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It’s an accident when it happens.
They’re running, kicking up rocks and dust as they’re jumping across damn rooftops. There’s gunfire from below them, shouting and screaming and colorful cursing that is interspersed with exclamations of Vash the Stampede. There’s even a few men who are dumber than they are who have taken to trying to chase them across the rooftops, the sound of clumsy, heavy boots loudly hitting the roof hounding them.
Bullets lodge into the ground right behind their feet, coming far too close to actually meeting their mark. Not for the first time, Wolfwood starts to wonder if he really knows what he’s gotten himself into. He doesn’t think he’s ever run this much in his life, until he met Vash.
“Nick!” Vash shouts, and Wolfwood’s head whips towards him, breaking him out of his inopportune musings.
Something skids to the ground between them, and Wolfwood’s eyes dart down towards it and he immediately knows that it’s a grenade. Fuck.
Suddenly, Vash is shoving him back, his boot kicking the grenade just a bit farther away from them. Wolfwood stumbles, feet catching on uneven gravel. His nose slams into the ground, making him feel like his head has been filled with molten heat, thoughts stuttering to an abrupt halt like static blanketing over his brain. He hears a sickening crunch, his teeth clattering together and the skin of his lip splitting. He can feel blood cascading down his face, bits of broken glass and rocks cutting into the palms of his hands as he tries to push himself up.
And then the explosion hits. He instinctively protects his head, but there’s a violent shake beneath him and then he’s falling, the roof caving in as he plummets through the collapsing rubble. He feels the air knock out of him as he slams into the ground, making him wheeze and splutter, ribs aching and blood flooding his mouth. He coughs, spitting out phlegm and blood as he tries to move. None of his limbs have been crushed, and he thinks his ribs are bruised but they’re not broken. His fingers brush his nose and he hisses. That’s definitely broken.
“Vash?” He calls, coughing as he tries to look around. His vision is blurry, and it’s dark, the rubble having piled up to the roof and blotting out the sun. At least the entryway is blocked for now, and he can hear muffled shouting outside. They can’t get to them as they are. Now, he just needs to find Vash and get out.
But he can barely see and his head is swimming, black spots dotting his vision. He blindly wipes at the blood muzzled around his face, his nose still steadily leaking. His legs feel wobbly, like he can’t quite get them under himself properly. Christ, he thinks he has a concussion.
He can hear rubble shifting, the sound of panting and a noise of pain caught in someone’s throat, strangled.
“Vash?” He calls again when the sound has quieted, hearing nothing other than far away voices and the wind. He tries to get up again, but pushing himself up only sends glass shards further into his hands, his ribs burning with pressure anytime he tries to put weight on his arms.
Suddenly, there’s a hand around his waist and he startles. His elbow shoves back on instinct, even if it feels weaker than it should be.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry.” A voice says softly into his ear, and he recognizes that tone, that warmth—
“Vash?” He slurs, his hand lowering to curl around Vash’s wrist. His arm is still firmly around Wolfwood’s middle, and it hauls him up carefully but with obvious strength.
“Sorry.” He says again, voice quiet and gentle, “We—we just need to get out. Okay? Sorry—”
Wolfwood wants to grumble, wants to tell him that he doesn’t need to talk to him like that, wants to ask what he’s apologizing for so damn much, but the words don’t really seem to come. Vash is taking most of his weight even as he tries to stand on his own, his feet sliding against the ground. He thinks he might’ve sprained one of his ankles, but even still he shouldn’t have to be essentially carried.
Vash is entirely impassive to his attempts to hold himself up, his arm still firm and unmoving around him. Vash leads him to a busted window, a gloved hand swiping away the glass and rubble.
“I’m gonna help you over to the other side.” Vash’s voice and hands are gentle as he helps him over the windowsill, careful of his ribs and ankle. Wolfwood wants to tell him to stop talking like that, like he needs to be coddled, but he only grunts as his legs are urged over the sill. He leans against the wall once he’s outside, eyes blinking rapidly at the bright gleam of the sun. He can’t hear anyone nearby, but his ears are still ringing, a persistent buzz that makes his head pound.
He can hear Vash pulling himself through the window, a small sound in his throat that has Wolfwood’s heart constricting.
“What’s wrong?” He murmurs even over the cottony feeling in his mouth, like his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. His teeth feel numb.
