Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wolfwood was annoyed with Vash.

This wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence. Days upon days of traveling usually had Wolfwood squabbling at Vash’s throat for various grievances. 

Say, for example, when they were on the run (again) from bandits who wanted Vash’s bounty, and Wolfwood ended up fishing bullets out of his side (again), even though he could have easily dealt with them! Within the blink of an eye! Only to be met with an But aren’t you glad they’re okay? Shocker, the answer was always Hell no!

Or even when Wolfwood was wrapping bandages around Vash’s thigh, slashed open after he shoved Wolfwood out of the way from a back alley crook with a dagger. He knew his hands were shaking, but he kept his face grim — angry, annoyed, that once again, over and over, Vash’s need to save everyone meant putting himself on the line. He ignored the soft smile on Vash’s face, the real one. Ignored how it was easier to focus on the feel of the bandages than the outlaw under his hands, than the fact that he let the crook walk away. Alive.

No, this annoyance was different. This time, it had nothing to do with Wolfwood’s distaste of Vash’s pacifist-self-sacrificial nature. This time, Wolfwood was annoyed with Vash because he realized something so horrifically horrible. Something that made him want to pull out his hair and chainsmoke ‘til the suns rose.

In short, Vash was too good of a travel partner.

It was ridiculous. Every time that they stopped to set up camp for the evening, Vash would quickly and efficiently start a fire that roared through the night, warming the cold desert in just a few sharp strokes of Wolfwood’s lighter.

At first, Wolfwood was the one in charge of the fire. But once Vash saw him struggling to light anything other than a cigarette, he knelt down next to him and extended his hand.

“Give it to me.”

“What? No way,” Wolfwood scoffed, flicking sparks onto the pile of drywood he had managed to gather. “I thought you were setting up the tent.”

“I did,” he motioned his head back to where, annoyingly, the tent was indeed set up and flawlessly staked into the sand. “Let me help.”

Wolfwood clicked his tongue. “I really don’t think you could do better, Needle-Noggin. The wind keeps messing me up is all.” Regardless, he dropped the lighter into his waiting hand and placed an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

Vash smiled and took out a folded up parchment from his jacket. Upon unfolding the worn down creases, Wolfwood let out a bark of laughter. 

“A little conceited to be carrying around your own wanted poster, huh?” He reached over and tapped the paper where Vash’s beauty mark was. “Worth sixty billion double dollars and still can’t get enough of himself.”

Vash chuckled and swatted away Wolfwood’s hand. “It makes for good kindling,” he tore off a large chunk, adding to the other rips and tears of the poster. “Plus, it’s always been in abundance in any town that I visit.” He carefully lit the end of the strip with the lighter, cupping his hand around the flame as he brought it closer to the pile of wood before slowly blowing onto the fire. “No one's gonna notice a few missing Stampede posters.” And the fire jumped to life, catching and spreading from twig to twig, dancing in the reflection of Vash’s glasses and prosthetic. 

So annoying. Wolfwood kept silent, pretending to be lost in thought, staring at the fire when he was really just pissed off that Vash managed to start the damn thing in the first place. And somehow, Vash knew. He smirked and leaned over to Wolfwood, raising up the lighter to the chewed cigarette in his mouth.

“Don’t be bitter,” he sparked the flame and the cigarette caught it, smoke and nicotine filling Wolfwood’s lungs. Vash leaned closer to whisper in his ear while he exhaled the smoke out to the other side. “I might have just a few more years of experience than you.”

To which Wolfwood shoved him off, nabbing back his lighter and spouting on about how Vash was still the dumber of them and it didn’t matter how well he could light a campfire, but it was worth it to see Vash’s eyes crinkle upwards and to hear genuine laughter spill from his lips.

Wolfwood was especially annoyed in the way that he had gotten used to Vash’s companionship.

When he trudged through the sand, there was always a spikey-haired shadow walking parallel to his own. When he finally laid down in the tent, there was always a comforting, warming weight at his back. When he drove ile after ile through the desert, there was always a constant stream of mindless chatter from the sidecar, filled with stories of both old and new.

But Vash was just too good. When the repeated travel days wore Wolfwood down, when he was stiff and exhausted from driving Angelina all day, when rations were low and he was hungry and bitchy, he knew he was anything but a desirable travel partner. He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from snapping at Vash when he had done nothing wrong. Yet Vash always knew what to do. At the day’s end, Wolfwood left to go smoke alone for a touch longer than usual, going through nearly half of his last pack. Vash kept quiet about it, setting up camp by himself — laying out the bedrolls next to each other in the (flawless) tent, smoking dried thomas meat over the fire and sneaking a bit of his portion over to Wolfwood’s plate. It was always appreciated, even though he berated the idiot for not properly feeding himself. And when the suns had set and the moons were high, if Wolfwood scooched a little closer to Vash’s sleeping form, to leech off his ever present warmth, then only the stars had to know.

Too perfect. Too good. Too annoying.

Wolfwood woke up in the morning to an empty tent. He slowly sat up and looked out, choosing to ignore just how close their bedrolls had gotten over the night. Vash was stomping out the rest of the fire, pushing sand over the dying coals.

“Hey,” Wolfwood started, voice hoarse and quiet from sleep.

Vash looked up and over at Wolfwood with a small smile. “Mornin’, sleeping beauty.” He went over to his pack and pulled out some jerky, handing it to Wolfwood through the tent flaps before entering and sitting next to him. He tightly rolled up his bedroll and placed it off to the side. “We’re really low on food,” he began, making sure to speak just as quietly as Wolfwood was. “There’s enough for lunch, but we have to make it to a town tonight and restock.”

Chewing his jerky, Wolfwood nodded as if he knew this all along. Really, he had no clue. All Wolfwood carried on him was a pack of smokes and the Punisher, leaving the important survival tools to be shoved in Vash’s seemingly bottomless bag. “Should be another beautiful day of travel then,” he muttered out in between bites of jerky. 

There was a heavy pause in the tent while Wolfwood clambered out of his own bedroll and rolled it up, where it looked much worse when placed next to Vash’s. He cleared his throat and itched his palm, suddenly wanting a cigarette more than ever. “So, listen. About last night,” he trailed off, unsure of how to continue when Vash cut in, holding up his hand.

“It’s all good, Wolfwood,” his hand hovered in the air for a moment before going to the back of his head, where he scratched at his undercut. “I get that traveling can be tiring, especially…” Vash sucked in a breath and averted his eyes. “Especially when it’s with me. The Stampede, I mean. I don’t blame you for needing some alone time.”

So. Annoying. “That’s not,” Wolfwood sighed and looked upward for guidance that wouldn’t come down. “That’s not what I meant. I just didn’t want to, god, you know.” He swallowed when Vash’s eyes met his. “I didn’t wanna take anything out on you, Spikey.” Lord knows that Vash of all people did not deserve to be yelled at by Wolfwood of all people.

“Oh,” Vash’s voice was soft, really soft. And his eyes were blue, very blue without his glasses blocking them. His mouth opened and shut, and a silence filled the tent again.

It didn’t last long. Wolfwood lightly cuffed Vash over the head and stood to the best of his ability with the low cloth ceiling. “But don’t think I wasn’t mad about you giving me some of your dinner! If our rations are low then we both starve, and that’s final!”

Vash squawked and scrambled to his feet, leaving the tent with the two bedrolls. “I can’t see the value of that in the slightest! You need the food more than me, and—” Wolfwood wasn’t hearing it. He took down the tent in a storm of sand and dust and quickly bundled it together, tossing it on top of Vash’s pack. Walking over to Angelina, he checked that the bike was fit for the day’s ride and that Punisher was properly secured on the back.

“The value is that we share, and that there will be more food when we reach that town before the suns even set tonight.” Seeing that Vash had finally shoved everything into his bag, strapped it onto the side, and crammed his gangly legs into the sidecar seat, he started the engine. “Hope you’ve got some good stories to tell today.”

“I was thinking we could play a game instead!” Vash shouted over the roar of the bike. “I spy with my little eye something… yellow.”

Wolfwood spared him a sideways glance. “Is it sand?”

“Woah, hey, Wolfwood, not bad!” He was grinning ear to ear. “I spy something… blue.”

Your eyes. “The sky.”

“Two for two! I spy something…”

Someone… annoying.

It felt like a longer bike ride than usual. 

Vash continued his onslaught of verbal games, eventually dropping ‘I spy’ for twenty questions, where he made Wolfwood answer all twenty.

“Is it long?”

“Very.”

“Is it big?”

