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Vash is crying.
He’s quiet about it, soft hiccups and sniffles that are barely audible, small whimpers that catch pathetically in his throat. He’s still bleeding from the side of his face, curling red down his cheek. There’s a dark stain on the back of his head too, dyeing the short brown strands there a deep burgundy. He had caught glimpses of purpling bruises around his throat earlier, a ring just above the collar of his shirt. His coat is pulled around his face like he was trying to hide himself, but Wolfwood is sure that everyone can hear him. There’s no hiding in the little van that they’re all cramped in, especially not when the silence is so deafening, like an inescapable weight that presses down on each of them.
Wolfwood tries to ignore it, cigarette between his teeth as he chews on the filter, the end of it not even lit.
There’s something tight in his chest, cold and spreading and suffocating. But what he had done was right, no matter what the idiot fucking said or thought. Vash was an idealistic fool, caught up in a childish complex to save every sorry soul that looked his damn way. Wolfwood put that poor kid out of his misery, trapped in a body that was no longer his, imprisoned in a mind that kept him shackled and in agony.
Wolfwood knows what it’s like, to feel that pain, that suffering of having his body twisted into the image of someone else. Made to kill and maim, because that’s all he’s good for. It was a mercy.
So why is there something roiling in his gut, something painful and tight?
He shouldn’t care what Vash thinks, should tell him to go cry him a damn river and it wouldn’t change a thing. But that’s not true, somehow. Maybe he had been harsh with what he said to him, no matter how much he wanted Vash to understand. That acting like a hero isn’t going to get him anywhere, that his promises were pretty but all they will do is hurt him and others. Wolfwood’s eyes dart over to look at the side of Vash’s face, the caked blood and the tears that intermingle with it. He’s looking out the window, the corners of his baby blue eyes bright with tears. His lip is bloody from his own teeth, fangs ripping through the thin skin.
Wolfwood shifts in his seat, leg bouncing in agitation. He still feels vaguely sick, and Vash chokes off one more quiet sob before he snaps.
“C’mere.” He says gruffly, yanking Vash’s bag into his lap.
Vash startles, swallowing thickly as his head whips towards him. Wolfwood rifles through its contents, squinting in the dark as he grabs some bandages and antiseptic wipes. They’re thankfully clean and fresh.
He catches sight of Roberto glancing at him in the rear view mirror, heavy brows drawing over his eyes as his hands tighten around the steering wheel.
“I think you’ve done enough for tonight.” He says, thinly concealed venom. Meryl herself is sitting in the passenger seat, turning towards him with tired eyes. She looks only just a little less worn down than Vash himself does, but there’s something simmering in her like anger, her mouth set in a hard line.
He had hurt their friend, and it seems that it’s as simple as that. They like Vash more than they like him, and it’s not as if he can even blame them for that.
Vash looks nearly startled, moving up in his seat as he wipes haphazardly at his face. “I—I’m fine. It’s fine. Um—” His voice trembles, still sounding absolutely wrecked as it catches and rasps in his throat. He only succeeds in swiping blood across his pale skin, a morbid streak of red visible even in the dark.
He looks at Wolfwood for a moment before he quickly looks away again, like he can’t stand to look at him for too long. Wolfwood’s fingers clench around the bandages in his hand.
“Vash, it’s okay if you’re upset.” Meryl says softly, turning around in her seat to look at him, blue eyes gentle whenever they’re on him.
Vash smiles, so painfully fake and strained, blood still dripping steadily down his face and tears smeared across his skin. He shakes his head, “I’m okay.”
Wolfwood shoves Vash’s bag back into the floor, hissing between his teeth and wishing his cigarette was lit. “You’re not, you fucking idiot. Now let me clean that and then I’ll leave you alone.”
He knows that Roberto and Meryl are likely glaring at him, but he doesn’t care right now. This is his fucked up way of trying to apologize, to abate that sting in his chest and gut. To get Vash to stop looking so miserable by distracting him for a little bit. They’ll get over it eventually.
Vash turns to him, eyes still wide and glossy, the color of a clear day, like the sky was trapped inside of them. His head ducks slightly, his tongue darting out to lick at the blood on his bottom lip and he winces softly. “Okay.” He says quietly, voice rasping in his throat.