“I’m okay.” Vash wraps his arm around Wolfwood’s waist and he’s practically carrying him again, not letting Wolfwood put hardly an ounce of weight on his own ankle. There’s something about Vash’s gait that’s strange, not quite as sturdy as he should be, but he can barely think. There’s warm blood seeping into the shirtsleeve he has around Vash’s broad shoulders. He wonders whose blood it is.
He drifts, after that. Slipping in and out of consciousness in small moments of coherency. There’s sand beneath his feet, and then he can hear the rumble of an engine. There’s something soft against his back, thick and red and warm. The sidecar on his motorcycle. He thinks he’s shaking. Vash is driving, and he’s a shit driver. Wolfwood wants to tell him that, he thinks. The words don’t come but he can see Vash’s face, haloed by blond hair and the light of the sun. It makes him look as if he were glowing. He wants to tell him he looks beautiful like this. That he always does. He can taste blood in his mouth, crusted over his teeth and drying on his chin and lips. Vash’s voice, quiet and hushed as he’s carried up a flight of stairs, the jingling sound of keys and comforting, gentle hands.
And then—
“Wolfwood?”
He startles and he’s on a bed now, scratchy sheets beneath his back, his hand being bandaged with careful fingers. Vash is looking at him with those bright eyes, red-rimmed and wide. His face is wet, streaked and glistening in the low light. He’s been crying.
“Hey, Spikey.” He rasps, and his head feels clearer than it has in hours. Vash smiles at him, small and soft, the image only ruined by how absolutely wrecked he looks.
He isn’t wearing his coat either, just his leather undersuit that makes Wolfwood go just a little more crazy everytime he sees it.
He smooths his thumb carefully over the freshly wrapped bandages around Wolfwood’s palm. “Are you feeling okay?” He’s chewing on his bottom lip, his fingers nearly shaking as he reaches for Wolfwood’s other hand.
He quickly takes stock of his body, realizing that his head has been bandaged and his ankle carefully held in place. His ribs ache, but he was right in thinking they weren’t broken. He can just barely see the purpling of bruises peeking through his open shirt, curling around his side. His nose has been cleaned and set, painful but surely capable of healing itself soon enough. There’s a few scrapes and bruises in some places, but certainly not the worst state he’s ever been in.
He clears his throat, blinking over at Vash, “Nothing too bad, Needle-noggin. Ain’t gonna die from something like this.” He grins, lopsided and sharp, but Vash doesn’t look any lighter. He’s reaching for a pair of tweezers, a knife, and a bottle of alcohol.
“I need to clean this. Sorry.” He murmurs, and there’s that miserable look in his eyes, his face nearly crumpling in on itself.
“I’m fine, go ahead.” He grunts, feeling a bit like he’s out of breath. Fuck his ribs still hurt.
Vash pours alcohol over the cuts and scrapes, and Wolfwood only hisses quietly before the pain passes. Vash still frowns, tears caught in his lashes, clumping with moisture. He picks out pieces of glass and rubble from his skin carefully, effeciently but still unnecessarily gentle.
“I’m not going to break, Vash.”
Vash flinches, his fingers flexing over Wolfwood’s wrist from where’s he’s holding him still, thumb brushing his pulse. He can see the way Vash’s throat works, the careful and steady way he continues to pick pieces of shrapnel out of Wolfwood’s palm.
“I’m sorry.” He says softly, and then he’s wrapping Wolfwood’s hand with clean bandages, eyes focused entirely on his task so he doesn’t have to look up at him.
Wolfwood sighs, “There’s nothing to apologize for, Spikey. God, you’re really good at the guilt-tripping.” He huffs a small chuckle but Vash only frowns, his brows scrunching as he slowly lowers Wolfwood’s hand back down to the bed. His hands return to himself immediately, like he felt as if he weren’t allowed to touch Wolfwood for a moment longer.
Something is very wrong.
“What’s going on with you?” He asks bluntly and Vash’s startled eyes dart up to him, his mouth parting. He shifts and Wolfwood can see the way he moves strangely, the way he holds his shoulders stiff and careful.
“I—nothing. You—you’re sure you’re okay, right? Your head’s feeling alright?” His hand raises, as if he wants to brush Wolfwood’s bangs away, but it quickly lowers to his lap again, “You were really out of it.”
