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I wonder if you'll ever understand
What it's like to be loved by these hands
I wonder if you'll ever learn to know
What it's like to be warm in the cold
Take a chance on the holy grail
Make me wonder if you'd ever waste it
In all honesty, Wolfwood could – or should, let’s face it – be offended by how much Vash underestimates his capacity to give. He could be wrong in his judgment here, but it is as if that blond punk refuses to be rivalled in the generosity department. Now, see, Wolfwood has long since deemed himself as unworthy of belonging to the concept of goodwill by its default definition. When a man spends most of his life taking and taking and taking, even the devil would be appalled to categorise him under something that sits just below compassion. But Vash the Stampede has once again proved himself as being stubbornly impossible by recalibrating Wolfwood’s moral compass and, in turn, rectifying what he considers as benevolent.
Case in point; that man with needles for hair and ocean for eyes – more often than not – tries to offer himself, completely casting aside his own needs and, most importantly, his boundaries. Wolfwood has witnessed these general premises in action, most of them executed without a second thought, delivered to even the most undeserving bastards that roam the sands and backed up by the feeble attempt to justify how they’re still humans. So it’s no surprise that Vash would employ them around a more undeserving bastard and pathetic excuse of a human such as Wolfwood himself.
That blond idiot may not see it as a problem – or maybe he does, just that he chooses to ignore it – but Wolfwood sometimes prides himself on utilising more of his pragmatism than that man does. As such, Vash is not the only person who can read him like an open book. Those clear blue eyes and empty smiles may fool anyone naïve enough to take them for granted. Thankfully, having been raised under heavy sets of steel and chemicals, Wolfwood has trained himself to being able to assess things in such great detail. And Vash is no exception to his exhaustive scrutiny.
So when they fall into each other’s arms one night after spending weeks exchanging lingering stares and soft touches and secretive smiles, it doesn’t take Wolfwood long to learn that Vash – for all of his unabashed displays of affection – does not get intimate. Or can’t. Either way, sexual intimacy is a terrain that that man grapples with. Perhaps it’s something Vash will never get around to, despite his multiple attempts at exploring the area based on his previous relationships. Wolfwood may not fully understand how that works, but accepting and respecting it is as easy as breathing. After all, a comfortable Vash is his biggest priority first and foremost.
And that’s the issue with that spikey mess, isn’t it? If it hadn’t been for Wolfwood stopping at the slight hitch of Vash’s breath when his fingers slipped beneath the man’s waistband, at the sudden tension buzzing across his muscles, that man would probably have let Wolfwood go all the way.
Vash would have offered himself to Wolfwood; would have let Wolfwood take all of him, disregarding his own boundaries in the true Vash the Stampede fashion. Wolfwood had wondered then, with dawning horror, whether that man’s previous partners had known of it as well. And judging by needle-noggin’s chronic altruism alone, he would hate to imagine otherwise.
(Granted, Vash explained that his previous partners had been understanding. While one of them deemed it as a deal-breaker for a relationship, at least she acknowledged the boundary enough to decide that they were better off without each other.)
It had taken a while for Vash to get it into his spikey head that sex was not that crucial, especially not when survival was steeped so deep into the equation that it was rendered somewhat redundant under the grand scheme of things. Maybe some people consider it as central to moving forward in a relationship and in life itself, but definitely not to Wolfwood. Someone like him could care less about the finer details of a sustaining relationship, not with the precarious kind of life he leads, with death and destruction constantly nipping at his heels. Call him a fool, but he’s happy enough to receive a genuine smile from someone.
It had taken a while for Vash to really digest that being repulsed by sex would not make him less human, because apparently, that was one of his main concerns. The eternal crisis of being an Independent Plant, one would call it. Though, Wolfwood believes the repulsion has got nothing to do with being a Plant. “Surely, there are people who choose to abstain from it for various reasons, huh, spikey?” Wolfwood had pointed it out once.
“Yeah, but they choose to,” remarked spikey’s stubborn mouth.
“Point is,” he’d emphasised before that blond dumbo could get it into his head to convince Wolfwood why his personal well-being matters less than him, as if Wolfwood himself isn’t already the epitome of a misfortune, “not engaging in it won’t kill people. Definitely not gonna cause an apocalypse, s’far as I’m concerned.”
