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Distantly, a bell tower sings.
They’re not in a town, so much as a sort of rest stop, a handful of families trying to survive together with the power of a defective Plant. It had been a long day: Vash had encouraged the detour, playing Plant engineer again, nursing just enough life out of the Plant to keep them going for a while longer.
As always, trouble followed close behind, and a gang of bandits had rolled into town not long after they had, waving guns and yelling about stealing their Plant. No amount of convincing had changed their minds, even as Vash danced to dodge bullets, trying desperately to explain that the Plant is too weak to travel, and couldn’t provide enough to be worth the money they hoped to make off it.
Words, words, words—what use were they when no one was listening? Actions, however—well, Wolfwood had learned long ago that warning shots are a lot harder to ignore than panicked pleas.
Wolfwood has settled easily into the role of Vash’s sword. There are two things he knows for sure: he knows how to inflict pain, and he knows he can’t bear to watch Vash forced to do the same. When Vash’s attempts to reason with the bandits fell on deaf ears, Wolfwood stepped in, firing his Punisher in one long burst and scaring them off like the rabble they were.
The reporters, who had spent the fight guarding the Plant, couldn’t bring themselves to pass up the opportunity to join in the town’s celebrations, and Wolfwood and Vash were no exception. Spending a night somewhere besides the truck in the desert was a welcome reprieve, and the good food and alcohol weren’t bad, either.
The celebration petered out not long after the moons reached their peak. Roberto felt obligated to bring Meryl to her room after accidentally teasing her into over-indulging on the spirits, and Wolfwood had taken the opportunity to step out for a cigarette and some alone time.
He’s outside for a few moments, listening to dishes against wood as the saloon owner tidied up, when he feels that he’s no longer alone by the raising of hair on the nape of his neck. He glances around with only his eyes, maintaining his relaxed posture, and finds Vash, heading toward him with a small smile on his face. Sometimes, Vash moves so silently, it’s hard to think of him as human.
“Hey,” he says when he’s within arm’s length, leaning against the side of the building. Wolfwood switches his cigarette from the left side of his mouth to the right so the smoke doesn’t blow in Vash’s face, and Vash’s smile grows a little wider, eyes scrunching at the corners. He holds up a bottle and two shot glasses that Wolfwood hadn’t seen him holding. “The owner insisted I take this. Wanna share?”
“I feel like we’ve earned it,” Wolfwood agrees. The town’s money came exclusively from their brewery, and a free bottle of their best sounds like the second-closest he can get to Heaven.
The closest thing to Heaven itself grins at him again. “Yeah,” he says, “kinda feels like we have. I think I saw a bench over there, overlooking the edge of the plateau, if you want some privacy?”
Wolfwood doesn’t know if he trusts himself with both Vash and privacy, but he nods nonetheless. They push themselves off the building together, synchronized in even the slightest of motions in a way that Wolfwood is both unfamiliar with and afraid of—at least, afraid of the feelings that accompany it: the comfort, the trust.
It’s a bit of a walk to the bench Vash mentioned, and during it, neither of them speaks. The silence settles, stretches her arms around them with soothing pressure. Wolfwood visualizes it as an angel, dainty limbs and white skin and long, spindly wings, draping across them, and he sees patterns and linework spanning her surface in ethereal blues.
She flutters away when Vash drops himself onto the bench with a loud, contented sigh, setting the glassware on the wood on his left and patting the space to his right. Wolfwood sits obediently, reaching over Vash’s lap to grab a shot glass and holding it up to be filled.
Vash uncorks the bottle and pours, first for Wolfwood and then for himself. Their glasses clink, and Wolfwood taps the bottom of his against the bench before tossing the shot back.
“They have got somethin’ special with this,” Wolfwood says, tapping his finger against the rim.
“It’s incredible what they’ve been able to accomplish with the resources they have,” Vash replies. He sounds like a proud parent. Like Prometheus when bestowing the gift of fire, even as vultures picked at his liver. If he were anything like Vash, Prometheus would’ve smiled through it, despite everything.
“People are like that,” Wolfwood says, “trying to make the best of what they have ‘til it doesn’t seem so bad anymore.”