Wolfwood scratched at his jaw. It really had been a while since he last took a razor to his stubble. “It’s huge.”

“...Really?” Vash sat up a bit taller and peered over into Wolfwood’s lap. “Surely not. Remind me who’s the conceited one here?”

Sporting a red face, Wolfwood pushed off Vash and willed for the heat to leave his cheeks. Through gritted teeth, he spat out, “Is that one of your questions?”

“Nah,” Vash was giggling now, clearly pleased with himself. “Is it the Punisher?”

Wolfwood didn’t speak for another ile, waiting for all the steam to come out of his ears. “You knew that all along, didn’t you.”

“Yeah. Let’s stop for lunch.”

The rest of the drive was mostly quiet and thankfully, uneventful. Vash gave up on his games and instead helped direct Wolfwood to the nearest town, consulting his mental map built up from a hundred more years worth of traveling. Once there was a speck on the horizon, Vash nodded and shut his eyes, catching a nap before they hit the town. All Wolfwood could do was grip the steering handles tighter as Vash leaned over and used his thigh as a pillow. He wasn’t cruel enough to shove him off; his face finally settled into a semblance of peace.

When the bike finally slowed to a stop outside of the town, the younger sun had set and the older was threatening to dip below the horizon, casting the desert in a red glow. Wolfwood looked down to where Vash was laying against his leg, only to be met with blue eyes staring up at him.

“Hey, Needle Head,” Wolfwood said, pulling the key out of the ignition. “We made it.”

Vash smiled, pulling away and unfolding himself from the confines of the sidecar. “So we did,” he groaned as he stretched out his joints. Wolfwood grimaced from the pops and clicks, although he doubted he fared any better than the outlaw. “And before both sun sets, too!”

“Told ya I could,” Wolfwood pulled out a crumpled cigarette and lit it, grateful to finally have another after the quick one he had for their lunch break. He glared at his now empty pack and crushed it up. “Let’s hope they have the bare essentials here.”

“Portsmith, town of heart.” Vash thoughtfully hummed as he read the welcoming sign and looked around at the town, mouth drawn into a straight line. “Doesn’t really look like they have power at all,” Wolfwood glanced at the dark windows and candle lit lanterns. He was right; usually towns at least have electricity helping to run everything. “Something might be wrong with their plant. I’m gonna ask around.”

“Be my guest,” Wolfwood waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, throwing the cigarette butt in the sand to crush under his heel. “I’ll grab supplies for the night — give me your wallet.” Vash rolled his eyes but reached into his red jacket, handing him a wad of bills.

“Try not to spend it all in one place.” He walked off to the saloon to charm faces and presumably inquire about the status of the plant. Staring at the wrinkled double dollars in his hand, Wolfwood scoffed and cursed after him. There was barely any money for food, let alone a place to stay tonight.

Unstrapping and shouldering the Punisher, Wolfwood strolled into the general store. Upon entering, the elderly cashier warmly welcomed him, but quickly went quiet at the sight of Wolfwood, staring at the cross on his back. 

The aisles were empty and barren, layers of dust built on the spare canned food on the shelves. “Hey, old man,” Wolfwood called out, inspecting an empty bottle of whiskey. “Got any food in this town?”

The owner stayed silent, even as Wolfwood drew closer to the front. “Guess not. How about smokes? I’ll take two packs.” He leaned against the counter and narrowed his eyes at the old man.

Finally, the man seemed to shake out of his stupor, but still kept his eyes on the cross. He fumbled behind him and grabbed the cigarette packets. “You can find food at the saloon just across the road, Mister Punisher.”

Well, great. Maybe they were gonna be leaving this town tonight, after all. He tightened his grip on the release strap of Punisher and bared his teeth. “Is that right?”

The old man placed the packets on the counter and slowly raised his hands. “I mean no harm,” he started, reaching below the counter. Wolfwood watched his movements carefully, preparing to knock him out, steal the smokes, find Vash and hightail it out of town in a cloud of dust and sand. The old man pulled out an envelope and held it out to him. “I was only told to be on the lookout for a man bearing a large cross.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Wolfwood snatched the envelope and felt his heart drop to his stomach. The red wax seal bore the emblem of the Eye of Michael. Which meant nothing good.

Before he could stop it, Wolfwood’s mind went into overdrive. What could they want? He did nothing wrong. He had kept Vash in one piece, which could be quite possibly the hardest task they ever assigned to anyone. The more and more he thought about it, the heavier his stomach felt. Maybe he wasn’t in the mood to eat anyway; what he needed was liquor.

Wolfwood pursed his lips and took a shallow breath. He folded the envelope and shoved it in his back pocket. If he remembered, he would read it later when he was less sober. Swiping the cigarette packs off the counter, he pointed one at the old man and spoke in the calmest voice he could muster. “I’m stealing these. Don’t get involved with them again.”

Behind the counter, the old man swallowed, then nodded. “One last thing,” he started slowly, making sure Wolfwood wouldn’t blow at the thought of an additional note. “I was told to tell you — there’s a letter from a Miss Melanie in there as well.”

Awesome. So awesome. Now the orphanage had to be tangled in this as well.

Containing himself from exploding right there and then, Wolfwood walked out of the store backwards, flipping him off with his left while he lit a new cigarette with his right. Always a gentleman.

“Hey, Blondie!” Wolfwood called through the street, trying to locate Vash. While he couldn’t tell him exactly what just happened, he could emphasize that there was barely any food (truth!) and that they only had money for one night (double truth!) so that maybe, perhaps by a stroke of God Himself, they’d be able to leave the town in the morning and forget about any emblems or orphanages.

The swish of a red coat caught his eye, and he moved towards one of the bigger buildings on the street. The metal door was left open and led to a curving staircase. Once he heard voices, Wolfwood did his best to quiet his steps and strained his ear to listen to the hushed words.

“...sick, we know it’s sick, we just… haven’t had the funds to pay for an engineer. But — but you! You could help us, right?” It was a man’s voice, and as Wolfwood peered around the top of the stairs, he saw Vash and the stranger standing in front of a red plant tube. Wolfwood seriously hoped Vash wouldn’t choose this moment to connect with the plant, or whatever he did to get them to start working again, because it always ended with him collapsing and being weak for a few days, and they needed to leave tomorrow.

Vash was quiet, and reached out his prosthetic hand to the glass. Thankfully, he didn’t start glowing, but his face was unreadable as he stared at the plant. “I guess I would be able to help,” Wolfwood crossed his fingers and bit down on his cigarette. “But this is a different kind of sickness. She has a parasite; see the spot?” Sure enough, there was a dark, ugly blotch latched onto the bulb of the plant, pulsing roots attempting to spread further. “It would take around a month to help her try and remove it without injury.” Wolfwood let out a small sigh of relief. Vash the Stampede would never stay in the same town for a month; it was just too dangerous, for the townsfolk, for himself.

“We can house you!” The man turned to Vash and clutched his hands in his own. A little too close for Wolfwood’s liking. “We can feed you, house you, whatever you need! Please, please, we’ve been out of power for so long now, and— and surely! You can’t stand to see the plant die… Right?” 

Lord. The man was playing to Vash’s obvious weakness. It would never work.

“Well…”

Shit. It might work.

“While that’s true, I’m not here by myself. My friend, Nicholas, is staying with me as well. But he’s super reliable! I could work on the plant, and he could help around town!” Goddammit. Vash was playing him up to be nicer than he was. The envelope in his back pocket burned.

But the other man’s eyes were regretful, and he shook his head. “Sorry… we would only be able to feed you. Resources are tight enough as it is. But, but we would really, really , appreciate you helping us out.”

Wolfwood heard enough. He backed a bit down the stairs before stomping loudly and calling out once again. “Blondie! You in here?” 

“Wolfwood!” Vash dropped the stranger’s hands and walked towards Wolfwood. “Did you get any supplies?” 

“Only the bare essentials,” He grinned, pointing at the cigarette hanging from his lips. “And they were on the house. Did you find out what was up with the power?” Maybe it was a little cruel, but Wolfwood wanted to see what Vash would say. 

As soon as Vash opened his mouth, the man behind him cleared his throat, and Vash jumped to introduce him. “Oh! Wolfwood, this is Jamie. He’s Portsmith’s resident plant caretaker. Jamie, this is the friend I mentioned earlier.” Vash had a hopeful look in his eyes, like maybe, after meeting and seeing how wonderful Wolfwood really was, Jamie would be willing to feed him as well. Fat chance. 

Sure enough, Jamie’s eyes narrowed upon shaking Wolfwood’s hand. Good , Wolfwood thought. Hate me. Makes it easier for us to leave in the morning. “Pleasure’s all mine,” Wolfwood drawled out, exhaling some smoke into Jamie’s face. 