Vash had averted his gaze then, staring at their intertwined fingers. “You still need to reproduce, though?” he tried to be smart about it. “To – you know … maintain the population?”
Wolfwood snorted so hard he nearly popped his eardrums. Oh, Vash. “What about you?” he’d asked in return. “Can you reproduce?”
At this, Vash fidgeted with his fingers with a contemplative frown. “No, I don’t think so,” he replied after a while. “I … um … I only have the – um … the equipment.”
“The – the what?”
“You know, things human males have?” Vash gestured to his general crotch area.
“You mean a penis?”
Face reddening, Vash pushed Wolfwood’s face away. “I know what a penis is, Wolfwood!”
“A male equipment, did you say?” Wolfwood was finding it very hard not to burst into tears by the second.
“Well, I guess I just don’t have the standard shape and form you’re familiar with,” Vash huffed with half the amount of sass that he would normally procure.
Admittedly, Wolfwood was very much intrigued by that statement. But he knew being inquisitive would only push Vash further into his shell, so he had kept the questions at bay.
“Thing is, it’d be selfish of me not to engage in it,” Vash went on.
Hearing that, Wolfwood’s easy smile faltered, replaced with a frown of his own. “Do you actually believe that, needles?”
Vash met his eyes. “I don’t want to,” he’d whispered.
“Then you don’t have to,” he brought their hands to his mouth, brushing his lips across Vash’s knuckles. “S’not for everyone, see? Don’t gotta force yourself into somethin’ you’re not comfortable with.”
Vash had looked ready to argue. But Wolfwood hooked a finger beneath his chin and lifted it, maintaining his sky-blue gaze. “Listen, angel, let’s leave it to those who are more equipped for the long-term stuff, yeah? Otherwise, a no-sex policy won’t be the death of me,” he assured him, a crooked grin curling at the corner of his lips. “And I, for one, have got plenty to offer.”
Which had earned a tinkling laughter from said angel.
And Wolfwood does have plenty to offer in his services. Thankfully for both of them, Vash is as touch-starved as Wolfwood is in a dire need to worship. So he gives.
And he gives.
And he gives.
All kinds of reverences that he can provide; in the form of a touch, a whisper of prayer, of kisses. Many of them. And Vash, to his credit, learns to take them. Learns to warp himself into the devotion only a sinful bastard like Wolfwood can conjure. Wolfwood, who’s already hungry for absolution, yet who gives all of himself like he has never known violence, never smelled gun smoke even if it grazed his nostrils. The angel learns not to shy from his gestures, and oftentimes Wolfwood will find himself at the receiving end of Vash’s beseeching gaze; an entreaty to his plethora of adulations. It’s not hard to please Vash, he figures. Who knows that a single touch is all it takes for the Humanoid Typhoon to come undone and melt into his arms?
Touch, Wolfwood realises, works the best with Vash. That blond punk can deny it all he wants, but it never leaves Wolfwood’s attention on how he would lean towards people he’s comfortable with, press the length of his arm against theirs, pat his hands all over their heads and shoulders in the manner of a cat seeking warmth. Those slender fingers would ghost over Wolfwood’s wrist, timid under the glare of the suns, perhaps even wary of the kind of reaction it could provoke. Come nightfall, however, they’d progress up to his arm, shoulder and face. There they remain, inhibitions long forgotten.
Vash’s touch, Wolfwood learns, may just be the most intimate thing he’s ever received from anyone. Like dousing flames, that man would cradle his face with both hands and gaze at his undeserving, blasphemous eyes as if Wolfwood hung the moons. It’s enough to set his skin ablaze. “What’re you doing to me, angel?” he whispers one night, propped up against the headboard of a shabby inn room with Vash sitting on his lap.
“I like looking at you,”
God, the nerve of this man. “Should get your eyes fixed, then,” he murmurs, brain drifting somewhere in the sky.
“Why? You’ve got such nice eyes,”
“Leave my eyes alone, blondie,”
Vash chuckles, leaning close to nose at his cheek. “I will if you leave my neck alone,”
“Oof, tha’s gonna be hard pass, m’afraid,”
And that’s another thing. Vash could pride himself on being the giver of love for all he likes, but a stubborn jerk like Wolfwood could easily rival that out of sheer spite – one of which is essentially catalysed by that blond moron’s mulish preservation on uncompromising magnanimity. Let’s not underestimate the one person in the equation whose job is to actually offer services, thank you very much.
