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It shouldn't have been a big deal. Two quick strikes to the chest and torso, certainly nothing more than Vash could handle, and yet—
Yet he crumpled as surely as a bullet to the head, freezing for a split second before meeting the ground in a rush of blood-red cloth.
Wolfwood yells, maybe his name, maybe nothing, but Vash makes no attempt at responding. Wolfwood swings the Punisher around, cracking the two advancing men across their skulls and barely looking back before rushing over to the brute now kicking Vash in the ribs. It's one fast shot to the chest for that guy, who mercifully falls backwards and not on top of the figure huddling on the ground.
Wolfwood skids to his knees, Punisher lying forgotten behind him. His hands scramble over Vash's prone form, unsure of how much he can move him without serious damage. He's not dead, Wolfwood can tell from the tremors running through his body, but otherwise he doesn't move an inch.
"Vash? Fuck, speak to me, spiky, come on."
Vash makes no coherent noise, only sharp gasps and whimpers, eyes screwed shut tight, so Wolfwood decides to cut his losses and hauls him up, slinging Vash's arm over his shoulders. He can't see any blood, which is… better than some blood, he supposes. The townspeople re-emerge from their hiding places, and Wolfwood calls out to those nearest.
"I need to get him help! Is there a doctor here? An inn with a bed, anything goddammit!"
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Vash is fine, apparently. Well. Fine is a strong word. He's sitting up now, at least. Arms clenched around himself, still shaking like a leaf, not saying a damn thing. Wolfwood is standing over him, trying to assess the damage, and he's getting nowhere.
"C'mon spiky, I need you to talk to me. Are you hurt? Anywhere at all?"
Vash shakes his head at that, stiff and vacant. Wolfwood sighs.
"Look, clearly something's up, do you need me to do anything?" He clears his throat. "Do you need me to... leave?"
Vash shakes his head harder, throat clicking, hands clenching around his coat sleeves. Finally, mechanically, he starts to unbutton his coat, down to the navel, until he can reach under the black layer beneath. He squeezes his eyes shut again, seemingly searching for something on his chest, until Wolfwood hears a metallic click and Vash gasps, shuddering, tears breaking their dam and spilling over his cheeks. The buttons get done up again, red fabric furling together, closing himself back up — head hanging low, blond hair limp from sweat, breath shallow. His hands fall to his thighs, bunching up the cloth around them.
Vash doesn't look at him, but Wolfwood can hear the squeaks low in his throat, struggling to form sound, and suddenly Wolfwood understands.
Despite the ache in his joints, Wolfwood kneels on the floor in front of Vash, trying to catch his blank stare. "Do you know any kind of sign language?" he asks, placing a gentle hand on Vash's knee.
Vash looks up at that, a faint glimmer back in his eyes at last. He nods almost enthusiastically, and the small squeaking noises get less mournful. His hands start fluttering rapidly, too fast for Wolfwood to catch.
"Whoa there, needle-noggin! I'm not quite as fluent as you apparently, I only know a dialect or two. That and fingerspelling, but it's slower."
Vash slows himself down, and now Wolfwood can catch his meaning:
"Can you understand me like this?"
Wolfwood nods. "That's just fine, spiky. Is it better for me to sign too?"
Vash shakes his head, shoulders relaxing, softening back into himself. "Out loud is alright. Just… quieter, maybe?"
He gazes at Wolfwood imploringly and Wolfwood wants to tell him that he would whisper until his throat was sore, he would never speak aloud again if Vash didn't want him to. But that seems a tad dramatic, so he continues to rub gentle circles on Vash's knee instead, speaking in a low voice.
"Talk to me then. What's gettin' at ya?"
Vash sobers back up again, the euphoria of communication fading as he remembers. "When that guy punched me I... he nudged the grate a little bit. Over my heart."
He inhales shakily, tears abating but still clinging to his lash line. One hand scrabbles back up to his chest, and he clutches at his coat for a moment before continuing.
"It's real bad if that thing gets knocked out of place. The last time that happened it..."
His hands stutter, jerking themselves around the words. Another inhale, a shakier exhale.
Wolfwood stays quiet, sturdy. Vash's eyes turn vacant again.
"I nearly didn't make it to the next town. My coat was ripped, and I couldn't bandage it too tightly or it pressed too hard, and I had to keep the sand out of it, and I — I was lucky enough they had a doctor there, doubly so that she knew how to get it back in place properly."
In one of their regular conversations, Wolfwood might have asked some kind of follow up, interjected a word or two to show that he was listening. Now, though, his presence is enough. Vash's face is pinching tight, but he soldiers on.
"It was... a lot. Almost too much, with the... it's really painful, to have it out of place... pulling the wrong way. It's not that bad this time! A quick fix," he adds, seeing the urgent crease in Wolfwood's brow. "But when it got jostled like that it... set something off in me. I kept... feeling flashes of how I did... when I was... alone."
He signs the last word slowly, subdued. His eyes meet Wolfwood's, something in them wavering, desperately trying to convey what he can't say with his mouth or his hands.
Wolfwood feels that gaze like a spotlight on his soul.