Jamie coughed and fanned the smoke away. “Uh huh.” The hope in Vash’s eyes drained away, and he looked a little lost. 

Wolfwood slung an arm around his shoulder and led them towards the stairs. “Come on, Spikey. We need some sleep, some food, and a drink— not necessarily in that order.” Before they were outside, Wolfwood turned and looked up at Jamie, who was watching them from the top of the stairs. “Oh, and it was nice meeting you!” Not in the slightest .

Thoughts of red seals, of handsy plant caretakers, of low funds, and of empty stomachs were long gone from Wolfwood’s mind as he poured another round for him and Vash.

They left the plant building and walked into the saloon, where they ordered meals of meat and veggies along with a bottle of whiskey to share. Vash must’ve been in a mood, ‘cause he continued to match Wolfwood shot for shot.

“Okay,” he slurred, waving around the shot glass before downing it. “Would you rather… um,” Vash hiccupped and pointed a finger at the cigarette dangling from Wolfwood’s lips. “Never smoke again or never drink again?”

Wolfwood sucked down the filter of his cigarette and exhaled the smoke in a cloud. “That’s a tough one,” he admitted while he pinched the cigarette between two fingers and reached for his drink. “Smoking is good by itself, but the real pleasure of drinking comes out when I get to watch your drunk ass.” This was true. When Vash was drunk, he finally let down most of his walls that he kept up for everyone else; smiling more, laughing loudly and openly, and becoming a little more touchy. Right now, their ankles were interlaced under the bar table and he had a pretty blush set high on his cheeks. It truly felt like a privilege, to see him this relaxed, and it was all just for Wolfwood. “I guess… I’d never drink again.” Vash could do the drinking for him— that would be enough.

“I knew it!” Vash exclaimed, jolting in his chair and banging his knees on the underside of the table. “I guessed that! You’re so…” He waved his hand around, searching for the word to come to his mind. Then he snapped his prosthetic, the sound loud and sharp, and looked into Wolfwood’s eyes. “Predictable.”

Wolfwood grit his teeth and met his stare. “What’s that supposed to mean,” he banged his fist on the table, rattling their empty glasses, which reminded Vash that there was still more in the bottle. He reached over Wolfwood and slowly poured them equal amounts of whiskey, sliding the glass over to his closed fist. “Alright then, asshole, what would you pick? No smokes or no alcohol?”

Vash merely hummed and tilted his head. “Guess.”

“That’s easy. You’d give up smoking,” and he was fairly certain about this. Vash rarely smoked, opting to steal the occasional puff from Wolfwood’s lit cigarette whenever they had a stressful day or a close getaway. It always did something funny to his stomach to see Vash stroll over to him, pluck the cigarette from his mouth, and deeply inhale with his eyes closed. He’d hold it in his lungs longer than any human reasonably could, and, after a beat, slowly exhale the smoke into the night. Then he would place the cigarette right back into Wolfwood’s mouth, delicate gloved fingers brushing his lips, and walk away like nothing happened.

So. Obviously Vash would rather drink.

Vash giggled and made an ‘x’ with his arms. “Nope,” he grinned, popping the p. 

Whatever. “And why would that be?”

“Hmm,” Vash tapped a finger to his lips, feigning thoughtfulness. “Well, Wolfwood,” he looked up through his lashes, blue eyes hidden behind his orange lenses. “How could I give up something that reminds me of you?”

Wolfwood felt his heart skip a beat and his mouth dropped open, cigarette nearly falling to the floor. He said a quick prayer that the color in his cheeks could be mistaken for the alcohol and not for the moron in front of him.

But it was all a game. A mischievous glint shined in Vash’s eyes, and he snorted, doubling over in laughter. Illusion of sincerity ruined. “Your face!” He choked out between fits of laughter, tears welling up in his eyes. “You should’ve seen your face!”

Unbelievable. “You’re…” Annoying. Infuriating. Troublesome. Charming. Beautiful. Irresistible. Wolfwood reached for his drink and threw it back, whiskey burning his throat. “So lame,” he spat out and looked anywhere that wasn’t Vash, who continued to laugh loudly, kicking his feet under the table.

Ignoring Vash, Wolfwood felt the eyes of multiple patrons staring at the pair of them, but quickly turned away once they saw Wolfwood glaring. Shit.

“Needle-Noggin,” he muttered under his breath. “Spikey, we need to go.”

“Yeah, in the morning,” his laughter finally died off, dopey smile still present. “You’ve said, I know.”

“No, dumbass. We need to leave here now,” or else they might end up with a gut full of bullet holes and using the rest of the bandages in their pack. Someone at the bar coughed and stood, reaching for the holster on his hip. Wolfwood tightened his grip on Punisher, ready to start swinging, when suddenly Vash grabbed his wrist and quickly led them out of the saloon.

“No injuries tonight, Wolfwood! We can get out of this without wasting a single bullet,” he singsonged, quickly guiding him through the dark of the night and into an alley. Wolfwood glanced behind them and saw at least four men following them out of the bar.

“They’re right on us, Blondie,” he pressed, trying to get through Vash’s pacifism.

That mischievous glint was back in his eyes. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Care to share?” Wolfwood internally groaned. Vash with an idea was always a recipe for disaster. “Sooner than later would be preferable here.”

“Take off your jacket.”

Time and place!

“What?” Wolfwood sputtered dumbly. Vash shed his red coat and motioned for Wolfwood to do the same. His mouth went dry at the sight of Vash’s black turtleneck, tight fabric hugging his curves just right.

“C’mon, c’mon, no time to waste,” Vash was smiling, despite the urgency of the situation. Wolfwood shrugged off his jacket and held it out to Vash, who quickly swapped with him and put on Wolfwood’s suit jacket, buttoning at the waist. While Wolfwood was pulling on the red coat, the left sleeve cut short to account for the prosthetic, Vash reached over to Wolfwood and started to push his hair up, slicking it back and out of his face.

“What’s this for,” Wolfwood mumbled, the proximity allowing him to count Vash’s eyelashes. Too close, he thought, yet couldn’t help but relax into the feel of his hands in his hair.

Vash shushed him and pulled away, starting to mess with his own hair, having it flop down in front of his eyes. “Disguises,” he whispered, satisfied with their appearances. He brushed his hands off on Wolfwood’s jacket, which looked incredible on him. The black on black managed to make his blue eyes look even brighter. Footsteps padded on the sand outside the alley. “They’re coming, stay quiet.”

There was a beat as they waited for the men to find them. Wolfwood breathed in deep, itching for a cig, and smelled Vash from his coat. Citrus, flowery, pleasant. Much like Vash himself. Steeling his nerves, he reached over and pulled Vash’s orange lenses from his face, and placed his dark sunglasses on his nose, fingers brushing his cheeks. With a burning face, he set the orange glasses on his own hooked nose. “To help,” he explained, earning a grin from Vash.

“Smart,” and he heaved Punisher into his grip, snatching it from Wolfwood. He stared, slack-jawed, knowing the weight of the weapon was unwieldy for most, yet Vash hoisted it like his own revolver. “Now I’m the priest.”

“Undertaker,” Wolfwood corrected. And the men reached the alley.

This would never work.

“You folks seen a blond in a red coat? He was running ‘round with some priest in a black suit,” one of them spoke, pointing his gun between the two of them, clearly suspicious.

“Well sir,” Vash drawled, reaching into Wolfwood’s jacket for his smokes, tapping out a cigarette. He patted himself down for the lighter, looking up in a panic when he realized it wasn’t in the jacket. Wolfwood took his lighter from his pants pocket and tossed it over to him. There was gratitude in his eyes and he lit the cigarette, holding his jaw like Wolfwood would. It was quite the sight, to see him copy his own mannerisms. “I believe I saw them skirt off into the night, going right down that there path,” he pointed to the left, country accent adorning his words. Not convincing in the slightest, and Wolfwood had to smother a laugh.

“Ain’t that right? What say you,” the man aimed his gun over to Wolfwood, “Is your friend here truthin’?”

He swallowed, wanting nothing more than to reach to Vash for both Punisher and the cigarette in his mouth. Any false sense of security would’ve been appreciated. “That’s correct. Mister…” he paused, reaching deep into his memories of Vash telling stories of his childhood late at night, sitting around the campfire. “Mister Saverem here and I were making our way to the inn and we saw the pair of them run past. They were drunk as skunks; the blond was quite obnoxious with his laughter, stumbling this way and that.”

