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“If I pray hard enough, do you think I could get an oasis to form right in front of us?”
Wolfwood only huffs beside Vash, gripping at an empty flask in his hand. “I don’t think that’s how God works miracles, Needle-noggin.”
“Maybe a little puddle then? If I ask very nicely?”
Wolfwood glares at him, unamused.
Vash sighs, head hanging between his shoulders. It’s hot. Way too hot. The suns are unrelenting over their heads, the sand is scalding under their asses, and the sweat dripping down their temples does little to cool their sticky skin.
With the last of their water gone, it takes everything in Vash to sit upright. He curses the suns above for stripping them of the little energy they had left. It’s days like these where he misses Angelina.
As much as he’d like to sit on his ass a bit more, Wolfwood isn’t in the best shape beside him and shouldn’t suffer in the heat for any longer than necessary. Vash resolutely sits up, shakes the sand from his hair, and moves to shrug their small bags over a tired shoulder. He ignores the protests of Wolfwood next to him, who insists that he can carry something, but the priest stops his ministrations as soon as he stumbles into Vash’s side, misjudging his footing as he attempts to stand.
Vash already misses the feeling of sitting down, but they need to keep going, because it’s all they can do.
He adjusts the cross hanging over his right shoulder, the leather bindings slippery with sweat that has soaked through his glove. On his left, he supports Wolfwood, who trudges along slowly. Multiple bullets grazed Wolfwood’s thigh in a less than glorious shootout earlier, and it’s nothing short of a miracle that he didn’t get shot, considering how heavy the gunfire flying over their heads was. It was quite the eventful afternoon, leaving them with very little will to endure what the rest of the day has in store for them.
Every once in a while Wolfwood lets out a tired huff or rubs at the blood smeared over his face. Vash focuses on the feeling of Wolfwood’s grip on his shoulder, distracting him from his own pain, a burn in his arm where metal meets skin. It’s sharp, and Vash would usually tend to it immediately, but Wolfwood deserves his attention much more. The burn is nothing in comparison to the red-hot guilt he feels stinging in his chest. He is responsible for the injured man at his side.
They walk in neutral silence, the crunch of sand under their shoes the only sound filling the air. With a glance to his side, Vash confirms Wolfwood is just as tired and worn as him, if not more so. His button up is stained with browns and reds, suit jacket long gone, instead tied sloppily around his waist. A chewed up cigarette loosely hangs between his lips. His eyes remain focused on the ground below them, as if he needs to concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other. He trudges forward one step at a time, each one a little clumsier than the last.
Everything hurts, and despite the small wave of relief that washes over Vash when a small town appears on the horizon after who knows how many iles of walking, they still have a long way to go if they want to make it by nightfall.
So Vash is left to his own thoughts, head spinning as he replays the events that transpired only a few hours ago. He should be used to it by now, getting shot at, the two of them running for their lives, tumbling face first into harm’s way. It’s almost commonplace — a barrel is pointed at Vash’s head, the same old threats get thrown around as bandits and bounty hunters encircle him, and he makes it out alive, no matter how bad his injuries might be. It’s nothing new for Vash to stand on death’s doorstep, somehow narrowly evading the crossfire each and every time. He has done it for so long that it’s normal, but this time? This time was far from normal.
It’s not the same when a barrel is pointed at Wolfwood’s head. Wolfwood is not a wanted man, and no bounty is tainting his name. To the common people he is nothing but a priest with a poor temper, but despite that Wolfwood is injured and wincing in pain every few steps beside him, because Vash froze up in the familiar face of danger, of all things.
Vash himself hardly walked away unscathed, but he could deal with it.
He sighs and chances a look at one of the suns above them, still shining fiercely in the sky. It beats down on both of them, adding to the weight on Vash’s shoulders, but the guilt weighs just a bit heavier. The cross he is shouldering almost feels feather-light in comparison.
It only worsens as Wolfwood sends him the occasional look, side glances and small gazes that are obvious in their delivery. Vash tenses under his stares, because he knows how perceptive the man is. Wolfwood shouldn’t be worrying about Vash, not when it should be the other way around. Given the abilities of Vash’s body, there should be nothing concerning going on. He knows Vash heals abnormally fast, and the entire bullet wound in his side is nothing but a little sore now. Wolfwood knows this and knows it well, which does nothing to help Vash’s case.
Vash has been willing himself to put on a neutral face, but he can feel the pain in his arm seeping through the cracks of his facade. He’s been disregarding it for Wolfwood’s sake, but that doesn’t make enduring any more pleasant.