Wolfwood takes off his seatbelt so he can shift to sit closer to him. The van jostles, knocking their legs together, and Wolfwood expects Vash to flinch away from him. But he doesn’t, only sits still and allows the contact to stay. Wolfwood doesn’t know what to think of that.
He reaches up slowly, “I need to take these off.” He murmurs, gesturing to Vash’s glasses. Slowly, Vash nods and Wolfwood slips them off. He folds them, placing them next to Vash’s thigh, fingers brushing against his red coat. He’s warm, even where they barely touch. Vash is turned slightly sideways towards him, head carefully perched. His eyes are even more vibrant like this with no buffer. It makes him look even younger, his skin entirely smooth and pale.
Wolfwood’s hands hover in the air for an awkward moment, and he starts to wonder if he thought this awful fucking apology through enough. He’s going to have to touch him. There’s something thumping in his chest when he finally reaches out to wipe away the blood caked against his skin, the streaks that Vash had gotten all over his face. He thinks his hands wants to shake, but he doesn’t let them. He can hear the softest hitch in Vash’s breath, but he says nothing.
Vash’s eyes are on his face, something aching and tight in their corners as they seem to study him, eyelashes long and delicate against the top of his cheeks. It makes Wolfwood want to hide, snap at him to stop it. He doesn’t know why he feels so raw, doesn't know what he thinks Vash will see if he keeps looking. Maybe he’s scared that Vash will meet his eyes and realize he had been wrong to say that on their first day. Maybe Wolfwood should make him realize he was wrong so that he’ll stop expecting so much from him. He’s only getting his hopes up, expecting anything from a killer like him. When the van hits a bump, their faces sway the slightest bit closer, shoulders and thighs brushing. Wolfwood swallows and pretends like he doesn’t notice, like his skin isn’t thrumming with something he can’t name. Maybe he doesn’t want to even try.
His fingers brush away Vash’s hair before he can think better of it, carding through blond strands and pushing them back. Vash breathes out quietly, something bordering on a gentle sigh, and it makes Wolfwood want to do it again so he can hear that sound. He can see the wound along his hairline now, a gash that has already begun to close and slowing its steady dripping of blood.
Wolfwood had seen him get slammed against that wall several times, rock breaking under his back, and yet he walked away relatively unscathed. He wonders if he ever got him out of that damn coat if he’d see bruises around his spine, curling over ribs. He wonders if that slight wheeze in Vash’s breath that he can hear when they’re this close is from broken ribs, and wonders if Vash plans on saying a damn thing about it.
Wolfwood presses at the gash gently, listening to the soft hiss that releases between Vash’s teeth. He cleans the blood away, knowing that he likely won’t even need bandages for these wounds. They’ll close on their own by morning, whatever’s pumping through Vash’s body healing faster than any human. Wolfwood doesn’t even know what Vash is, if he’s something like him or something else entirely, but he’s not quite human. But he could've guessed that beforehand, knew the moment they met that Vash was something other without needing any of the other Gung-ho Guns telling him that.
Wolfwood’s thumb and finger hold Vash’s chin, keeping him still as he wipes away the last few dregs of blood.
“Can’t do much about the back of your head.” He rasps quietly. It’s too dark to see a damn thing, and he might not need to look at his head anyway. Probably didn’t need to do any of this, but Vash only hums, eyes half-lidded.
“Thank you.” He whispers and Wolfwood scowls, teeth digging into his unlit cigarette.
Vash doesn't make any damn sense. He was pissed with him earlier, but now he’s acting all sweet on him, voice a gentle rasp over the bruising and the crying. His mouth is pulled into a small smile, eyes just the slightest bit more relaxed and curving around the edges.
“Whatever.” He grunts and turns away, tossing the bloodied wipes into one of the plastic bags they use as a makeshift trash can.
Vash leans back in his seat, slipping his glasses back on. He’s looking at him again, blue eyes not judging but still so awfully burning. He’s really good at making him feel like an asshole without saying a damn thing to him.
“You’re welcome, Spikey.” He sighs, meeting his gaze, and Vash smiles at him just slightly, no matter how sad and tired it looks.
Wolfwood doesn’t know when he started caring about what anyone thought of him, but Vash gets under your skin and he doesn’t leave.
He’s really starting to think he hadn’t thought this through at all.