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Vash wakes up to a cacophony in his mind, whispers upon whispers of Plants all reaching out to him.
It’s overwhelming, his mind more open to their voices than it has been in years, and he can’t tell where he ends and the rest begin. There are only the thoughts, words without definition, a rumble overcoming every sense as he balls his fists and tries to reach back, tries to tell them that he will find them, he will help them, he’s trying, but they’re too far and he knows they can’t hear him back, not like this, not when he is tucked into fresh sheets that are smooth against his skin, cleaner than anything has any right to be in this sand-swept world.
He doesn’t deserve this. Vash opens his eyes, vision swimming, coming into focus as the voices of the other Plants wilt as he comes into consciousness.
The light is bright, blinding, and the way it falls against his bare fingers and cuts sharp shadows against them makes it look like his markings are back again.
The markings that Wolfwood and Meryl saw.
They know.
Vash’s hands come up, clutching at his hair, needing to hold onto something to fend off the looming spiral. The others saw him, saw him as a Plant and all that entails, see how he’s been lying this whole time. He knows that he shouldn’t stick around with people, shouldn’t let himself get close, but he can’t even manage to do that right.
Unbidden, Rosa’s devastated voice rises in his mind. You share blood with that monster?
Vash throws himself out of the bed like it’s burning him. The sides of his undercut have gotten long enough that he can pull them, fingers tight–too tight from his prosthetic, whatever cracked must have been important for transferring sensation–but he doesn’t care. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve to feel pain.
A flash of movement catches his eye, and Vash turns to face the mirror. He stares back, the same face he has had for decades looking wide-eyed back. He blinks, and those markings flicker in his vision, glowing and swarming across him. It’s all he can do to keep from trying to brush them off his skin, rubbing at it until it’s red and raw and there’s no trace of all he is and fails to be.
His boots are placed neatly at the foot of the bed and he scrambles to grab one, releasing the knife from the toe. He normally would use a knife that isn’t attached to a shoe, one that he could get a better grip on, but if he doesn't shave the grown out sides of his undercut this instant he will crawl out of his skin.
The angle is awkward and Vash can feel the shavings of hair collecting at his neck, drifting from his shoulders to the floor, but the more he cuts away the more his hands feel like his own.
He can almost hear Rem’s voice telling him to sit still, stop squirming, petting a hand across the top of his head while he kicked his legs with joy. He always got his hair cut before Nai, too eager and unwilling to wait the short time until it would be his turn.
Vash’s hand tightens on his boot, fingers going white knuckled around the leather as the knife scrapes against his hair. It is close to his scalp, closer than he would normally get it, but he wants the hair gone , wants something to be his again.
He holds back the upper length of his hair, trying to keep the line between shaved and grown-out neat.
The knife slips too far and he curses at the uneven line, the chunk of long hair that falls to the floor, but he doesn’t stop.
He can hear Luida’s laugh, the first time that she offered to help him with upkeep. She had been the one to help turn his bowl cut into the undercut he has now, the one he has kept for decades, a gift he hardly deserves but is too selfish to give up.
The angle is awkward, and he needs to use his prosthetic hand to mark the border of where his hair ends, but its sensations are gone and he can’t get a good look at the back in the mirror. He adjusts his grip, tries to flex his hand, finds the metal joints unmoving, forces them to work, feels them jerk against the knife and knock it slicing into his scalp.
Vash’s hands drop to his sides, boot still held in one hand.
He forces himself to make eye contact with his reflection, staring hollow back at him. He can’t see the markings anymore, no glow coming from his skin, just empty eyes and a half shaved head.
“Look at you, up and at ‘em.”
Vash jumps at the sound of Wolfwood’s voice, breaking the frenzied silence. He schools his expression, forces a small smile and a wave, first with the boot and then the prosthetic after a scramble to hide the shoe with a knife still sticking out of it behind his back. “Oh, hey Wolfwood.” He hopes his smile isn’t as brittle as it feels.
Judging by the look on his friend’s face, he’s out of luck there. “Glad to see you’re holding up, Needle Noggin. Especially after-”
“Hey, we don’t need to talk about that, right?” Vash knows he was too eager, sees Wolfwood’s jaw clench as he bites down on his cigarette, but he can’t help himself from digging his grave deeper. “It’s just a, um, skin condition that I’ve got. I had a flare up?”
“Bullshit.”
Vash deflates, a popped balloon with shoulders slumping. Wolfwood stares him down through his shades, arms crossed but no Punisher in sight. “We saved the orphanage?”
“Yeah, Spikey, thanks to you. Sure would’ve been helpful to know you were a Plant before the threat of mass destruction, though.”