They enter the town just as the suns begin their slow descent for the day. It doesn’t take too long for them to find a small motel to crash in for the night, Vash awkwardly shrugging through the pockets of his coat to pay for whatever room they could afford, the lady at the counter giving their bloody figures a once-over and silently sliding them a key. Wolfwood steps forward and takes it, and Vash immediately misses the security of Wolfwood’s hand clutching at his body. It’s like a dam breaks as he shifts away, the pain he has been ignoring for so long hitting him with the force of a thousand suns.
There are some days when it stings. Other days it burns, like a fire tingling across his body, one that can’t be extinguished. Most of the time it feels just as it did all those years ago. A sharp pain, white-hot and searing, that violently spreads to his fingertips, making him want nothing more than to rip off his prosthetic in the futile hope that it would help, somehow.
It usually takes less of a toll when there is something there, something that would, under normal circumstances, be able to feel the pain. Otherwise, it’s hard to wrap your head around. But that doesn’t change how badly it hurts, only adding to the discomfort on the occasion that he keeps his prosthetic on for too long.
They awkwardly trudge up the stairs one at a time, holding onto the walls to support themselves. It takes Wolfwood a minute to get the stupid ass tiny key into the lock, and he lets out a groan of relief as soon as the door swings open. Vash wastes no time leaning Punisher against the wall and dumping the rest of their belongings onto the floor as soon as he crosses the threshold into the room.
His prosthetic shakes as he closes the door behind him, and he wearily eyes Wolfwood as he sits on the windowsill opposite him, a lit cigarette already in hand.
Exhaustion floods Vash’s body as soon as he makes it to the bed, the sheets comforting under the weight of his body. With a click and a small hiss, a bit of relief washes over Vash. It’s not the relief he was looking for, but he’ll take what he can get.
His prosthetic is set aside, and he recognizes the thrumming of his heart right at the end of his stump. It hurts in a way that shouldn’t be possible. It’s irritating, time and time again proving to be one of the most exhausting forms of pain that Vash has ever had to endure.
He grits his teeth in frustration. He’d rather take a hundred bullets than have to deal with it ever again.
The pain isn’t as unbearable as it is jarring. The discomfort creeps into his chest, up and across his shoulder, and into an arm that isn’t there. It’s so warm and unpleasant, nagging at him like an itch you can’t quite scratch — a need you can’t quite satiate.
He only realizes he is crying when a soft touch grazes his cheek, wiping the tears away. It’s unmistakably kind and delicate, a touch that would normally be nothing but welcoming, but this time it stings. The sensation dances along his face, defying the bounds of his physical body as they meet the tips of his fingers, his face contorting into an expression of discomfort as he struggles to cradle the arm that isn’t there.
Wolfwood looks taken aback, his hand frozen in midair as worry crosses his face. Vash has explaining to do, he knows he does.
Vash hates to see that expression on his face, hates to see Wolfwood concerned over him. It’s not his fault, it’s not his burden, but Wolfwood cares anyway. Time and time again it never fails to tug at Vash’s heartstrings, because who is he to deserve grace from someone like Wolfwood after everything he has dragged him into?
Vash faintly registers that Wolfwood is talking, but the noise falls on deaf ears, muffled by the sound of blood roaring through his veins. His breaths are coming up short, and he notices the intense concern painting Wolfwood’s face. His lips move to form something that looks vaguely like “You alright, Blondie?” so Vash waves him away with a smile.
“I’m good! Crazy how the Vash the Stampede gets winded after a small flight of stairs, huh? You’d think I’d be in better shape by now.”
Wolfwood doesn’t buy it in the slightest, not after so many long days and sleepless nights spent in Vash’s company. It’s as if nothing gets by him anymore, but Vash would be a fool to think otherwise.
That’s why Vash knows that when he wordlessly turns around and limps to the small bathroom, the sound of running water filling the room is him filling the tub for Vash, rather than himself. The thought calms him a little, the tenseness in his shoulders dissipating ever so slightly. He takes a deep breath and cradles his head in his hand, shoulders sagging with the weight of his pain.
Vash feels the bed dip beside him as Wolfwood sits down, putting enough distance between the two of them to be comfortable.
“What is it, Spikey?”
Vash’s vision is blurry, eyes trained on the space in his lap, right where his hand should be. What is it? It’s a difficult question to answer because Vash doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t know why this pain has been plaguing him for decades, why it haunts him to the extent it does.
His body is a canvas of injuries — stories turned nightmares that have all healed with time. It’s one of his small mercies, that despite how familiar pain has become to him, he heals, eventually. Walking around with hundreds of scars is a small price to pay for the privilege of walking away alive.
