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Wolfwood sits back on his heels and looks down at himself, at his shirt front soaked in Vash’s blood.
His hands are still slick with it.
He tries to wipe it off on his pants, and thankfully the fabric of his slacks is dark enough that he can barely see the smears the action leaves behind.
The blood comes off somewhat, but there’s still some embedded in the crevices of his palms and under his fingernails.
He thinks of what he was once taught. When he was younger and smaller and both too trusting and just afraid enough to try having faith in something. Of a Savior willingly and freely spilling His blood to cleanse His followers, to save them from themselves.
He gave up believing in that a long time ago, after he realized what a farce it all was.
But now, in this abandoned farmhouse, with Vash sewing the wound in his side closed by candlelight, he wonders if maybe he could believe it again. If maybe he should believe it again.
Do gods wince from the sting of a needle? Does He not regret the blood pooling in the sand, wasted?
“You should go clean up, Wolfwood,” Vash says as he finishes tying off his stitches. “I’ll be okay.”
He sounds tired.
Do gods tire?
Wolfwood hums but says nothing as he pushes himself to his feet. Wonders what Vash would say if he let His blood dry under his nails.