Vash shot him a glare, blowing a ring of smoke in his direction. The four men nodded, seemingly satisfied, still probably drunk from the saloon. “Thanks for your help, gentlemen. Uhh.. have a nice night in the inn.” They headed off into the direction Vash pointed.

No way that worked.

“You’re crazy,” Wolfwood gaped after the men’s silhouettes, fading away in the distance. “You’re insane, now I know it for sure.”

“A ‘thank you’ would be nice every now and then,” Vash exhaled another cloud of smoke before Wolfwood remembered exactly whose cigarettes he was using, and stole the cig from his lips. “Or even a ‘you’re so smart Vash! Such quick thinking!’” He batted his eyelashes at Wolfwood, who was glaring, chewing the filter of his half-smoked cigarette. “Maybe a spare ‘and so handsome too’! Would it kill you to throw me a bone once in a while?”

It just might kill him. Wolfwood would rather be dead in the grave, six feet under, before he let Vash take a peek into his unholy mind. It was best to keep what he thought about Vash, about him wearing his suit jacket, about how darn right good he looked, locked into a vault that Wolfwood only accessed on late desert nights when frustration had built up to its peak. Wolfwood grunted and grabbed his stolen cross back as well, making his way out the alley and to the inn, opposite of where the bandits ran off too. Vash quickly followed behind and their steps fell into place, even and equal.

And, of course, Vash couldn’t let the night stay silent.

“So, Reverend Wolfwood,” he spoke slowly, drawing upon his accent from before. “Tell me about this Mister Saverem friend of yours.” 

Oh Christ. “Well, for starters, when he gets drunk, he fishes for compliments like it’s nobody’s business,” he played along, looking at Vash through the orange lenses still on his face. “And it doesn’t help that he can’t hold his liquor, either.”

Vash had the audacity to pout. “Yet you drank with him.”

Wolfwood paused in the street, in front of the inn. “I ‘spose you’re right,” he said, spitting the end of his cigarette down to the sand. “I guess he makes for good company.”

Vash smiled at that, still wearing Wolfwood’s sunglasses, his jacket, smelling like his brand of smokes. “You must be pretty darn enjoyable yourself then, Father.”

“Some have said,” Wolfwood grinned, and held out his elbow. “Shall we, Mister Saverem?”

Vash looped his real arm around Wolfwood’s, and they stepped into the inn together. “We shall, Reverend Wolfwood.”

Giddy and still feeling the effects from the whiskey along with the antics from earlier, they stumbled into their room that they had rented before they went for food. Vash’s rucksack was still tucked safely away in the corner, next to the wobbly wooden table and open window, letting a gentle breeze to flow throughout the room. Wolfwood leaned Punisher against the wall, and, with Vash still holding onto his arm, collapsed onto the double bed in the middle of the room. Vash laughed and fell into Wolfwood’s side, laying his prosthetic over his chest.

The double bed wasn’t a rarity anymore. It was the cheapest option for them, and although Wolfwood would never admit it out loud, he was used to the weight and warmth of Vash sleeping next to him. They slept so close together in the cramped tent; it was unnerving to have any distance between them in the night.

But Vash was too close right now. His breathing slowed and his eyes were closed, head nestled on Wolfwood’s shoulder with the dark shades digging into his skin.

“Needle-Noggin,” Wolfwood called, jostling him a bit. “C’mon, I ain’t sleeping in these clothes.” Even though the red jacket was so comfortable and smelled so good. Wolfwood could see why he wore it everywhere.

Vash stirred and sighed softly, unlatching from Wolfwood’s arm and sitting up. “Aww, no more Mister Saverem?”

"You're more Needle-Noggin than anything, especially with that mess of hair right now," Wolfwood scoffed, and before he could stop himself, reached over to fiddle with Vash’s hair, releasing it from the floppy style that it had been for their disguises. Vash quickly shooed his hands away, but the damage was done and it stuck straight up again.

“How dare you?” Vash lunged for Wolfwood’s hair in return, scrambling it back to its original effortless mess.

Wolfwood shrugged and peeled himself off the bed, sorting through Vash’s bag for a clean change of clothes. “I’m hitting the shower first.”

Vash groaned and fell back on the bed. “Fine, fine,” he took off Wolfwood’s shades and placed them gently on the bedside table, laying down and throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the light. “Try not to hog all the hot water.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said, but it had no heat behind it. Wolfwood hesitated to take off Vash’s coat, comfortable in its scent and weight. For a moment, he just watched Vash on the bed, still in Wolfwood’s suit. When he put it on tomorrow, would it smell like him? Would it be a beautiful citrus melody mixed in with the harsh undertones of cigarette smoke?

…What was he thinking? Wolfwood shook his head and shrugged out of the red coat, hanging it over the chair by the table.

It wasn’t the best shower he’s had, but it was hard to complain about warm water after so many days without it. He quickly scrubbed himself down with the cheap soap that the inn provided, bits of sand and dried blood draining away under the measly water stream. Once his hair and body was cleaned to the best of his ability, Wolfwood changed into a threadbare pair of sweatpants, not bothering with a shirt and opting instead to wrap the towel around his neck. He scooped up his discarded suit pants and dress shirt and re-entered the bedroom.

“Shower’s all yours,” he called to Vash, dumping the clothing unceremoniously on the floor once again. A few more wrinkles on his dress shirt couldn’t hurt any more than it already had. He absentmindedly toweled at his hair while he looked for his pack of smokes. “Oi, Blondie, you hear me?”

Vash obviously did not hear him. When Wolfwood glanced over at the bed, Vash had finally taken off Wolfwood’s jacket, which was currently tucked in his arms while he was curled onto his side. He was snoring softly, face tucked into the jacket and breathing deeply.

What a sight. Wolfwood needed a cigarette. Which, as he just remembered, were in his jacket.

He reached over to pull his suit loose, but Vash’s grip just tightened and held fast. Bastard. Wolfwood stepped back, sighed, and did what any reasonable person would do.

He flicked Vash on the forehead. “Go shower, Spikey,” Vash jolted awake and rubbed at his forehead. “You stink,” Wolfwood lied, but managed to steal his jacket back, immediately grabbing his lighter and tapping out a cigarette.

With a yawn, Vash stood and moped over to the shower, muttering about beauty rest and well earned shut-eye. Wolfwood ignored him, blowing plumes of smoke out of the open window and looking out at Portsmith’s landscape with only the light of the moons.

When he heard running water from the shower, Wolfwood slowly raised his suit to his nose and took a sniff.

It smelled like Vash.

So annoying.

Chapter Text

Wolfwood slept well.

Hell, that was an understatement. Crawling into the soft comforter of the bed with the plush down pillows did wonders to his spine. 

It helped that Vash’s constant warmth was nearly suffocating, but perfectly alluring during the cold of the desert night. Through foggy and sleepy memories, Wolfwood recalled falling asleep first, drifting in and out of consciousness with the sound of Vash’s soft singing from the shower. He had a nice voice, finally dropping most of the dramatics he usually adorned, but Wolfwood would never tell him. It’d go straight to his already big head.

When Vash came to bed, dipping the mattress towards his weight, Wolfwood blearily opened his eyes and groaned, looking at Vash’s silhouette, complete with an oversized sleep shirt and without his prosthetic.

“Sorry,” Vash called in a soft voice. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” He blew out the candle on the bedside table and shuffled under the blanket, laying on his side and facing Wolfwood. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mm,” he yawned and shifted to face Vash as well. Their hands met in the middle, fingers barely touching, but neither made a move to pull away. As he fell back into the clutches of sleep, Wolfwood thought he remembered their pinkies twining together, Vash’s deep scars against his own rough calluses. 

What he definitely remembered, right hand to God, was waking up in the middle of the night to a head of blond hair under his nose. Wolfwood was curled around Vash, legs slotted together with an arm over Vash’s waist and holding tight. Somehow, his sleep-induced brain didn’t understand the concept of personal space, or maybe just didn’t care to back off of the comforting heat from Vash’s sleeping form. Whatever the reason, Wolfwood had buried his nose deeper into the golden locks, breathing in that citrus scent, and cuddling closer.

‘Cause that’s really what it was. Cuddling. As grown men.

Yet when he woke up, his arms were wrapping around nothing but air, the warmth and citrus were fading, and Vash’s side of the bed was empty.

Nothing out of the ordinary — Vash was an early riser, claiming that he was up when the suns were up. And the suns were indeed up, although just barely peeking over the horizon and streaming through the window, blinding Wolfwood. 

