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“How many of these things d’you got, hmm?”
Vash leaned his head on Wolfwood’s shoulder, reaching for his belt to remove another pistol and add it to the growing pile on the desk. Wolfwood’s breath was hot against his temple, his hands inside Vash’s red coat, palms big and warm around Vash’s waist.
“Dunno, Spikey, how ’bout you guess?”
Well, there’s the one around your ankle that you think I don’t know about, and the tiny Meryl-style piece in your inside pocket we both pretend isn’t there. He could tell him, but that might spoil the fun. He wasn’t about to show Wolfwood all of his cards. You know that I know that you know was half the game between them.
This wasn’t the first time, but there was still something furtive about the way they came together. They had two rooms at the inn, but Vash had darted down the hallway after Wolfwood, slipping through his door silent as a shadow.
He shed his heavy coat on the floor. It was warm in here anyway, and close; they were sharing breath already, with how little air there was to use and reuse. Wolfwood’s cigarette wasn’t helping. It dangled from the corner of his mouth, tipped by a smoldering ember.
Wolfwood reached for the belt around Vash’s waist, fingers probing the holster. Vash’s breath caught as those fingers undid the thin leather strap, grasping the handle of his—
—and oh, there it was, exposed all at once, heavy in Wolfwood’s hand: Vash’s trusty .45. That gun had gotten him out of more scrapes than he could count. It had fired so many shots even he couldn’t keep track of them all, but rarely, if ever, with intent to harm.
Wolfwood’s own eyes went unfocused as he gazed at it, like he couldn’t believe he was holding it in his own hands. Vash shuddered as if those fingertips were pressing into his skin. The weapon was as much a part of him as any of his flesh.
He wasn’t sure where the impulse came from, but before he knew it he was reaching out, wrapping both his gloved hands around Wolfwood’s bare one, and lifting the gun to his lips. He caught Wolfwood’s gaze and held it as the tip of his tongue stroked the underside of the barrel, then traced the rim of its dark and deadly mouth.
“Fuck,” Wolfwood breathed. “You’re a freaky one, ain’t ya, Spikey.”
Vash smirked, dragging the flat of his tongue along the length of the weapon. Still clutching Wolfwood’s hand, he dropped slowly to his knees.
Wolfwood made a sound deep in his chest, low and seemingly involuntary. Perhaps it was instinct more than conscious desire that made Wolfwood shove the gun forward, deeper into Vash’s mouth.
Vash’s lips closed around the barrel. The metal was icy against his skin. He flinched with discomfort as the tip scraped his teeth, the ridge of the front sight sliding along his palate, but Wolfwood only pushed it further in.
That’s right. You can be rough with me.
Wolfwood’s hand stilled, bringing the gun to rest at the height of his crotch. Subtlety wasn’t either of their strong suits.
As best they could around the weapon, Vash’s lips curved into a grin.
Vash settled into a slow rhythm, letting the thick barrel push inside until it distended his cheek. He closed his eyes briefly, brow creasing as he searched for an angle where no sharp edges cut into the flesh inside his mouth—and then he glanced up.
God, he liked what he saw. Strong brown arms exposed, white shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. Furrowed brow and handsomely curved nose.
Fuck, I’d let you use me any way you wanted.
Spit leaked down Vash’s chin, dripped from the corners of his mouth.
Vash heard Wolfwood’s breathing go uneven. He sought out Wolfwood’s face, and caught his dark eyes gleaming in the low light of the oil lamp.
They had done things like this to each other before, but very rarely had they looked each other in the eyes. The intensity of Wolfwood’s gaze froze Vash in place. He could just imagine the tableau: the Humanoid Typhoon on his knees, weapon clenched between his teeth, the mouth of a gun aimed squarely at the back of his skull.
The reality of the situation brightened inside him until it was almost unbearable. Just one twitch of Wolfwood’s finger was all it would take. And then what? Oblivion? Angelic choirs? His own personal hell?
If he went, in a mist of blood and bone-dust, he would be leaving this world and everyone in it at Knives’ mercy. Maybe that was hell: certainty in his final moment that he would have condemned them all. Still, he couldn’t say for certain that he wouldn’t swallow the shame of it for the sweetness of escape.
A single hot tear spilled from his left eye. It stroked down his cheek, catching at the corner of his mouth. The taste of salt mingled with the faint blood-tang of the steel.
Do it. I would want it to be you.
He knew Wolfwood had thought about it, too. More than thought about it. Of course Vash had noticed, that day in the dark: Wolfwood standing behind him, a different gun trained on the back of his head. Poised for the kill.
You should have done it.
Sometimes the thought crossed Vash’s mind. What about Wolfwood? It had never come up between them, even though it was one more thing that hung in the air unspoken. You know that I know that you know.
Maybe this is what I deserve.
A dark thought. A thought that usually only came to him in the night hours, failing to fall asleep in a small hard bed above whatever bar he’d drunk himself stupid in.
Calamity. Demon. Oh, he could try and try to atone for what he’d done, but it didn’t bring any of them back. No amount of pacifist posturing could ever restore July.