“I’m fine.” Wolfwood dismisses, because he is, he’s already been bandaged and coddled enough. Now he’s looking at Vash and the purposeful and timid way he refuses to lean back in his chair, just a hint of red peaking over his shoulders like smeared blood over his arms. “Were you injured?”
Vash’s mouth parts and he hesitates for just a moment, and it’s enough.
“Turn around.” He demands, and Vash’s eyes widen, gaze darting away.
“Nick—”
“Vash.” He hisses and Vash swallows, head ducking as he refuses to meet his glare. He can hear the slight tremble of Vash’s breath when he exhales.
Slowly, he stands up, turning around so Wolfwood can look at his back—
His breath catches and stutters violently in his chest. Vash’s back is a mess of debris and rocks, shards of glass and shrapnel lodged into his skin. The cutout in his suit allows him to see the sluggish flow of his blood, the blistered flesh where he took most of the blast. He must have shielded Wolfwood before it went off, must have stood between him and the explosion. There are deep bruises on most of the visible skin as well, a dark and mottled purple where rubble must have crushed him.
“Fucking Christ, Vash.” He chokes, and he’s shoving himself up without even thinking, ignoring the twinge in his ribs.
Vash startles, turning towards him, “Nick—”
“Shut up. Sit down, back to me.”
“Nick, please. I’m sorry—”
“Apologize to me by sitting the fuck down.” He barks and he immediately feels like an asshole, but Vash listens, mouth clicking shut as he sinks down into the chair, straddling it so Wolfwood can see his back.
“You’re gonna need to get this off.” He says gruffly, tugging at the side of Vash’s leather top. He unzips it without a word, only revealing more ruined, bloody skin. There’s likely going to be new scars after this. Wolfwood’s mouth pinches together. He hardly knows how Vash was even talking earlier, even walking while he had been carrying Wolfwood.
He breathes out slowly, “Fuck, I need to clean this.” How long has Vash been tending to him and just sitting here, injured himself? Perhaps injured even worse than he was. He curses under his breath and places a comforting hand on Vash’s waist, because he knows that this is going to sting.
He pours the alcohol onto his skin, feeling the way Vash jumps, a small noise of pain catching and holding in his throat. He breathes out heavily through his nose, fingers digging into the wooden back of the chair. Wolfwood hates hurting him, but he knows that if he doesn’t this is going to get worse. At least Vash is incredibly resistant to disease and infection, no matter how awful the wounds look.
“Done.” Wolfwood tells him, hand smoothing over his waist as he pulls the bottle away.
He hears the tremble of Vash’s breath, “You don’t have to do anything else, I can handle it.”
“Like hell you can.” He hisses, “You expect to pick this shit out on your own?”
His shoulders hunch slightly, “You need to rest.” He refutes weakly, and Wolfwood knows that’s not the entirety of it.
“God damn it Vash, why are you being so difficult?”
“You’re hurt—”
“Fucking hardly, Spikey. I’m not going to die from a bump on the head—”
“I hurt you!” He shouts, and he whips towards Wolfwood, a slightly wild look in his eyes. Tears cling to his lash line, fangs peeking through his parted lips.
Wolfwood blinks, feeling like something in his brain was stuttering to a halt, “What?”
Vash startles, looking away abruptly. “I pushed you, made you lose balance. So when it—when it went off you were already disoriented. You could have been crushed and you wouldn’t have been able to do anything.”
Wolfwood looks at him, his ravaged back and the tears that finally bud over and spill down his cheeks. He’s turned slightly away from him, like he’s afraid to look at him. Wolfwood’s hand is still on his waist, his skin impossibly warm again his palm.
“You’re an idiot.” He says quietly and Vash makes a small noise, like a sob caught in his throat, “And what if you hadn’t done anything at all? Then I would have just taken a grenade to the face. Think I would have suffered from a lot more than a busted nose and a concussion.”
Vahs’s mouth parts and Wolfwood’s hand squeezes around his waist, and he immediately shuts up. Slowly, his other hand reaches for Vash’s opposite hip.
“So stop feeling guilty over every little thing. I’m fine, alright?” His thumbs smooth over his skin, carefully avoiding any of his wounds. He can feel Vash shiver, “I’m okay.”