He rubbed his eyes but kept them closed. He would have enough of the suns when they drove out of town later in the day, after they refueled his bike and seriously scoured through the general store again.

“Good morning, Wolfwood,” Vash said, voice coming from the table across the room. It sounded strained, but that could’ve been from the earliness of the day. 

Wolfwood waved his hand in lieu of answering. His head was reeling from the drinks the previous night, and he itched for a cigarette just to have something to take his mind off his hangover.

Vash took a breath and held it. “Did you still want to leave today?”

“‘Course I do. Ain’t nothing for us here in this town,” he rasped, hand blindly groping for his pack of smokes on the bedside table. “Why do you ask?” Vash usually never cared about their schedule of departure, simply content with coming and going as Wolfwood pleased.

“No reason.”

Wolfwood immediately sat up. The bastard was lying through his teeth, given away by the lilt in his voice that he always took on when he tried to cover something up, like a gunshot wound that was nothing to worry about, really or yes, I did eat today . Vash lying meant nothing good.

“Blondie, what’s wro…” Wolfwood trailed off as he took in Vash’s figure, still in his sleep clothes, sitting on the chair by the table, which his prosthetic still rested on. He still had some leftover bedhead and his eyes were still puffy from sleep, but they refused to meet Wolfwood’s glare, staring at the dusty hardwood floor. 

What made Wolfwood’s throat go dry was the envelope in Vash’s hand.

“I, uh,” Vash looked sheepish, at least having some sense of shame. “I found this on the floor.” He tapped it lightly against his leg. Shit. Wolfwood’s pants that he oh so carefully discarded on the floor last night were now neatly folded at the foot of the bed. “It looked important, so.” He thumbed over the red Eye of Michael seal with a gentle touch that was undeserving. “Thought you might want to read it before,” he took a shaky breath and sighed. “Before we left.” He glanced up and made eye contact with Wolfwood. His eyes were deep, sad, like he couldn’t bear to bring himself to even look at Wolfwood.

“That’s…” impossible to explain. It was always a silent agreement between them to never discuss Wolfwood’s profession. When his injuries got bad enough that he had to break a vial between his teeth, Vash looked the other way. Christ, even back when Vash was just a job to Wolfwood, simply another assignment, and Vash knew the whole time, he took it as a blessing that someone was finally willing to stay by his side.

“Wolfwood,” Vash’s voice broke Wolfwood out of his thoughts that were running wild, coming up with possible white lies or gentle fibs, anything to avoid hurting Vash’s feelings. “Wolfwood, why wouldn’t you tell me?” Vash’s voice cracked on the last part, and he set the envelope on the table, red seal face down, next to his forgotten prosthetic. He stood and walked over to the window, running his hand through his blond, messy hair. Wolfwood felt something akin to guilt. “We could’ve figured something out, together, right?”

Definitely not. What the hell would Vash know about the Eye of Michael? About every tortuous experiment he endured, about the hundreds of innocent kids who were deemed incompatible and merely disposed of? 

Wolfwood opened his mouth, aiming to tell Vash about how dangerous it was, especially for him , to even consider being involved with the Eye of Michael.

“What about you? Why didn’t you share about the plant’s parasite?” Was what came out instead. 

That was not what he meant to say.

But it had no effect. Vash exhaled softly and glanced out the window. “C’mon, Wolfwood,” he said, with an undertone of disappointment in his voice. “I know you heard the whole conversation I had with Jamie.”

Right. Wolfwood had forgotten about that son of a bitch.

“How?” Curiosity got the best of him. Maybe it was a cheap distraction from the envelope, but Wolfwood was sure that he kept as silent as a shadow, as his years of training dictated.

Vash rolled his eyes. “I smelled the cigarette,” he told him, exasperated. “You really had to smoke in the plant room?”

Wolfwood grimaced. Ouch . He was caught and called out. He threw the covers off and snagged one of said giveaways, lighting it and going to stand by the window with Vash. 

“Are you really going to let the plant die? A preventable death?” He let their shoulders bump, lightly leaning against Vash. 

Vash stared out at Portsmith’s landscape. “I’m not unrealistic, Wolfwood. I can’t stay in the same place for long, let alone the month that it would take to help her remove the parasite.” He dropped his chin in his hand, propping his arm on the windowsill. “I’m too dangerous for this town of heart,” he joked, quoting Portsmith’s welcome sign in a lousy effort to lighten the mood. 

It didn’t land. Silence fell between them, unrelenting, but not uncomfortable. Wolfwood smoked quietly, burning down the filter little by little. Whether his headache disappeared or not, he inhaled deeply and let the drug settle in the bottom of his lungs. Vash glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but Wolfwood ignored it. Vash opened his mouth, sucking in a breath as if to say something, then shut it with a small sigh. A few minutes passed, and Vash did it again, but Wolfwood stuck the near end of his cigarette in his mouth before he could say anything. Vash jolted, surprised, but managed to finish off the cigarette in two long drags, pressing out the remaining cherry on the ashtray sitting on the windowsill. He made an inquisitive noise and cocked an eyebrow at Wolfwood.

“Whatever you’re about to tell me, do it with some nicotine in your system,” Wolfwood muttered, avoiding Vash’s stare. Sometimes it felt as if he could see right through Wolfwood, reading him for all he’s worth. Wolfwood wasn’t up for that kind of scrutiny this early in the morning.

Vash cleared his throat. “What I was going to say,” he started, nudging his shoulder against Wolfwood, “is that I’m not stupid, either.” Wolfwood couldn’t hold back a laugh and Vash huffed, indignant. “I’m not! Listen, I know that letter’s gonna have some… interesting things to say,” he settled on, motioning through the air with his hand. “I’ll go grab us some breakfast and let you read it on your own. You can tell me what you want to, and then, well. We can go from there.” He placed his hand on Wolfwood’s shoulder, forcing him to turn away from the window and face him. “Sound good?”

No. Not really. Wolfwood would rather just flick his lighter and have the envelope burn, falling to ash and drifting away in the wind. But he held up two fingers in a lazy salute anyways. “Sir, yes sir.”

Vash smiled for the first time that day. Wolfwood only knew that because he had to look away from the sheer brightness of it, rivaling the suns hanging in the sky. Vash pulled his red coat on, but hesitated for his prosthetic. He opted against it, and moved to leave. 

“I’ll be back,” Vash looked over his shoulder before opening the door.

Wolfwood nearly told him to stay. He didn’t exactly want to be alone while he read what was sure to be migraine inducing. Instead of running his mouth, he grunted a goodbye, dressed quickly, and plopped himself down at the chair where Vash was sitting when he woke up. If Vash was disappointed, it didn’t show, and he left, the old door slamming a bit too loudly in the ill-fitting frame.

The envelope was taunting him from the table. With the red seal face down, it merely looked like any other mail that had been shipped across the desert: bent edges, smeared with dirt, and faded ink strokes which spelled out ‘The Punisher’ . Wolfwood lit another cigarette. He suspected he’d have to buy another pack before the day’s end at the rate he was plowing through them. Sighing deeply, he reached over and took the envelope in his hands. He exhaled a plume of smoke and broke the red seal, pulling out two pieces of parchment.

One letter was written on a stained piece of paper, tearing at the corners. He placed that one to the side and unfolded the other, which was a pristine white with structured and uniformed lettering; each stroke was perfect, so symmetric that it appeared nearly mechanical.

Holding back another groan, Wolfwood began to read.

Nicholas D. Wolfwood,

Your presence has been requested at the Hopeland Orphanage for one month. We are aware of your current duty of surveying the Humanoid Typhoon, yet trust that you will manage to find an excuse to leave it alone for this extended period of time. After your time has been served at the orphanage, you will be expected to resume your duty with the Humanoid Typhoon.

Should you refuse, three orphans will be inducted into the Eye of Michael. Your compliance for the entire month will result in our promise to not induct any new members for the entirety of at least one year.

Compliance will include listening to orders and carrying out various tasks, along with restocking on travel necessities, such as Holy Water and ammunition. 

Please do consider carefully. We look forward to seeing you with a willingness and readiness to serve.

E.O.M.

Lord above and Christ almighty. They were blackmailing him.

Wolfwood pinched the bridge of his nose. The proper writing was enough to make his eyes squint and his head hurt at the formality of it all. He had to scoff at the travel necessities. Everything he needed, Vash carried for them. He never pulled out his blessed Holy Water unless their water canteens had run dry, and Vash practically forbade him from shooting, so he was going through less ammo than ever before. Although, his vials of medicine were running low and the dried meal packs were always provided upon request…

Putting it out of his mind for now, Wolfwood grabbed the other letter, trying to smooth out all the wrinkles. He was met with slanted cursive, a few words scribbled out and crossed over. He allowed himself a small smile, recalling how this handwriting looked on weekly grocery lists and recipes and various scripture teachings.