He holds his glass up, and Vash fills it again. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just refills his own and takes the shot with Wolfwood. He gazes out at the endless expanse of desert stretched out before them, then turns to look at Wolfwood, a thoughtful, terrifyingly sincere light in his eyes when he says, “We make a good team. I’m glad I met you, Wolfwood.”
Wolfwood’s heart breaks, the way it always does when Vash reminds him of the truth of what he’s doing here, the impermanence of it.
“Yeah,” Wolfwood rasps, because staring into those eyes forces honesty out of him. “Hate to say it, but you’re not a bad partner either.”
Vash smiles at him. It’s not like his usual smiles. It’s small, and sweet, the sincerity from his gaze filling the rest of his expression. With a blush that Wolfwood blames on the desert heat (though the sun has long since set) and the alcohol (though they’ve had little so far), Vash holds up the bottle to offer him another shot. He accepts.
One of the moons has set, the others hovering low on the horizon. Vash has been staring at Wolfwood for the past fifteen minutes, by Wolfwood’s count. There’s perhaps enough left in the bottle for two more shots each, and they’ve been saving them for the right moment. There’s enough alcohol in Wolfwood’s system to keep him from shifting under the intensity of Vash’s gaze, just barely. It hasn’t been easy to stifle; he doesn’t think Vash has blinked even once.
“You gonna say somethin’?” Wolfwood asks, tipping his head in Vash’s direction.
Vash blinks, like he’s just remembering how. “I don’t think you’d like it if I did.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Wolfwood replies. He narrows his eyes at Vash, who takes the opportunity to fidget in discomfort.
“I was just thinking,” he begins, eyes somewhere below Wolfwood’s head, “that you don’t look as harsh in this lighting. The moonlight makes you softer.”
Wolfwood pauses. He turns to the horizon and lifts a hand to his mouth, covering his face. “You’re right,” he mutters, “you shouldn’t’ve said that.” When he feels like his blush is sufficiently contained, he fixes Vash with a disbelieving glare. “You’re just fuckin’ with me, right?”
Vash looks like he’s halfway to backtracking, with his usual waving hands and pasted smiles and forced laughter, and yet, he doesn’t. He swallows, and then shifts, moving closer to Wolfwood and resting against his shoulder, and when Wolfwood doesn’t move away, he lets his head fall into the crook of Wolfwood’s neck. Wolfwood belatedly realizes that Vash had taken which side Wolfwood sat on into consideration before they even sat down, offering the space on the side of his warmer, softer arm. As if he’d wanted to do this from the beginning.
Wolfwood blames his inability to push him away on the alcohol. He lifts his arm, draping it over Vash’s shoulders and allowing Vash to tuck himself closer. Although the angle is slightly more challenging, Vash manages to pour them each another shot.
Silence has graced them once more, and Wolfwood has been using the time to think of Vash, and his connection to humanity. There’s so much he doesn’t know about Vash, much of his knowledge overheard and second-hand, but if there’s one thing he knows for sure, it’s that Vash loves humans, despite everything. Despite the fact that he has every right to despise them, based on what little Wolfwood knows about how Vash got his scars, Vash still stops at every outpost, offers help wherever needed. He sees people who shoot at him, aiming to kill, and he reaches out his hand to them regardless. Wolfwood knows that Vash isn’t human, same as his brother, but where Millions Knives does everything he can think of to distance himself from the humans they resemble, Vash seems to do the opposite, desperate to close the gap between himself and them.
This train of thought carries him to the question, what else would Vash do to feel more human?
Which leads to him blearily prodding at Vash’s side with the hand that’s made its way to Vash’s waist, rousing him out of his own thoughts enough for Wolfwood to ask, “Hey, would you ever marry someone, y’think?”
Vash hums thoughtfully. He doesn’t answer right away, mulling the idea over in his mind, slowed from weariness and good liquor. “Maybe,” he says at last. “But it’s dangerous for people to be around me for too long. Maybe if everything settled down, I’d get married. If I knew they were strong, and brave, and would always have my back, I guess. Or if I knew they wouldn’t treat me differently after… well.” He glances up at Wolfwood through long lashes. “You know.”
For a brief moment, Wolfwood wonders if he qualifies, and then remembers Vash is too good for him. That he doesn’t deserve it. With a careful scoff, Wolfwood says, “You should let me officiate. I’d give you a five percent discount. Maybe even ten, if you’re lucky.”