He leans forward, hesitating for just a moment before he places a gentle kiss to the nape of Vash’s neck. His breath hitches, a shiver visibly crawling down his spine. “See?” He breathes, the words pressed into Vash’s skin.
Vash trembles, “Yeah.” He croaks and Wolfwood allows himself to smile, carefully nosing into the dark hair at the base of Vash’s head.
“I’m going to get all this shit out of you now, okay?”
Vash nods, crossing his arms over the back of the chair and resting his chin on top of them. He grabs the knife and the tweezers and picks out the glass and shrapnel as quickly as he can without making any of the wounds worse. Vash hisses every once in a while, but he stays still as Wolfwood works, cleaning up beading blood and dirt. He can tell some of them had been made worse by Vash himself, some of the wounds pulled open and made bigger than they should have been. Some shards on his shoulder are deeper, likely from where he had slung Wolfwood’s arm over him earlier.
He curses under his breath but doesn’t say anything. He’ll tear into his ass about this properly later. When he’s a little less miserable and Wolfwood isn’t so tired.
The tray next to bed is soon full of stained red glass and metal, but he’s done by the time the sun begins to set. He cleans the wounds again and finds salve for the burns after rifling through their bags.
The first touch of it against Vash’s back makes him flinch, seemingly more out of surprise than pain. “Sorry.” Wolfwood mutters anyway, carefully massaging it into inflamed skin. Vash makes a small, shocked noise but—it sounds pleasant. Wolfwood continues to gently but firmly press his fingers into his skin, listening to the way he sighs softly and slowly relaxes.
He’s quiet except for small hums in his throat, little quiet noises of pleasure. There’s a rumble deep in his chest like a purr, a steady sound like a tiny motor.
“Good?” He teases, his throat feeling far too dry. Vash just nods lazily, face still wet with tears but slack with something open and peaceful. Wolfwood clears his throat and pulls his hands away.
He bandages his back and attempts to will away the flush in his cheeks, fingers smoothing over undamaged skin once he’s done.
He pats Vash’s hip, “All done.” He says and Vash’s head slowly raises, blinking blearily, cheeks just slightly pink. His hair is limp, falling out of its spiked style to fall onto his forehead instead. It’s achingly endearing.
“C’mere, Spikey.” He says, pulling on the loops of his leather pants. He lifts the blanket and Vash slips in next to him with only a moment of hesitation, his arms wrapping firmly around Wolfwood’s waist and pulling him closer.
He makes a shocked noise, “Feeling clingy, Needle-noggin?” He murmurs, his face feeling hotter than it should. But when Vash goes to pull away Wolfwood’s hand darts down to hold him place. He swallows, “Nah, it’s fine. I don’t mind. You’re fine.”
Vash settles again, face hidden in Wolfwood’s chest. Carefully, Wolfwood lays his arm across his hip, careful of his injuries.
“I’m sorry.” He murmurs quietly, lips just brushing Wolfwood’s collarbones, lashes fluttering against his skin.
“Yeah, I know.” He answers quietly. He doesn’t really need Vash to apologize, but he knows that he won’t listen to that. Stubborn asshole.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
His heart beats heavily in his chest. Wolfwood thinks that Vash taking every bullet and beating that comes his way hurts a lot worse than this. He’d take this, a concussion and broken nose, over seeing Vash let himself get hurt over and over again, especially for Wolfwood’s sake. There’s a helplessness in that, watching Vash rip himself into shreds and knowing he can’t do a damn thing to stop him. But he doesn’t tell Vash that, knows that saying so would only make him feel even more guilty.
His hand raises to thread into Vash’s hair, brushing blond strands back from his forehead. “I know. You didn’t hurt me.”
There’s something like a whine in Vash’s throat and Wolfwood shushes him.
“You didn’t. You can’t save me from every bump and scrape, Spikey. We don’t live that kind of life. But I’ll bounce back.” He scratches at the dark hair on the nape of his neck, thumb brushing the shell of his ear and feeling the way he shakes against him. “‘M not leaving you just yet.”
Vash’s breath hitches, fingers tightening into the back of his shirt as he curls into him, nose firmly in his collarbone and his legs gently tangling in Wolfwood’s own.
Wolfwood’s lips brush the top of his head, and hopes to god he won’t be breaking that promise any time soon.
But they don’t live that kind of life.