That neck.
That damn neck.
It’s Wolfwood’s favourite spot.
There is something unwittingly irresistible – and decidedly, oddly far from sexual – about the way Vash’s short undercut reveals the nape of his neck that makes Wolfwood want to bury his face there forever. It provides some kind of sanctuary for lovesick pathetic scumbags who are not used to wearing their heart on their sleeves; a place for them to withdraw before confronting the holy figure that is Vash the Stampede himself. His black turtleneck somehow further augments that feature, creating a personal, customised invitation for Wolfwood alone.
And apparently, Vash is very well aware of this being Wolfwood’s weak spot, for he would sometimes just sit there on the bed, red coat long discarded, waiting patiently for Wolfwood to curl into him.
“Come here,” the angel would speak to him, one arm extended, a smile aimed up in his way.
Truth be told, Wolfwood finds himself at his most vulnerable whenever he buries his face in the crook of Vash’s neck, because he is exactly the lovesick pathetic scumbag who is not used to wearing his heart on his sleeve. His thoughts would run rampant, hopping over infinite possibilities that are otherwise limited by the abrasive reality of No-Man’s Land. There, he finds it easy to just let his tears spill over, because Vash – kind, compassionate, beautiful Vash – knows better than to ask him questions. Instead, he will let Wolfwood mourn over a life they’ll never have, a peace he will never see in his lifetime. But he’s made peace with that a long time ago. Why reach for the stars when there’s an angel in his arms?
And when he comes to, Wolfwood would plant soft, lingering kisses and leave whispered praises on the angel’s skin, digging his nose further into it until it emits a sigh out of him. And Vash would incline over him, carding his long fingers through Wolfwood’s hair and holding him closer, chest buzzing with contentment. When the mood turns lighter, playful, easier, Wolfwood likes to climb over Vash and blow raspberries under his jaw, likes to let his fingers skitter over his waist, knowing that would make that grown-ass man snort and giggle in the ugliest way possible.
There’s also a spot near the shell of his ear that will get Vash wheezing for air whenever Wolfwood puts his mouth there, and it would only take Vash grabbing his face and kissing him on the mouth for Wolfwood to relinquish his hands altogether. “Who knew the Humanoid Typhoon could be so ticklish?” he would grin against the onslaught of frantic kisses, chuckling some more when Vash just whines in protest. “And such a beautiful laugh, too? Goodness me, I’m a lucky man.”
There are rare moments, too, whenever Wolfwood stirs awake in the dead of night to a space beside him on the bed. Empty, but still warm, rumpled sheets serving as the only indicator that the occupant hadn’t gone too long. Having grown familiar with this habit, he’d simply look blearily towards the windows, trusting that Vash would be there watching the moons or whatever it is Plants do when they’re awake at ungodly hours. Times like these are where Wolfwood needs to be more tactful than usual; more sagacious than what he’d given himself credit for. Because it can be hard to tell whether Vash needs his own space or is simply admiring the scenery.
Such as tonight, when the man’s bare back is hunched over the windowsill, glass panes swung open to let some cool breeze drift into the motel room, but not wide enough to freeze their toes. Wolfwood stirs on the bed, rustling the sheets with enough noise to let Vash know he’s awake. True to word, the man in question shifts and glances briefly over his shoulder, his bearing so indolent it would be easy to miss a shift in his muscle had it not been for Wolfwood’s enhanced senses. Wistful tranquillity swims in those blue eyes, and the slow blink is the only invitation Wolfwood needs before he slides off the bed and pads his way over, draping the blanket around himself.
Vash returns his attention to the star-strewn night sky when Wolfwood stands just a few inches from his back, waiting. After a moment, Vash leans back into his chest with a small sigh, encouraging Wolfwood to wrap his arms around the man’s middle, resting his chin on Vash’s shoulder as he does so. Warm. So warm.
Not a syllable is exchanged between them. Not for the next five or ten minutes. Maybe not for the rest of the night. Vash’s pulse drums steadily all over his skin, falling into a rhythm with Wolfwood’s heartbeat where the pulsing points meet. Feeling grounded, he closes his eyes and presses his mouth at the dip between Vash’s shoulder blades.