Because he knows exactly what Vash wants him to understand, exactly what Vash wants him to feel.
Because he already does.
Vash's hands have gone still, lying palms-up on his lap. Wolfwood hesitates to hold them, not wanting Vash to think that he's shutting him up, but he can sense that Vash needs this right now, so he takes them both in his own, flesh and metal on flesh and bone.
He knows there's nothing to say, so he doesn't say anything. Just rubs his thumbs across Vash's palms now, both soft and warm despite the one being artificial. They stay there like that for a while, Vash fading in quiet reminisce, Wolfwood grounding him with his touch.
Until Vash's hands twitch, and Wolfwood removes his instantly, but Vash makes a different noise in his throat, a wet almost-chuckle, and grabs Wolfwood's hands again, tugging at them until Wolfwood takes the hint and rises, groaning a little, to sit on the bed next to Vash.
Vash sighs, softer now, and rests his head on Wolfwood's shoulder. They stay like that for a little while more, warm against each other, solid and present. The suns set, and Vash's breath slows, and Wolfwood almost thinks he's fallen asleep when his hands start to move again, and Wolfwood focuses his gaze so he doesn't miss anything.
The sign for a wolf, quick and sharp, and the sign for a tree, strong and limber.
"Wolfwood?"
He can feel Vash's eyes on him as he responds.
"Yeah, Vash?"
Hand flat, touched to his lips, then pulled away, coming to rest on Wolfwood's knee.
"Thank you."
Wolfwood meets Vash's eyes and feels a different ache now, deep in his heart.
"It was—" He coughs slightly, breaking eye contact. God, he needs a smoke.
"It was nothing," he continues, remembering to keep his voice down. "I used to — there were kids at the orphanage, who had trouble talkin' sometimes. I already knew a bit of signing, and some of the older kids knew a bit on their own, so between us all we could teach the little ones to talk in their own way, when they wanted. Some of 'em preferred it, honestly." He chuckles at the memory.
Vash's thumb taps against Wolfwood's knee, drawing his attention back to those eyes, cerulean seas washing over him instantly. It takes him half a moment to realize that Vash has a smile lifting the corner of his mouth, small but genuine, not one of those hearty masks he puts on.
"Hey, there you are," Wolfwood whispers.
Vash giggles a little. With a sudden speed that leaves Wolfwood dizzy, he pecks him on the cheek, soft against Wolfwood's stubble, and moves away just as quickly to stand and start unbuttoning his coat again, casual this time and with the usual care.
Something shifts in Wolfwood then, watching Vash, same as he always was, but in a different light, with a new perspective. The ache in Wolfwood's chest turns molten, warming and spreading through him like a wave.
Then Vash tilts his head quizzically and Wolfwood realizes with a start that he's been staring, not making any move to undress himself. He coughs again, fumbling in his jacket for his lighter and a packet of cigarettes.
"Bedtime, right. Gonna head out for a smoke and I'll be right back, 'kay?"
Vash hums, nodding, and gives a thumbs up, eyes still red-rimmed but dry now.
"Going to give my hair a sink bath," he signs, hands light and fluttering now.
"Sounds good, spiky." He hovers in the doorway for a second before turning back. "You'll be okay, yeah?"
Vash nods again, flashing Wolfwood a tired grin. "I will be."
Wolfwood nods in return and closes the door behind him, heading down the steps to the lower level of the inn they're inhabiting, free of charge as a rare kindness. Thanks for dealing with the bandits, probably.
Outside, in the dying purple light of the suns, Wolfwood burns through one, two, three, cigarettes, trying to fill the now-empty throb in his chest, already missing Vash's warmth. He didn't miss it usually, did he? Not like this, anyways. Not like he left one of his limbs behind in that room.
He's still there, numbskull. And he's probably waiting for you, says the tiny part of him that wants it to be true.
It's getting steadily darker and colder, and Wolfwood shivers, finishing off his fourth cig and dropping the stub on the ground. He grinds it down with his heel before heading back inside, and up to their room. He knocks softly before entering, not wanting to wake Vash if he's sleeping.
Vash is indeed asleep, de-gelled hair lying halo-like on the pillow. Wolfwood can hear the gentle snuffles of his breathing, quicker than one would expect from a sleeping person. Probably a plant thing, Wolfwood thinks, quietly undressing. Maybe his heart beats faster too? Wolfwood's slept up against Vash often enough, how does he not know what his heart beats like? Wolfwood shakes his head, enough thinking for tonight. He lowers himself into bed carefully, so as not to jostle Vash. Under the covers it's already warm, since Vash radiates heat like a damn furnace. It feels good on Wolfwood's skin, chilled from the night air.
Vash's snuffles turn into a large whuffle as he shifts closer to Wolfwood in his sleep, the clean dampness of his hair wafting around. God above, is he warm. Wolfwood can feel Vash's pulse now, thrumming throughout his whole body, somehow seeming to emanate rather than circulate. Wolfwood could lose himself in that, and in fact does, and how on the five moons has he not noticed this before?
His pulse is faster, Wolfwood thinks, as sleep overcomes him, and he sinks into the bliss of warmth and comfort and dreams of cerulean seas.