Chapter Text
Needle-noggin found himself in one of those shitty ass bounty hunter chases and wouldn’t for his life (literally) let anyone help em’ out. That included Wolfwood, who’s got a strong relationship with death himself.
Though this time, he may finally embrace the claws of death for the final time if the blondie doesn’t emerge out of the rubble at any a moment. He wasn’t particularly concerned, since nothing was unshakable so far.
“Vash!” The kiddie reporter, Meryl, charged towards the wreakage and rashly dug through it, only momentarily not when the wrong grip leaves a concerning gash on her palm.
Roberto didn’t bother doing his pity-chuckle at the shorty: he shot a glance at Wolfwood before gesturing her to their vehicle where the first-aid kit was stored.
Wolfwood nodded in compliance, then scanned for a spike of blond or a crimson fabric before ever approaching the hazardous garbage.
There. In the center of the broken shards of glass, splinters of wood and bent nail-bound tables, a red highlights the bounty. it wasn’t the tears of red fabric that made the priest drop his cigarette: rather, the bounty paints his environment with streaks of his own blood.
“Hey, needle-noggin,” he called, but the man made no effort to reply.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he booted aside the planks of wood, which also earned himself a nice cut. Not enough for a shot of the fancy liquid, he supposes.
A lack of piercing debris allows Wolfwood to turn the alien around, immediately wincing at the gashes and blood seeping from his biological arm through his torso, and up his face. There wasn’t much of the glasses left to save, either. He presses his fingers against the side of Vash’s neck and, thank god, was there was a pulse.
Not long after, they ended up in a town not too far whence they came. Meryl was understandably shaken by the state her friend was in. Everyone knew when her death grip on the wheel had caused her wound to open further and seep through the bandages.
Roberto, the man who could’ve been mistaken for a lieutenant, would’ve convinced Wolfwood of his impartiality until he noticed the guy toss an empty cigar box he’d opened just 5 hours ago.
It wasn’t as if people could determine what looked like a human-shaped garbage bag over Wolfwood’s shoulders when the red coat was off.
They met only a month ago, and a little less since Wolfwood learned he’s been protecting an expensive pineapple with the self-preservation skills equivalent to the fruit.
“Done moping around?” Roberto tapped the end his cigarette. His elbows leaned against the wooden railings outside the inn they stayed at.
“Pineapple-head always found himself in shit, but—fuck, he’s got a thing coming for him if he thinks he can keep runnin’ from us,” Wolfwood spits the cigar and smothers it against the wall.
Roberto chuckled: “Can’t really blame em’ for runnin’, especially when us reporters could be used as bait one day. Though I suppose it wouldn’t make sense because he’s runnin’ from you too.”
“Vash’s is an idiot if he think’s he can run from me, when my job’s to fucking protect him—“
A scream, Meryl’s, sent both men upright and bolting into the room where they’d settled.
First thing Wolfwood laid eyes upon was how the blondie was upright, stance battle-ready and a knife pointed at the shortie.
Roberto glare was all he needed to know that the older reporter was about to shoot the guy if the knife continued to stay pointed at his co-worker.
In a blink of an eye, Wolfwood drags Meryl away from the blade with one arm and grips the sharp edge with his other. The weapon was unforgiving, yet felt as dull as a papecut when compared to anything he’d endured.
“Vash, the fuck you doing? We brought your ass outta that shithole and now you’re threatening to hurt us?”
Muted green eyes narrowed at Wolfwood. Vash still wouldn’t let go, even with Roberto’s gun trained on his face.
“Who are you?” Blood gushed out of his compression top like a sponge, but the idiot seemed determined to escape the three.
“Did all that running and self sacrificing bullshit finally sear a part of your noggin’? Let go of the knife.” Vash continued to glare at Wolfwood, almost reminding the undertaker of Vash’s evil twin, knives.
“Tell me who sent you, and where you took Nai,” Vash commanded, the usual sweet and clumsiness replaced by an austere undertone.
Nai…Knives. It didn’t take much to connect the two dots. “We sure as fuck wouldn’t know where your brother went—bet that guy’s planning his next massacre,” Wolfwood scoffed.
Vash drew a face not far from guilt and anguish, and finally decided to release the grip on the weapon. “Nai’s not…he isn’t like that,” he muttered like he’s unsure himself.
“Yeah yeah, keep fancing your dreams,” Wolfwood dropped the knife, places his heel onto it, and drowned himself in a flask of the serum. His blood remained soaked between the seams of the hardwood floor: gonna be hell cleaning that later.
Meryl sliced through the thick air with a soothing whisper: “Do you remember us, Vash?”
Surprisingly, Vash shook his head at the question. Might’ve lost his memory but needle-noggin had a peculiar urge to trust anyone not pointing a gun at him.
“We’re here to help, kid. Don’t need to fret,” a glance proved Roberto’s gun was tucked back into its holster.
“Why won’t you let me leave?” The bitter tone returned with a scowl. “You humans always liked to play the pacifist underneath your revolting desires.”
“Well that’s fuckin’ rude considering the amount of shit that hurt us trying to pull you out of the rubble because we’re your friends ,” Wolfwood spat back.
Vash remained silent—it wasn’t clear whether it was because he didn’t have anymore energy or words to snap at the three. He’d bet on the former.
The two reporters rush to Vash’s aid as his knees buckle in fatigue. Wolfwood didn’t bother: his lighter shot out and danced on his palm while he pulled a cigarette out from his pocket.
This was going to be fun.