Time slips around them at intermitting tides, moored only by the bubble of delicate reality created between them, conjured specifically under the watch of millions of stars like trusting a friend with a dangerous secret. And it comes to a complete halt when Vash quietly turns in his arms to look at him. Perhaps this is what the moons feel under the serene scrutiny of an angel.
There’s that gaze again. Like Wolfwood himself has been granted some form of divinity. He could pray and atone for his sins for a thousand lifetimes and never match a man of Vash’s calibre and virtue.
“S’matter, angel?” he mutters, on the verge of crumbling to his knees.
Vash raises his flesh hand and rests it over Wolfwood’s heart. He looks at him for a moment, holding his breath. “I love you,” he whispers eventually.
Good fucking Lord. Wolfwood would gladly die by this angel’s wrath. Anything, really. Tear his chest open, snap all of his ribs, as long as his heart ends up in the cradle of his lover’s hand, then nothing can go wrong. It’s not fair how the syllables roll off Vash’s tongue so naturally, without any signs of disinclination, so full of conviction, and embarrassingly they wind effortlessly around Wolfwood’s bones and nerves until they reach his heart and squeeze it.
“Blondie,” Wolfwood rasps, breath evacuating his lungs at full speed, “you can’t just say stuff like that at this kinda hour.”
Vash tilts his head, appearing almost crestfallen. Or maybe he’s being a little shit, ready to subject Wolfwood to a mental agony. Both works. “Why not?”
Head still reeling, Wolfwood croaks out, “I might forget it in the mornin’.”
His angel cracks a smile. Still wistful, yet so genuine. “Then I’ll keep saying it to you, how’s that?”
“S’not fair,” he whispers, not trusting his voice. “Haven’t had my say yet.”
This seems to amuse Vash. “You don’t need to,” he says, leaning forward and pressing a deep kiss to Wolfwood’s mouth. Something sizzles at the back of his throat.
Yet, Wolfwood still finds it in himself to respond with a sudden alacrity, lips parting feverishly as he hugs Vash closer to his chest. His head still treads near the depth of slumber, but this feels too good to waste, a behaviour reserved only for ungrateful sinners. And while Wolfwood himself is a licensed sinner, it has been established from the get-go that he does not take things for granted.
So as Vash is busy angling his mouth to him, hand cupping the nape of his neck and thumb pressing into his underjaw, Wolfwood takes a stuttered breath and whispers against his lips, “This the right time to finally tell you I’m in love with you?”
Vash laughs beautifully, warm breath fanning across his mouth. “Not a competition,”
“Sure thing, honey,”
“Wolfwood—”
“You’re always tryna one-up me, needle-noggin, lemme have somethin’ in return, will ya kindly?”
“Okay.” Vash relents with a quieter laugh, and Wolfwood surges back into his mouth.
More often than not, Vash lets Wolfwood impart more adulations over his body. If that isn’t a testament to his deep-seated trust towards him, then Wolfwood doesn’t know what is. No matter how many times Wolfwood tries to fathom the rationale, weighing it from various perspectives, he never feels like he deserves even a smidgeon of that trust. Yet, whenever that happens, it is because Vash is the one who initiates it. Who would take off his shirt and tug Wolfwood to himself. Who would tell him I’m okay, Wolfwood. I promise. You can touch me here.
Because Vash trusts that Wolfwood would never go beyond his waistline. A “no-no territory” as they’d both termed it a while back.
So he gives – all that he can afford to a holy being. Holds his waist tenderly and places his lips on the man’s sternum like they belong there. Caresses his fingers over scars and stitches and skin tissues alike. Slides his hands over uneven ribs, committing to memory the various textures of skin grafts and wires and metal. All the while savouring the way Vash’s fingers would comb through his hair, nails scraping languidly on his scalp. “You’re really good, angel,” he’d murmur into his skin. Along with other equally sappy things; “So beautiful,” with a kiss to his collarbone; “So kind,” a nose to his earlobe where a golden hoop dangles; “So good,” a mouth to the beauty mark adorning his left cheekbone.
Sometimes those praises make Vash sniffle and cry. Wolfwood can’t judge him entirely, because at least Vash doesn’t bury his face somewhere to hide his tears like a certain sore loser does. “You’re not gonna cry on me of all people, sunshine,” Wolfwood chuckles one time. “Not worth it.”