Dear Nico,

How have you been faring? I hope you’ve been feeding yourself properly. No more having to share portions with the younger kids, huh? We’ve got more little ones running around than I can count.

…Just kidding. There’s five of them trying to pull me away right at this moment.

Now, normally I would not be able to write to you, but those special guests of ours have assured me that this letter will reach you and wherever your travels have taken you.

I have to be honest — I don’t know what they’re demanding of you. All I know is that they seem confident you will return for whatever they need, and that you’d be able to help around the orphanage as well. 

Nico, listen to me. I cannot ask that you return. I can only imagine how horrified you are to even consider it. But I cannot ask you to stay away as well. I don’t know what they hold over your head. Their threats run deep — it’s partly why we’re still so closely connected.

All that I ask is that you do what you think is best for you. Be selfish for once; I will understand no matter what you choose.

We love you, Nico. I hope to see you, maybe not soon, but whenever is right for both of us.

Sending love,

Miss Melanie

It was like nothing had changed. Wolfwood was just a snot nosed brat again, taking care of Livio and changing diapers for the infants. He idly traced over her signature, loopy M’s and I’s dotted with a blurry line. Actually, the whole letter looked a little blurry.

Shit. 

Wolfwod put the letter down gingerly and leaned back, looking at the ceiling and fighting the sting in his eyes. He smoked slowly, flicking the ash off to the side. 

This sucked. This really sucked. 

He had to go. There was really no other option. The promise to let the kids live for a whole other year, without anything looming over their heads — it was too tempting of an offer to extend their childhood by just one more birthday, even if they might get picked up later in their lives.

Even if he did show and they didn’t keep their promise to the fullest, it was better than the alternative, where his absence called for three new member inductions. His conscience was guilty, sure, but that would weigh more on his soul than any other job he’d done before.

Even his current one.

His eyes landed on the prosthetic arm that Vash left on the table when he left to find breakfast. It was beaten up more than usual, scratched and dull. They’d been on the move so often that Vash hadn’t yet found the time to truly clean it, to free the ball bearings from grains of sand and polish it to its original shine.

Wolfwood’s hand twitched, and before he knew it, he was interlacing Vash’s prosthetic with his own, thumbing over the joints and relishing in the refreshing cold of the metal.

He couldn’t tell Vash. No way in hell. Vash would insist on joining him, but only the Lord above knows what the Eye of Michael, what Knives would do to Vash if he walked in there all willingly: a perfect bounty served on a fucking silver platter.

Wolfwood spent enough time thinking that his cigarette burned down to the filter, his spine ached from leaning back against the rickety chair, and his tears were thankfully gone.

He opened his eyes, unsure of when he closed them, and let out a sigh. His hands were already itching  for another cigarette, and he squeezed Vash’s prosthetic tighter before carefully setting it back on the table. He wasn’t used to this much profound thinking; it gave him another headache on top of his hangover. Wolfwood stuffed the letter from the Eye back in the envelope, followed by Miss Melanie’s carefully refolded letter.

Some commotion sounded from the streets below their room. Wolfwood pushed off the table and moved to the window once again, fighting the urge to strike up another smoke as he settled his elbows on the sill.

As he should’ve guessed, the commotion centered around Vash, who was sprawled across the street, holding a brown paper bag high above his head, one handed, while two children clambered over his lanky legs in a futile effort to reach the bag. His laughter was loud, and if Wolfwood was one to wax flowery and poetic thoughts, he would’ve said it sounded like stars twinkling, falling against the desert sand and burrowing deep below the surface.

But he wasn’t one to wax, so he didn’t bother.

The kids pulled on his ear and tugged on his cheeks. “Please, Mister! Just share a little bit,” one of them whined, grabbing at the edge of his coat. “Even a few crumbs are fine!”

“Maybe some other time,” Vash struggled to stand back on his feet, clutching the bag to his chest and lightly jostling his leg, trying to shake off the other kid who was still trying to scale him like the skyscrapers in July.

“These are for me and my buddy, okay, Lizzie? I’m sure Grandma Dana can make you some if you help around the house.” How Vash already knew the entire population of Portsmith, Wolfwood didn’t dare to question. Vash had once asked for the name of a bandit that they were actively dodging bullets from. 

“You got a buddy here?” The kid currently on his thigh asked, peering up at Vash.

“Yes, Luke, I do, and I’m sure he’d love for me to be back with his breakfast sooner than later here.” Vash chuckled, shaking his head, and Wolfwood had to say he was right, as much as he loathed to drag him away from the kids. His stomach let out a mean growl at the mention of breakfast. “Can you please get off of me? I’ll be back to play in the afternoon.”

Luke reluctantly let go, but Lizzie held a pout on her face. “Tell us about him!”

Vash hummed, tapping his foot, then smiled. “Can you keep a secret?”

Lizzie and Luke nodded vigorously. Vash knelt down and whispered in their ears, too quiet and out of reach for Wolfwood to hear. The kids started giggling, and Vash stood back to his full height.

“Don’t tell him what I told you, okay?”

Wolfwood had seen enough. Pinkies between his lips, he sharply whistled down to the streets. The children jolted around, hands over their mouths. Next to them, Vash looked up to Wolfwood leaning on the inn window, a cheeky smile spread wide on his face, like he expected for Wolfwood to be watching the whole time.

“What the hell kinda lies are you telling those kids, Spikey?”

“Why, my dear Wolfwood, nothing that isn’t true!” 

Wolfwood clicked his tongue. “You bringin’ up breakfast any time soon?”

His grin persisted. “Your wish is my command. Say hi to the mean window man, kids!” Vash said goodbye to the children, promising to play with them later, and headed to the inn entrance.

Lizzie and Luke waved up at him, smiles missing teeth and dirt smudged over their cheeks. “Morning, Mister Mean Window Man!” They shouted in unison, and Wolfwood splayed his fingers in greeting, rolling his eyes. 

“Go on, scram, get back to school or something,” he waved them off and they ran down the street, giggling and holding hands.

Wolfwood watched them go, then pushed himself off of the sill once he heard Vash fiddling with the lock, walking over to open the door for him.

The sight he was met with was nearly comedic, and Wolfwood let an ugly snort of half-smothered laughter out of his nose. Vash was standing on one leg, balancing a pitcher of coffee on his lifted knee, presumably snagged from the bar downstairs. The brown bag was clutched between his teeth, and he had two mugs hooked in his fingers. His eyes lit up once Wolfwood opened the door, clearly relieved that his balancing act had an end in sight. 

“‘Ey, Wo’wood! ‘An you lend ‘e a hand?” Vash muffled out, voice cheery and rid of the uncertainty that weighed it down earlier in the day.

“Man, must be rough having only one arm. If only you had a badass robot prosthetic, huh? Such a shame,” Wolfwood drawled, watching Vash struggle for a second more before finally having pity on him and taking the precariously tilting coffee pot off of his knee. 

“If you must know, it made it all the more easier to score us a free breakfast,” Vash said once he set the mugs on the table and freed the bag from the clutches of his jaw. Despite his claims of life without an arm being beneficial, he quickly connected his prosthetic into the port on his stump, wiggling the fingers to make sure it worked properly. “Ol’ Granny Dana sent me home with these after I rounded up her loose Thomases.” While Wolfwood poured them both a cup of coffee, Vash opened the bag with a wide grin. “Look! She had your favorite,” he pulled out a bagel for himself, then handed a cheese danish over to Wolfwood.

Damn. Those were his favorite. His pulse picked up at the thought of Vash remembering an off-handed comment, when they were reminiscing about childhood guilty pleasures around the campfire.

He took a bite. It was good, really good. Not quite what Miss Melanie used to make, but it’s the best thing he’s had in years. “What, no donuts for you?” he mumbled around the mouthful of danish.

Vash shrugged, dumping out the remainder of the bag’s contents, including some sugar packets, apples, and another danish. Wolfwood couldn’t help but notice the lack of an extra bagel. “Beggars can’t be choosers. And besides, they’re pretty similar, right?” Vash ripped open a sugar packet and poured it into Wolfwood’s coffee. Wolfwood rolled his eyes, but swirled the liquid around in his mug, watching the sugar dissolve. Despite Vash’s sweet tooth, he took his coffee black, refusing to dilute the caffeine with any substance. Wolfwood had told him that Vash didn’t need any more caffeine in his system, considering how he was jumping off the wall on any other day without it. 

