feathers sprout up from the exposed skin wherever Wolfwood touches, reaching to brush back, tangling with his fingers in an imitation of held hands. One large wing flutters closer so he uses his other hand to stroke down the smooth softness, scratching between those long feathers. The rumbling purr returns, lulling Wolfwood into a deep calmness.
He’s heard before that the purr of a cat has healing properties. A creature gone centuries walking at humanity’s side, growing and evolving to better suit the hand that feeds it, it wouldn’t be a surprise if it were true. Weren’t plants nurtured by humans as well? If he goes by the Eye of Michael’s teachings, plants are ancient beings raised from the flesh of angels to grant blessings onto man. In that sense, are plants all that different from cats? Maybe that’s why Vash purrs.
Wolfwood scratches behind Vash’s ear. His eyes slip shut, breaths turning slow and even.
Almost thoughtlessly, Vash sighs out, “I love you, Wolfwood.”
He freezes.
“S’rry. I know you don’t want me to say it, but it’s true,” Vash says. “I really can’t help it.”
And there it is, the line.
I love you too, he doesn’t say. He can’t say it.
It’s the unspoken truth that lies between Vash and Wolfwood. The spell that keeps them both helplessly orbiting around each other, despite how intimately both of them know the pain that comes with it. It’s what drives them to quietly crawling into each other’s hotel beds at night and stealing drinks and cigarettes out of each other’s mouths. It’s why Wolfwood is holding Vash so close now, drawn like a moth to flame. Wolfwood doesn’t know how much Vash knows about who and what Wolfwood is, but he knows Vash knows enough to know that there’s only one way this can end. They’re hurtling towards the inevitable and these moments of intimate closeness are only distraction from it, the only kind they can afford.
Wolfwood sighs and runs his hand through Vash’s hair and down the back of his neck. “You’re only in for heartbreak, Spikey idiot.”
“It’s too late for that,” Vash says, his grip tightening. “It’s too late.”
Wolfwood doesn’t know what to say to that. If they were different people in a different time, maybe… but they’re not. Wolfwood indulges that Spikey brand of optimism more often than he probably should for his own self-preservation, but he can’t here. It’s the kindest thing he can do for Vash.
For a few mournful moments, they lie together, too close to let go, too aware to get any closer.
“Hey,” Wolfwood says eventually, “how’d ya even manage to get shot earlier? I’ve seen you catch like twenty bullets out of the air at the same time with those wings before.”
Vash laughs. “Clumsiness is a skill of mine.”
“Yeah, and yer specialty, huh?”
They continue like that for the rest of the evening, quietly bantering about everything and nothing, as Wolfwood absently strokes down wings. Eventually, slow and rhythmic purring lulls them both to sleep.
The next morning, when Wolfwood checks underneath the bandage, Vash’s wing has made a complete recovery. It’s a testament to the healing potential of a plant that barely a trace of the gunshot wound remains.
Also strangely, Vash’s plant features didn’t recede at all overnight, which Vash proclaims has never happened before. With a goofy smile, he adds, “I must’ve just been comfy.”
“Yeah, at the cost of my shoulder,” Wolfwood grumbles, still trying to get the crick out of his sore body. The Punisher’s gonna be a bitch to lug around today.
They get ready for the long day of travel ahead of them, Vash finally letting the plant wings merge back into his skin. Wolfwood lights a cigarette, sighing mournfully at the few left in the pack. He has no idea where they even landed, let alone how far the nearest town is from here. He’s going to have to start rationing the precious nicotine.
“God, I wish ya already had those flying wings ready for action. It’s gonna be nice making you be the transportation for a change.”
“Hey, I can sense you plotting to take advantage of me. And when you were so against the flying to begin with yesterday…” Vash complains. “I don’t take on ungrateful passengers, you know. Maybe I’ll just make you walk.”
“I think we both know who the ungrateful one is here, ya passenger princess,” Wolfwood says. “Anyways, I know you won’t make me walk.”
Vash raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. “Oh yeah? You really wanna gamble on that being a bluff?”
“Ain’t no gamble,” Wolfwood says, stepping in front of Vash and leaning in like he’s got a secret. “I got a new weapon in my arsenal that can get spiky chicken-heads like you to do annnnything I want.”
Vash doesn’t back down. “And what’s that?”
Quick as a snapping viper, Wolfwood reaches out and scratches under Vash’s chin. Underneath his teasing, light fingers, downy feathers pop out and chase his touch.
A loud, unmistakable purr reverberates.
He smirks. Then lets go and walks away with Punisher like nothing’s wrong.
“Come on, Spikey! We’re burning daylight.”
Vash is blushing head to toe.
“Unfair! That’s an unfair advantage!”
Wolfwood laughs and laughs.