“You are, though,” argues the sappy blond. “You’re worth everything.”
“Now you’re just bein’ dumb,” Wolfwood flicks Vash’s forehead lightly. “Who are you and then who am I, hm?”
“Wolfwood …”
“Tha’s me, darlin’,”
“I don’t deserve you,”
He snorts. “So this is a competition, ain’t it?”
“You know that’s not what I mean!” Vash whines.
“Sure sounds like it, gorgeous,”
Vash hangs his head in defeat. “I mean it, though,” he mutters after a moment. “I don’t think you realise it, Wolfwood. You are good.”
No matter how many times Vash says it, Wolfwood can’t seem to bring himself to wholly believe it; can’t get around to embodying a piece of creed to its utmost value without sullying it with hands that are permanently steeped with blood. But then Vash has peculiar ways of evaluating people’s principles anyway, so Wolfwood sees no point in trying to convince him otherwise. In any case, if that’s how Vash sees him – some asshat with a penchant for survival and gritty attempts for love – then he wouldn’t have it any other way. Perhaps that’s the only sliver of mercy Wolfwood has allowed himself, bestowed from the only angel he could find on this godforsaken planet.
In fact, with how far their relationship has been steadily progressing, Wolfwood hasn’t realised that he is still capable of giving, hasn’t fully comprehended just how deep his love goes – transcendental even. Before this, the mere prospect of lending someone a piece of his heart was downright risible; a far-fetched fantasy that could only be grazed in the rare times he dreams. But then Vash the Stampede just had to walk right into his life and upend every skewed morale he had carefully constructed to barricade himself from the fangs roaming the planet.
And suddenly Wolfwood is giving Vash his all. Brazen at times when he lets his guard down, because when else is he going to get the opportunity to catch up on lost times? He may picture himself as an irredeemable bastard, but God forbid a man indulge in a little craving for warmth. He’s killed people; being a little selfish isn’t the worst kind of transgression he has committed. Even ferocious beasts still retreat to their caves.
But still.
Some idiot blond just had to cause havoc in his brain.
So he succumbs to gravity; lets himself plunge ass over tits into the semblance of heaven that can only be furnished by a being as gentle and benign as Vash. Welcomes stillness into the depths of his chest until it subdues his turbulent heart. Projects them using his callused hands, in his raspy voice, through kisses scratchy with amateur stubble.
Vash welcomes them all, because leave it to needle-noggin over there to recognise Wolfwood’s grainy attempts to be soft. Even though sometimes this contradicts with that man’s relentless I’m okay I don’t need help bullshit.
Thankfully, Wolfwood is an equally wilful bastard.
A great instance is when he walks in on Vash one late afternoon in another shared motel room. The day has gone by with nothing but a breeze, no bullets fired, and no wise-ass bounty hunter looking to claim some cash prize, so they both settled quickly at the first town they spotted. On his part, Vash seems about ready to hit the hay, judging by his prosthetic arm already lying on the bedside table the moment Wolfwood steps into the room. Yet the man in question is still pretty occupied in the bathroom, hair damp from shower and a pair of loose joggers hugging his waist.
“Hey,” Wolfwood greets, ducking his head through the bathroom doorway. “Got us some food.”
“Oh—” Vash glances briefly over his shoulder, looking a little startled. “Thank you, Wolfwood!”
“Sure, no problem,” he says, placing the bags of food on the table before returning his attention to Vash. He regards that man for a moment, putting an unlit cigarette between his teeth. “You good, spikey?”
“Oh, yeah – yeah!” Vash’s attention seems divided. Something clatters in the sink. He then holds up a razor blade. “Just – trying to shave, is all. Heh.”
“I see,” Wolfwood nods absently, biting into the filter of his cigarette as he shrugs off his blazer. Vash doesn’t grow facial hair as quickly as him. But when he does, that man is quick to whip out his shaving equipment and set to work. Knowing this doesn’t usually take long, Wolfwood is about to leave Vash to his own devices, but before he knows it, his feet decide to move of their own accord. Soon enough, he’s standing behind the blond in the bathroom. “Here.”
Vash blinks at him through the mirror. “Huh – what—?”
“Lemme,” Wolfwood holds out his hand expectantly, palm up.