“Can you officiate your own wedding?” Vash muses. Then he tenses, all at once, and adds, “I mean, just from a curiosity standpoint, if that were possible, y’know, for someone else. Other people.”
“Right,” Wolfwood says absently. With less of a filter holding back his wishful thinking, he gets lost in the idea that Vash seemed to be implying. He imagines a world where he and Vash met by chance, a world where they’re not running from anything, where they can settle down without fear. It’s unrealistic, even in a fantasy, to presume that Vash could settle anywhere—they’d get a sturdy van with a spacious, comfortable cab, half miscellaneous tools for any repairs that might be needed, half blankets and pillows. He imagines Vash crawling out of the cab with a quilt around his shoulders, yawning too wide to kiss Wolfwood good morning and nuzzling his temple into his cheek instead.
It’s never occurred to Wolfwood, the idea of settling down with someone. The realist at his core hasn’t allowed him to dwell on something so idealistic. And yet, with Vash curled into his side, warm and relaxed and alive…
It doesn’t seem so impossible anymore.
“I’d still charge you,” Wolfwood mutters. He turns his head to look down at Vash, just as Vash tips his up to look at Wolfwood, leaving little but breath between their lips. Vash gasps at the proximity. Wolfwood’s lips brush against Vash’s as he speaks, just barely. “How ‘bout forty percent off?”
“That’s a tempting bargain,” Vash admits lightly, voice soft. Wolfwood is hyper-aware of how close his tongue was to his lips on the sibilation of the first syllable. If he were to lick his lips…
Wolfwood’s suddenly feel chapped.
“I’m well-known for my generosity.” Wolfwood smirks, in the way that always comes naturally when he’s around Vash, playful and easy.
Vash huffs an incredulous laugh, dropping his head to rest his forehead against Wolfwood’s collarbone. Wolfwood can’t help it; he reaches over with his free hand, the side of his forefinger under Vash’s chin and his thumb atop it, guiding his face upward again. When his expression is visible again, Wolfwood slides his hand up to caress Vash’s cheek, brushing his thumb over the beauty mark there.
“Wolfwood?” They’re at that distance again. Hovering right at almost.
“I like it when you smile,” Wolfwood murmurs, the tip of his thumb pressing gently at the corner of his eye. “You look better when you do. Y’know, when it’s honest, the corners of your eyes wrinkle up. ‘S how I can always tell.”
Vash’s face reddens. In the moonlight, Wolfwood thinks he can almost see his Plant markings, outlined in the faintest pink.
With one long, steadying breath, Vash surges forward, closing the distance between them with a clumsy clacking of teeth. Wolfwood takes it in stride, the thought that this could be Vash’s first kiss sending a thrill down his spine. Vash is a fast learner, of course he is, and it only takes him a few moments to understand the rhythm within Wolfwood’s practiced motions. Wolfwood’s hold on Vash becomes more desperate, pulling him as close as he can so Vash is nearly in his lap. The bottle drops to the ground as Vash throws his arms around Wolfwood’s shoulders, leaning on him so heavily that the wood of the bench digs into his back, but Wolfwood can’t find it in him to care. Vash makes a noise like a trill when Wolfwood takes his lower lip between his teeth, laving over it with his tongue in apology. When he tries to pull back, Vash chases him, and the act is so endearing that Wolfwood can’t help but oblige.
It isn’t until Wolfwood has to gasp for breath that they separate, and even then, he keeps Vash close, catching his breath with a low laugh when Vash runs a hand through his hair almost reverently. As if Wolfwood could be the one worth worshiping, rather than the other way around.
In slow, deliberate motions, Wolfwood presses kisses across Vash’s face, moving from the corner of his mouth, to his beauty mark, to his forehead. His hand slides back as he does, cupping the nape of Vash’s neck as he rests their foreheads together, closing his eyes. Behind his eyelids, the world fills with light as the first rays of the sunrise stretch languidly over the horizon, bringing with it a serene warmth as the sunlight graces their skin, and when he opens them, Vash is haloed in gold.
For the first time in years, Wolfwood feels like he’s praying.
Distantly, a bell tower sings.
“Next time we hear church bells,” Vash says, with an air of finality, “I want them to be ours.”