They sat in silence for a bit, the only sounds being sips of coffee and chewing of fresh pastries. Vash was drumming his fingers on the table, the prosthetic hand eliciting a stronger beat against the wood. He started to bounce his leg, jolting Wolfwood’s every so often, and reached for the knife in his pack, peeling the apples and carving them into slices.

Wolfwood watched his deft fingers expertly handle the knife, cutting even slices with precision learned from over a century. “I can peel my own apple, you know,” he spoke quietly, not wanting to disturb the skillful demonstration in front of him.

“I want to.” There was an air of finality in Vash’s voice. Wolfwood kept silent and split the remaining danish in half since Vash had quickly wolfed down the bagel with a berry spread, and obviously wasn’t planning on eating anything other than some apple slices.

Vash quietly nibbled on the apple, and after Wolfwood’s insistence, took the rest of the danish as well. He switched from bouncing his leg to shaking his ankle, quickly moving it side to side. He was antsy — even though he wasn’t talking, his body did all the speaking for him. It was like he had a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue, but was holding himself back from releasing the onslaught of awkwardness that was sure to follow.

Wolfwood spat out an apple seed. Vash’s restlessness was contagious; Wolfwood found himself cracking his fingers and pinching the bridge of his nose. If Vash wasn’t gonna talk, then he would start the conversation.

“How’d Granny Dana make these?” He motioned to the leftover bag filled with crumbs.

Vash’s ankle stopped moving. “Huh?” he stared at Wolfwood with a blank expression, as if he just awoke from a trance.

“The danishes,” Wolfwood said. “There’s no power coming from the plant, right? How’d she make it puff up without electricity?”

“Oh,” Vash smiled. “She set up a stone outside and let them sit, boxing them to trap the heat in. Pretty genius, right?” He explained excitedly, getting the sparkle back in his eyes that he always had when talking about the accomplishments of the human race, proud of their development. “Dana mentioned that once the plant is working again, she’d try to make donuts! Based on her bagels, I’d say she’s got the circle shape down-pat.” 

“That’s good,” Wolfwood began, hesitating to continue. “But, Spikey, aren’t you the only one able to fix the plant?” He reminded Vash, and watched him go from animatedly talking about pastries to deflating, shrinking back in on himself in real time. 

“Um, yeah. Forgot about that.”

“You said it would take a month?”

Vash brought his knees up to his chest, looking tiny in the wooden chair. “Yeah, and that’s being optimistic. I haven’t seen a parasite like that in a long time.” The doubt in Vash’s voice was throwing Wolfwood off. He was so used to the chipper spark in his tone. 

The timing was convenient. A little too perfect, but Wolfwood was still grateful. He looked up at the ceiling, trying to find some grace from God to tell Vash what he had read in the envelope.

“A month,” he started, swallowing thickly. “A month. Just a month,” he glanced over to Vash, seeing the realization and dread creep onto his face: blue eyes wide and open, eyebrows furrowed, and nose scrunched.

“Wolfwood, please,” Vash pleaded. “What did you read?”

No easy way to say it. Wolfwood took a deep breath. “I have to go. For a month.”

“I’m coming with you.” Of course. The response was immediate, almost spilling out of Vash’s mouth.

“No, Blondie,” he told him, shaking his head. As much as he wanted to take Vash with him, to travel to another town with him and leave the envelope behind here in Portsmith, he just couldn’t. “No. It’s too dangerous.” He left any mention of the Eye of Michael unsaid, but prayed that Vash would use his brain and understand why Wolfwood was so serious.

“Obviously! It’s dangerous everywhere I go.” Vash yelled, gesturing to himself.

“Which is why,” Wolfwood said. “I think you should stay here.”

In disbelief, Vash laughed. “Your logic is a little screwed.” He was hysteric, tears brimming his eyes but stubbornly refusing to fall. “Me? Stay here and put a target on the town? No way.”

“Hey, just listen to me here. You could really help these people, Needle-Noggin. For one month, you settle down, work on the plant, and lay low ,” he emphasized, trying to get through the thick skull that Vash carried around on his shoulders.

“But I’d be alone,” Vash argued, blue eyes boring into Wolfwood’s.

“You already know half the town.”

“But you wouldn’t be with m—” he cut himself off, breaking eye contact and hugging his knees closer. 

Yeah.

Wolfwood kept quiet. How would he even tell Vash that he felt the same? They never talked about his decision to join Vash in his travels across the desert. It was simply a part of their life; waking up together, eating, driving, drinking, laughing, and sleeping next to each other.

His hand twitched. He reached over for Vash’s prosthetic again, moving slowly as if Vash would suddenly spook away. He gently touched the outside of his hand, and Vash turned it over, giving it to Wolfwood. Just like earlier, he laced their fingers together. But it was different than before, when he was alone in the room. While connected to the port, the arm had a faint buzz running through the circuits, thrumming under Wolfwood’s palm. It was more alive, and reminded Wolfwood that the arm was connected to a person, who was currently watching him with wide eyes.

“I, uh—” Wolfwood stammered, and pulled his wrist back, but Vash gripped his hand tighter, shaking his head. 

There was a mountain of dreams left unsaid between them. Wolfwood focused instead on caressing Vash’s hand with his thumb.

He tried again. “I’ll be back. Back here, once they’re done with me.”

Vash frowned. Wolfwood knew Vash didn’t like the idea of letting him be used by the Eye, but Vash didn’t have any room to talk, littered with scars and being held together by a patchwork of metal.

“Spikey, you have to stay here,” he wrapped his other hand around Vash’s, bending his head down as if in prayer. “You can’t get anywhere near Hopeland, and if you leave, God, I’d never be able to find you.” That wasn’t entirely true, and they both knew it. Wolfwood had spent two years tracking down Eriks, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat. But he didn’t think he could go another two years without Vash by his side.

Vash’s prosthetic was shaking, his other gloved hand fisting in his coat. Wolfwood clasped his hands tighter. “I’m scared,” Vash admitted, voice wavering. “I can’t ruin this town, these people.”

“You won’t, Blondie. You can help them, help the plant, too.” Wolfwood looked up to see Vash with tear stained cheeks and more on the way, slowly flowing down. Before he could stop it, his right hand went to cup Vash’s cheek, thumbing away tears and pressing gently against his beauty mark. Vash’s flesh hand stopped clenching his coat and quickly covered Wolfwood’s, simply holding it there and nestling into the touch. It pained Wolfwood.

“Vash the Stampede staying in one place for that long is bound to bring nothing but trouble,” he whispered, another tear slipping past, which Wolfwood quickly wiped away.

This closeness was strange for them. They slept in the same bed most nights, or extremely close proximity in the tent, but never touched; Wolfwood promised that if Vash ever kicked him in his sleep then he’d have hell to pay. Even out of the bed, their touches were quick and fleeting: a hand on a shoulder to get attention, a flick on the forehead, wrapping bandages around fresh wounds. Only when they drank did they both let their walls down enough to slouch over each other, cross ankles, to loop arms and skip down the road after fooling bandits with last-minute disguises.

Wait. Disguises .

“Maybe,” he started slowly. It felt like his mind was running an ile a minute. “The Stampede doesn’t have to be in town.”

Vash sniffed. “What?”

“Maybe,” he paused, licking his lips that had gone dry. “Mister Saverem can take up residence instead.” 

Vash’s eyebrows drew together, an invisible thread sewing them close, confused, before he understood and his face softened, having hope in his eyes for the first time that morning.

“You think so?”

Wolfwood’s throat went dry. Vash was so close, still held in his hand. He nodded, and Vash smiled. It was a tiny one, but it was genuine.

“Okay,” he said into Wolfwood’s palm. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

He took a shaky breath, and his prosthetic hand tensed a little, before relaxing and readjusting his grip. “Yeah, I can try to stay.”

Wolfwood tapped his face gently, chuckling. “Not try, dumbass. You have to.”

Vash bit his lip, and suddenly let go of Wolfwood, reaching behind him. Wolfwood worried that he had gone too far, crossed the invisible line that they toed so often, but Vash simply pulled around his travel pack, rooting through it.

“Why don’t I give this to you?”

“You’re changing the subject.” He said dryly as Vash pulled his own items out of his bag: toothbrush, spare changes of clothes, and an emergency stash of double dollars.

“Jamie told me that Hopeland’s only a day’s drive away from Portsmith. I think he makes the trip every so often for work. Meaning, lucky for you, I don’t think you’ll have to use the tent. I’ll keep it in there still, just in case,” Vash explained, a little too upbeat for the topic. Insincerity was creeping onto his smile, slowly but surely poisoning it. Wolfwood frowned. Vash was still upset about everything, but managed to accept his fate for the next month for Wolfwood’s sake.