That stubborn blond spike hesitates. “Wolfwood, it’s okay – I can do it myself, see?”
“I know,”
“So you can go ahead and eat!” Vash tells him with an encouraging nod of his head. “Must be hungry and tired from all those walking around, huh?”
Wolfwood hums. “Not really, no,”
“Food’ll go cold, though!”
“Vash,” he gently says, brushing the tips of his fingers on the man’s elbow. “I want to do it.”
Vash watches him for a moment, face inscrutable.
“Please?” Honestly, Wolfwood doesn’t know why he’s so hard-headed about this in the first place. Maybe he’s trying to see how far Vash will go at being the inflexible philanthrope when faced with the simplest offer of help. Maybe Wolfwood is feeling selfish.
But the little entreaty seems enough to induce Vash, judging by the light hunch of his shoulders. “Okay,” he concedes after a few more seconds. Which is a feat, truly, coming from this uncompromising jerk. Normally, this kind of offer warrants a 15-minute argument encompassing the basic premises of altruism and sympathy. But today, Vash simply turns around and relinquishes the razor blade into Wolfwood’s open palm. Maybe he’s the tired one.
Smiling crookedly, Wolfwood guides Vash gently over to sit on top of the closed toilet lid. There he positions himself between Vash’s legs. “Chin up, gorgeous,” he instructs, grinning when Vash’s ears turn a darker shade of crimson. “Need your pretty face on me at all times.”
The blond tilts his head just slightly, which should serve as a warning as to what he’s about to say next. “Not so bad yourself, handsome,”
Cheeks flushing, Wolfwood flicks Vash’s earring. “Oi, leave the nicknames to me,”
“Are you – shy?”
“Vash,”
“Okay, okay,” that pretty blond douchebag snickers before settling comfortably on the toilet. “I’ll keep quiet.”
With the man’s face already damp, Wolfwood applies some shaving cream all over Vash’s jaw and chin before going about the business of shaving the light brown stubble. Unlike Wolfwood’s sparse facial hair, Vash’s are neater and grow just a bit denser, leaving no patchy areas that would otherwise warrant the jeer of a scrawny 16-year-old boy.
“Why don’t you ever let ‘em grow, hm?” he asks while he’s at it, balancing his cigarette between his teeth.
Vash hums after a moment. “Don’t know. Routine? Just prefer it clean, I guess,” he replies when Wolfwood dunks the blade under running water. “Why do you let yours grow?”
Wolfwood smirks. “Routine.”
He finishes his job mostly in silence, simply listening to Vash humming a song they heard from downstairs earlier on. All the while, he tries not to get caught up in the man’s impossibly blue eyes, regarding him with an expression so impossibly fond that he could burn under them. With the tap still running, Wolfwood cups a handful of water and rinses Vash’s jaw, sweeping his fingers gently across his cheeks and mouth and chin. At one point, just as his thumb is perched momentarily at Vash’s upper lip, that man has the cheek to kiss it.
Heart shooting into his throat, Wolfwood rasps, “Unfair, blondie.”
The blond smiles his blinding smile and holds Wolfwood’s fingers against his mouth. There, he kisses his palm, further cracking Wolfwood’s already brittle heart. “Thank you, Wolfwood,” he says earnestly, despite the shit-eating grin still plastered across his stupid beautiful face.
“Whatever,” he grunts, thumbing a stray foam from the corner of Vash’s lips. “Now, shoo. Need a shower.”
But Vash just blinks up at him in all of his ancient innocence. It’s those goddamn eyes.
Left with no other choice but to (willingly) submit to the trap he has set for himself, Wolfwood bends just slightly forward and kisses Vash’s forehead, silently relishing the soft laugh leaving that man’s stupid beautiful mouth. “Thank you again!” he chirps, squeezing Wolfwood’s hip before practically scurrying out of the bathroom.
Well. At least it’s not a barrage of unwarranted apologies that Vash would otherwise almost always spout in his way. Which is a progress, really – one might even deem it as character growth. Because now that they’re both quite comfortable with each other’s space, even the number of half-hearted protests dispensed from that whiny mouth of his begins to decline. Sure, Vash is still that unyielding gunslinger with absolutely zero sense of self-preservation who refuses to fight back unless innocent lives are involved. He still carries all the weight of the world on his shoulders, too stubborn to ask for help, to cut himself some slack. But at least he doesn’t try to argue back when Wolfwood lends a hand. Because Wolfwood himself has figured out that active intervention works best between them. In all honesty, it’s a win for both of them.