Vash flinches at the words. Everyone thinks that, but it doesn’t stop them from calling him a monster when they realize what he actually is. “Didn’t think it was relevant, you know?” He shrugs, offers a small smile. “What’s the point of a plant who can’t make anything?”
Wolfwood’s eyebrow raises. “What’s the point of a gunman who won’t kill anything?” Vash looks away, and he steps further into the room. “I’m just saying, you still managed to figure something out.”
“Why are you still here?” Vash can’t stop himself, hates himself for asking, knows it’s only fair to offer Wolfwood the out he needs. “Why did you- why haven’t you left?”
Wolfwood shrugs, tongues his cigarette to the other corner of his lips. “I owe you one. Besides, if I’m not here to keep you safe, who will?” His eyes narrow as he looks at Vash, huffs out what might be a laugh. “Is that blood?”
Vash puts a hand to his scalp, feels the too-warm blood still wet in his hair. “Oh, it’s- that’s fine, it’s okay.” He tries to laugh, catches sight of his reflection in the mirror and the way his eyes refract the light, falters. “It was a silly mistake, you know me.”
“Sure do.” Wolfwood pulls the edge of his sleeve over his hand, presses it against the cut. Vash startles at the touch, freezing in place even though he knows he should be moving away, taking care of it himself. Selfish. “I know your hair’s been getting a bit long, looks like it could use a trim. Sit.”
“Huh?”
“Sit. You’re too tall, Needles, if you want me to help you’ve gotta get on my level.”
“Oh, that’s-” Vash holds his hands up, does step away this time. “That’s fine, you don’t have to do that, it’s okay.” He laughs again. “I’ve been cutting my own hair for a while, I’ll be okay.”
“You always bleed this much?” Vash frowns, and Woflwood takes a pocket knife from his jacket, flips it in the air and flicks it open. “That’s what I thought. Sit.”
Vash replaces his boot next to its twin, and he sits on the floor. He fiddles with his hands, the alien sensation of only being able to feel it from one of them keeping him distracted from the anxiety that has been bubbling since the moment he woke up. He opens his mouth to say something, anything to crack the silence, and can’t stop his breath from sticking in his throat when Wolfwood runs a hand through his hair.
It gets stuck on a tangle, making him mutter something about needing a comb, but he tilts Vash’s head to the side, and Vash goes.
The scrape of the knife against his scalp drowns out the blood thundering in his ears, the heartbeat and certainty that he must be imagining this, but Wolfwood’s hand is solid and real in his hair and the smell of his smokes are as pungent as ever.
It’s been decades since someone else has helped cut his hair, feels like it must be that long since someone touched it in general. He doesn’t need this, shouldn’t want this kind of care, but Vash, selfish Vash, can’t help himself from leaning into the touch.
He lets his eyes close. Like this, he can almost imagine that he is someone deserving of this tenderness. A rumbling rises in his ears, mixes with the clean slicing of metal through keratin.
“What the…” Wolfwood’s hand loosens, the knife stops, soft, against Vash’s scalp.
It takes him a moment to catch up and he opens his eyes, looking up at Wolfwood as best he can. He makes a curious noise, wondering what made him pause. Wolfwood looks down at him, sunglasses having slipped to the end of his nose, and eyebrow raised and a slight flush crossing his cheeks.
“Do all Plants purr?”
It doesn’t click at first, the topic shift catching him off guard, but that rumbling continues to thrum through Vash and he realizes that he did, in fact, start purring because someone petted his hair. “Oh, no, I-” He buries his face in his hands, feels it heating up against his skin. The flustered noise he lets out is muffled in his palms. “Please ignore that.”
“What, are you embarrassed?” He can hear Wolfwood smiling even without looking up. “Big Mister Stampede, always so cool and collected?”
“Hey, c’mon,” Vash says, but he is laughing despite himself. “I should be better at controlling myself.”
Wolfwood runs that hand through his hair again and Vash has to catch his breath, try to keep from purring even harder. “Yeah, God forbid you actually let yourself express an emotion.” He bumps his leg against Vash’s shoulder. “Don’t stop on my account, I don’t care.”
Vash bites the inside of his cheek, tries to hold himself still as Wolfwood gets back to work. That rumble rises in his chest again and he doesn’t try to stop it this time, just curls and uncurls his hands in the creases of his pants. More hair drifts down to his shoulder and Wolfwood brushes it off, easy, like he isn’t burningly aware of every place their bodies touch.
Vash lets himself lean into Wolfwood’s hands. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
For the first time in a long time, Vash can almost believe that his body is his own.