“Blondie.”

“We never stocked up on food yesterday. I’ll ask around — see if I can buy any food off of people — and you can fill the bike’s tank in the meantime.” He cinched the tie around the bag, checking its weight.

“Spikey.”

“I’m sure Craig in the saloon will let you fill your canteens as well. Some fresh water never hurt anyone.” He quickly stood, heaving the pack over his shoulder. “Let’s get you on your way!”

When he stepped past, Wolfwood grabbed his wrist, holding him back.

“Vash.”

That finally got through to him, freezing him in his tracks. He was staring at the floor, not meeting Wolfwood’s eyes.

He rose to his feet to stand in front of Vash, tugging gently at the red coat. The bag fell with a dull thump to the ground.

“Take this off,” he said as he shucked his own suit jacket off his shoulders. “Let’s switch again.”

Vash looked at him, eyes lingering on his chest, before jolting up and looking him in the eye, a high blush on his cheeks making his blue eyes stand out.

“Y-yeah, okay,” he carefully took the coat off his prosthetic side first, then pulled out his other arm. Their fingers brushed when he handed it over, swapping with Wolfwood.

They dressed slowly, not wanting to break the delicate bubble hanging over them. Wolfwood looked down at himself, and chuckled at the short left sleeve, which normally had Vash’s mechanical arm hanging out of it, but instead just showed Wolfwood’s wrinkled dress shirt.

“Oh,” Vash realized. He re-opened his bag, sticking his arm all the way to the bottom, and pulled out a red piece of fabric. “I couldn’t bring myself to throw this out,” he explained as he took Wolfwood’s arm into his hands and re-connected the missing sleeve, lingering on his bicep for a moment before stepping away again. Wolfwood swallowed, tamping down the urge to reach over and link their hands again.

“How do I look?” He stuck his arms out, embraced in red and inhaling the citrus scent that never seemed to leave the coat’s collar.

“Like sixty billion double dollars.” Vash joked, peeking over his shades after a moment’s hesitation.

Wolfwood smirked. “Better me than you.”

The mood was lighter, but still heavy enough to weigh on their shoulders as they moved around the room, almost in a waltz; Wolfwood making sure he grabbed everything from spare lollipops to his lighter left on the dresser, and Vash keeping himself busy, fluffing up the pillows and making the bed with blankets pulled taut enough to bounce a coin off of. Wolfwood tried not to think about how there would be an empty space next to Vash when he fell asleep after a hard day’s work of helping everyone in the town. Or about how Wolfwood wouldn’t have anyone to talk into the late hours of the night with. They’d survive — they’d done it before, each on their own. Just… not in a while.

“Think you got it all?” Vash asked, hand on the doorknob. His expression was a careful neutral, a true demonstration of his poker face. Impressive, if Wolfwood hadn't seen him crack just twenty-odd minutes earlier.

Wolfwood nodded, patting himself down. Keys, lighter, smokes… where were his cigarettes? He reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a .22 caliber bullet instead.

Right. He was wearing Vash’s coat. The swish of the longer coattail was something he still had to get used to. Not to mention the garish red.

He marched over to Vash, who had turned his back to the door, glancing around the room for anything Wolfwood could’ve forgotten. “What? Didja lose something?”

“Just misplaced it,” he muttered, stepping close to Vash and pushing his own suit jacket open, brushing past the metal grate under Vash’s turtleneck and grabbing his pack of cigarettes. If he didn’t have enhanced senses, he wouldn’t have heard the way Vash’s breath hitched, nor been able to feel the soft staccato of his heart behind the grate.

He refused to think about it.

Quickly pulling away, Wolfwood heaved the pack over one shoulder and balanced Punisher on the other, holding the strap with two fingers. “Now I’ve got everything,” he coughed, wishing he had a free hand to light a smoke.

Vash stared at him. Wolfwood was sure his eyes were about to pop out of their sockets with the way his blue glare pierced through him. Then he opened the door for Wolfwood, mumbling something under his breath and following him out the room.

Angelina was parked just outside of the inn, shining in her own glory and soaking up the desert suns. Wolfwood strapped Punisher onto the back and placed the pack into the sidecar — where Vash would normally sit. Wolfwood didn’t think about it.

Instead, he filled up the tank at the general store where he had got the envelope from the old man. Vash was a blur, running around the town and gathering canned foods, day-old jerky and dried fruits. Way more than Wolfwood would need. His wallet had to be lighter, no doubt, but he still carried a smile on his face.

Well. It was a fake one, but Wolfwood was on a roll of not thinking about Vash related things.

The food was dumped into the pack, along with two full canteens, and he sped off into the store. Wolfwood clicked his tongue. A little rude of Vash to start ignoring him before he had even left. 

Wait! That was thinking about it. No good.

“Okay, I paid for the fuel. I think you’re set,” Vash said, brushing his hands off on his jacket. On Wolfwood’s suit jacket. It was sure to get dirty beyond saving that any laundromat would perform; having to resuscitate life and the stubborn scent of nicotine back into the fabric with soap and water and smoke. Wolfwood couldn’t say that he minded. “Oh, and I got you these.”

Wolfwood stared at the pack of cigarettes he was handed. The Skulls logo stared back at him, daring him to say something. He didn’t, and raised an eyebrow at Vash.

“Your current one felt a little light,” he explained, kicking sand with his boots. Maybe Vash was a little warm without the temperature control of his red coat, ‘cause his cheeks looked red in the heat of the desert. But, then again, Wolfwood had said temperature controlling coat on, and he felt a little warm in the face.

“Thanks,” he muttered, shoving the pack into his breast pocket where it joined its twin. Placing the keys in ignition, he turned to Vash and extended his hand.

“Till next time, right?” Too casual. Everything felt way too casual and smiley and joyous for what he was really about to go and do for a month.

Vash looked at the hand and looked back up to Wolfwood. He took his hand and shook firmly. “Till next time,” he agreed, smiling brighter than he should’ve been able to. It was fake.

And it was bound to break.

The smile faded, the hand stopped shaking. There was an instance, just a moment’s hesitation, where they stood and looked at each other, before Vash’s face crumpled. He paused, then fell forward, throwing his arms around Wolfwood’s shoulders.

“Wolfwood,” Vash choked out, nearing a sob. “Nicholas, please. Please come back.”

He had to think about it now.

His arms hung lamely by his side for a second, before his hand twitched and they wrapped around Vash. He inhaled deeply, burrowing his nose into his own jacket and smelling smoke mixed with citrus, a beautiful melody of their careful dance.

Sure, they touched. Quick touches and pats and hand holds and cheek cradles and unconscious cuddles. To have Vash everywhere was different, enveloping Wolfwood with his warmth and his scent and just him.

“I will. I promise you, Vash, I’ll come back for you.” Wolfwood held him tighter, wanting to be as close as possible before they’d truly be apart, far and away. He cupped his hand behind his head, pulling him closer, yet closer. “But you have to stay here.” He swallowed, hoping his words would get through. An oath, just like the jackets. A silent swearing to return to each other, to be safe.

Vash was silent, pressing into him. He could sense Vash’s hopes for Wolfwood to keep others alive, to not kill under direct orders, in the way his palms clenched and released fabric. “...I will.”

He had no choice but to believe him.

They hugged for a while longer, Wolfwood not wanting to be the one to step away from Vash. There was a sad sigh, and Vash patted his shoulders, releasing him from their embrace. His cheeks were wet, and Wolfwood was sure there were bound to be damp marks on his coat.

He swung his legs over the bike and gave a curt nod. Vash had a small smile on his face — finally, finally, a real one. While he started the bike, engine roaring throughout the quiet town, Vash patted his pack goodbye and waved with his prosthetic, glistening in the suns.

“Safe travels, Wolfwood!” Too cheery. Too bright. Wolfwood had to look away.

“See ya later, Spikey.” He set his sights on the horizon, briefly checking the map Vash snagged from the general store, and hit the gas.

After a quarter-ile, he looked back. And immediately wished he didn’t.

Vash was still on the edge of town. He was hunched over slightly, arms wrapped around himself. He clutched Wolfwood’s suit jacket sleeves in both hands, the sun hitting his sunglasses just so that Wolfwood couldn’t see his eyes. Once he noticed Wolfwood looking back, Vash stood straight and waved his arm over his head with a wide grin.

Wolfwood’s heart ached.

It was going to be a long month.