Recently, Wolfwood likes to busy himself with the art of cleaning Vash’s prosthetic arm. You lug around a machine gun everywhere you go, and a prosthesis maintenance is nothing but a meagre cup that needs rinsing. In any case, he has done enough observation to learn the frequency of maintenance and whether it is affected by the weight of their travels. Granted, Wolfwood is already familiar with the dictionary of Vash’s minute facial expressions to gauge what a pull of his upper lip entails; and if that’s accompanied by the faint jerk of his left shoulder, then his prosthesis definitely needs immediate attention.
Though, a lot of the time, it’s simply brushing debris away from crevices, scrubbing stubborn dirt from the tricky spots and maybe tightening some loose joints. Still, Wolfwood likes to go the extra mile of taking the whole prosthesis off Vash’s stump to clean the port and lubricate the seams where the pivots are located. “Phew, when’s the last time you cleaned this part?” he comments one evening, a damp rag pinched between his fingers as he tries to scrub a tricky rust stain from the port.
“Can’t remember, to be honest,” Vash says, sitting across from Wolfwood. “Doesn’t really bother me, you know.”
“Uh-huh, and does Brad share the same opinion, needle-noggin?”
At this, Vash simpers. “It’s a tough material,”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, hunching his shoulders further to deliver one mean swipe until the stain comes off. “And … there. All clean.”
He holds the prosthesis towards Vash, but he’s met with an amused expression instead. “I just realised you always liked things neat and clean, Wolfwood,” Vash remarks.
“You callin’ me a neat freak, blondie?”
Vash yelps, ready to refute the statement. “Well! I mean—”
“Guess I kinda am, though,” Wolfwood snickers. “You grow up with a thousand kids ‘round you and one Ms Melanie, you’re gonna develop those instincts eventually. Keepin’ things tidy. Clean. Easy on the eyes – makes everyone happy, y’hear? Are you happy when you’re clean, sweetheart?”
The smile Vash wears is softer, washed out at the edges to blend with the evening sky behind him. “Fair enough,” he murmurs. Instead of taking his prosthesis, he tugs Wolfwood by his wrist, prompting Wolfwood to end up sitting gracelessly on his lap. “You make me happy.”
Lord have mercy.
Because Wolfwood is kind of a pathetic moron himself, he buries his face in the crook of Vash’s neck. His favourite hiding spot, as intended by God. “What’d I tell ya about sayin’ cheesy shit like that, huh, spikey?”
“That I’m being unfair?” Vash’s shoulder shakes with a silent giggle.
Instead of replying, Wolfwood merely groans into his skin.
“I think I’m being plenty fair, though,” that man goes on ruthlessly. “You can’t be the only one with the sweet talks, right?”
Oh, this is not good for Wolfwood’s heart. Obviously, Vash has a point, but he’s not going to admit that out loud, not when his pride is at stake. Wolfwood is supposed to be the one to give his all, for fuck’s sake. Which he does, all the time, as much as he can, as long as he breathes. Yet, just when he suspects that he has already given his all, has bled himself dry, Vash infuriatingly one-ups him with such minimal effort. Downtrodden by his meagre, mortal, attempts at trying to shower an angel with an infinite amount of himself, he can’t do anything else but admit defeat sometimes.
Maybe he’s no match against Vash the Stampede, after all this time. Who is Vash? Who is he?
“You not gonna put it on?” he mumbles against Vash’s skin.
“I think I don’t need it for tonight,”
“Sure?” Wolfwood looks up.
“Yeah, my stump’s kinda itchy,”
“And what if some bad guys decide to throw a party out of the blue, hm?”
“You’ll be there,” his angel says without a beat.
“Careful, angel, you’re not supposed to trust douchebags on this planet,”
Vash adjusts himself so he can meet Wolfwood’s eyes. And that look. Here he thought he had grown used to it. “You’ve earned it, though,” he whispers. “Douchebag and all.”
Wolfwood bites back a laugh. “Nicknames on me, sweetheart, remember?”
Maybe the blinding smile he receives in return is enough of a reward for being charitable.