Vash’s jaw ached around the pipe, his gaze still locked with Wolfwood’s. Wolfwood’s rib cage moved beneath his thin white shirt, his breathing ragged and shallow.
That time, Vash had trusted Wolfwood—trusted the man who’d aimed a pistol at him. Vash had shown that man his back. Not long after, that same back had been pressed to Wolfwood’s in the heat of battle—as Vash had never doubted it would. You are so good, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, even if you refuse to see it.
And what did that make Vash, for even entertaining the idea of letting him do this?
He blinked once, slowly, and felt another tear tangle in his lashes before dripping down his face.
Wolfwood’s expression hardened, and for one perfect moment Vash was at peace with the fact that he was about to die.
The barrel pulled back roughly, grating against his teeth. The tip of the gun, slick and warm with his own saliva, pressed into the soft spot beneath his chin, forcing it upward.
He looked up into dark, determined eyes.
“Hey, Spikey. Don’t go gettin’ too into this.”
The callused pad of Wolfwood’s thumb found Vash’s cheekbone, brushing across it in a gesture both sharp and tender. He wiped the moisture from beneath Vash’s eye.
“C’mon,” Wolfwood said gruffly. “Get up.”
Vash’s knees were weak and unsteady, but he managed to obey. Once he was standing, Wolfwood grabbed his robotic arm, yanking him in hard enough that it would have hurt if it were flesh. Then Wolfwood was kissing him, his tongue fucking past the seam of Vash’s lips.
Could he taste it on him? Gunpowder and tears?
Wolfwood pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Vash was dizzy from the kiss and the sharp tobacco scent that filled his head. That gaze, dark and intense under thick lashes—Vash’s belly clenched, and he felt himself get wet.
“Wolfwood …”
“Don’t you fuckin’ ‘Wolfwood’ me. Hypocrite. Asshole.” Oh. He’d figured it out, then. Reproach shone from Wolfwood’s face. “You think I’ll just let you off?”
Still gripping Vash’s forearm, Wolfwood pushed the gun that had just been in Vash’s mouth into the space between his thighs.
“Here you go, Spikey. You wanna feel good? You better work for it.”
He nudged the barrel up between Vash’s legs, past the long skirt of his coat, all the way to his crotch. That pressure, even through straps and tight leather, had an involuntary shudder rippling through his limbs.
Vash’s thighs tightened reflexively around the gun, and he began rubbing himself against it. Slow at first, then rougher, quicker. His body gradually dissolved the metal’s chill; the barrel between his thighs was hard and blood-warm, and not unlike … ah. His eyes nearly rolled back just thinking it.
“Ohh … Wolfwood, I need …”
The movements of Vash’s body quickened along with Wolfwood’s breath, and there—the perfect angle—the thick leather friction of his pants, the hard barrel pressed against him—Wolfwood’s hand, holding the weapon; dark from the sun, rough-knuckled, laced with veins—“Fuck,” Vash gasped, and he was coming, hot and wet in helpless shudders, every clench of his muscles pushing the steel further up between his legs, maddening, sick, delicious.
He returned to himself slowly, heartbeat still fanning into his fingertips, throbbing at his temples.
The front of Wolfwood’s trousers was noticeably tented. Vash grinned.
“Oooh, I see.”
Wolfwood let out an annoyed huff. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Someone’s excited.”
“What did you expect?” His voice came out a low snarl. Strong fingers gripped Vash’s jaw, callused tips pressing into his skin. “After watchin’ that.”
Vash’s teeth sank into his bottom lip, utterly failing to suppress his widening grin. Oh. Guess I still have it in me.
Wolfwood’s cigarette was still lit, glowing red in the near-dark. Vash’s gloved hand plucked it from Wolfwood’s fingers, bringing it to his own lips for a drag. A slower way to die than the gun, but deadly nonetheless. Cigarettes might not even work that way on you, the logical part of his mind pointed out, but he still thought he deserved to savor the irony.
He blew the smoke out, straight into Wolfwood’s face. Wolfwood flinched, just slightly, but then inhaled like a man half drowned, filling his lungs with Vash’s sloppy seconds.
Oh, you desperate addict. Vash liked it, though, liked Wolfwood breathing him in.
“Your turn.” He took another hit off the cig before sticking the soggy end of it back in Wolfwood’s mouth. Wolfwood caught it with his teeth, adjusting it until it was back in its usual spot.
“My turn to what?”
“To get disarmed.” Vash hooked his fingers in Wolfwood’s belt loops and pulled him closer until that bulge in his pants pressed up against Vash’s own crotch. “What’re you hiding in there, hmmm?”
“Careful,” Wolfwood huffed. “Safety’s off.”
“Aw, Wolfwood, give me some credit.” He undid the button on Wolfwood’s pants, reached inside, and grasped his length. Wolfwood scowled, but the cock in Vash’s hand twitched and stiffened. Vash smirked and rubbed his thumb over the swollen tip, so wet his glove slid across it entirely without friction. Seemed he was in for a good night. “You should know I can handle ’em loaded.”