But this feeling in his arm and the nightmare it reminds him of is ever-present, following him wherever he goes. Each time he thinks that finally, it might have stopped for good, it is right there to prove him wrong. It comes and goes, but at the end of the day, it lives within him, unmoving.
“How’s your leg?”
It’s a pointless attempt at dodging the question. Vash knows this, and so does Wolfwood, judging by the harsh glare he gives Vash.
“Spikey.”
A moment of silence passes between them before a small chuckle escapes Vash’s lips, but there is no humor behind it. “It’s my arm.”
Wolfwood shifts to get up, but Vash waves him away before he can examine him for injuries, that leg of his be damned.
“Not this one.”
Wolfwood casts a glance at the prosthetic lying on the nightstand, eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. “You didn’t hurt yourself using it, did you?”
Vash shakes his head, letting it fall to the wall behind him. “It’s not my prosthetic,” he whispers, not bothering to look Wolfwood in the eye. “It’s my arm.” He gestures to his stump. “Phantom pain.”
Wolfwood’s expression softens. Instead of asking questions, he rises to his feet and offers his hand. “C’mon. We should get cleaned up.”
Vash meets his cool eyes, a kindness in them reserved for quiet moments like this. Vash would not have expected such concern from him all those months ago when they first met, but with each day in his presence he feels luckier to be able to witness this side of Wolfwood. His sharp edges are still sharp, but they are only there to protect what would otherwise be one of the most gentle people Vash has ever met.
He doesn’t have it in him to fight back, so he gingerly takes his hand, hoisting himself up and into Wolfwood’s space.
Wolfwood’s palm is warm and comfortable around his hand, even through the glove covering his fingers. Vash knows Wolfwood’s palms are worn and calloused, run down from years of running, of chasing, of surviving. It’s comfortable. Familiar.
They huddle into the small bathroom, almost shoulder to shoulder given how little space it provides them. Vash winces as he takes his first good look at Wolfwood since they entered the room. Dirty and bloody, but offering to help Vash without a second thought. It hurts him somewhere in his chest, so he looks away.
He hears Wolfwood finish drawing the water into the tub, mumbling to himself about the water temperature not being the best. Despite cursing under his breath, Vash feels him give his hand a reassuring squeeze. Gentle. He squeezes back before pulling away to rub at his tired eyes.
Vash catches a glance at the small dingy mirror above the sink, taking in the true extent of the tiredness on his face. His hair is all over the place, the blond strands marred with red. The bags under his eyes hold a bit of extra weight, and more than anything he just looks exhausted.
Wolfwood waves a hand in front of his face, bringing him back to the grimy bathroom.
“Get your ass in the tub.”
A hollow chuckle escapes Vash’s throat. “You should be the one cleaning up first. You’re injured.”
“I can bandage up a couple of scrapes just fine, Needle-noggin,” he says, emphasizing his point with a flick to Vash’s nose. He yelps in surprise and cradles his nose, but all retorts get lost on his tongue when a small smile crosses Wolfwood’s lips. “I’m walking a bit better. You need this more than I do.”
Wolfwood seems to pay no mind to the fact that he has more than just a couple of scrapes, instead guiding Vash to the side of the tub with a firm hand on his back. “C’mon.”
“But—”
He rolls his eyes at Vash, but there is an underlying fondness in his expression, “Quit your whining,” he murmurs, hands finding the buttons of Vash’s coat. “At this rate we will still be here by tomorrow morning.”
Vash relents, allowing Wolfwood to crowd into his space. A calm silence takes over them, and Vash sighs, letting his eyes slip closed. Wolfwood slowly starts undoing the buttons, one at a time, until Vash shoulders off the bright red coat, letting it fall to the floor. His breath hitches in his throat as fingers start tracing small circles into his sides.
Wolfwood’s touch is gentle and tender as he avoids the few injuries Vash accumulated earlier, both the largest of wounds and the tiniest of grazes. His fingers travel up his body, mapping out the planes of his shoulders, reverent in their wake.
He carefully moves back to his torso, softly brushing Vash’s bullet wound from earlier.
“Does it hurt?”
Vash doesn’t remember when his eyes opened, but he hasn’t been able to look away from Wolfwood’s face, unmistakably soft. He shakes his head in response, some of his hair falling between his eyes.
A surge of warm affection blossoms in his chest as Wolfwood reaches for the hem of Vash’s top, almost rivaling the hot tingling in his phantom fingers. His forehead meets Wolfwood’s shoulder with a shaky exhale, halting his movements.
“Join me,” he whispers into the space between them, softer than a prayer.
Wolfwood’s breath tickles the back of his neck as he slowly nestles his face into his hair.
“Okay.”
He focuses on removing the rest of Vash’s clothing with all the care in the world, his clothing quickly adding to the small pile they have created on the bathroom floor.
It is a tight squeeze in the tub for both of them, but they make it work. Vash naturally finds a place leaning against Wolfwood’s chest, his arms fitting perfectly in the dips of Vash’s sides. It’s more comfortable than it should be, given the lack of space that they have. But, Vash thinks it’s the safest place he has ever been.
They simply sit there in silence for a while, existing in the same space, breathing the same air. It brings an unexpected sort of calm to Vash’s senses, the rhythmic rising and falling of Wolfwood’s chest behind him almost lulling him to sleep.
Vash doesn’t know how much time passes, but after a while Wolfwood stirs behind him, beckoning him to move forward with a gentle rub to his shoulder. He wordlessly complies, suppressing a shiver as Wolfwood brings a thumb to his chin, tilting his head backward.
It’s such a simple gesture, but each time Wolfwood lays a finger on him he feels his resolve slipping further from his grasp, and into the hands of the holiest man he knows.
Goosebumps trail down his body as the now cold water touches his scalp and runs down the back of his neck. Wolfwood rubs the dirt and sand from his hair, and Vash swears he feels the weight of his guilt and sins being washed away with it.
His eyes slip closed and Wolfwood presses his lips against the juncture between his neck and shoulder, so lightly that it can barely be considered a kiss.
It’s like time stills as he litters Vash’s shoulders with more gentle presses of his lips, hands only leaving his sides to find Vash’s intertwining their fingers together in silent worship.
With a squeeze of his palm, Vash backons them to switch positions, goes through the same motions with Wolfwood. As he cards his fingers through damp strands of dark hair, he hears Wolfwood let out a pleased hum, the sound music to his ears.
The buzzing in his arm dulls to a distant thrum, overpowered by the warmth in his chest. It’s heavenly, what Wolfwood can do to him.
A question forms on Vash’s lips, and he slows his motions as he looks for the right words to say. Wolfwood notices and turns his head to give him a questioning look, eyes studying his face.
Vash isn’t the most familiar with religion, but he knows the weight of religious words and the meanings they carry, literally or otherwise. Wolfwood is far from a typical priest of course, but religion is hardly foreign to him, either.
Vash speaks, softly. “For what it’s worth, I don’t… I don’t think you’re going to hell, Nick.”
Wolfwood almost completely turns around at that, eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. “Where is this coming from?”
Vash guides his head back to its original position, resuming the motions of washing his hair. A sigh escapes his lips. “Right before that man with the weird looking hair tried putting a million bullets in us, that’s what you told him. That you’d see him in hell.”
“Yeah, and then I called him an ugly motherfucker and gave him the finger.”
Vash remains quiet so he sighs, head falling forward. “It’s just a saying, Needle-noggin. It doesn’t need to mean anything.”
“But it does,” Vash interjects. “It does when I know for a fact that there is no place in hell for someone as good as you.”
That statement hangs in the air between them, and a chuckle escapes from Wolfwood’s lips.
“I’ve already been through hell, Blondie. Even if I do end up down there when all is said and done, I don’t think I’ll be missing much of what they have to offer upstairs.” His hand finds Vash’s knee, reassuring. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
As Vash washes away the last of the suds in his hair, he pauses. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t think heaven could ever compare to this, Spikey.”
Vash stills, unsure of what to reply. Overcome with fondness, he can only embrace Wolfwood from behind, smiling into his neck.
“I love that smile of yours.”
Vash chuckles wetly, fighting his tears not to fall. “You can’t even see me, stupid.”
Wolfwood further leans into his arms with a hum. “You know that doesn’t matter.” And Vash does, well aware of the soft smile present on Wolfwood’s face, matching his own.
Vash’s eyes fall to the tub, the water beneath them tinted with blood and sand, cheap motel soap suds clouding the surface. The life they are living is messy and far from heavenly, but it's theirs.
Having spent long enough crammed in the tub together, they dry themselves off, smiles still lingering on their lips as they clothe themselves and make a beeline for the single bed in the other room.
Vash feels his back hit the sheets and he lets out a content sigh, peering up at Wolfwood as he furiously towel-dries his hair, shaking the excess droplets from his head as he does so. They litter his bare shoulders, creating a small work of art. Vash moves closer and traces them, collecting the droplets with his thumb.
A smile graces its way to Wolfwood’s lips, and Vash can’t help but stare. At his eyes, cool and kind, at his lips, parted in question, at his hand, lingering between them. The ghost of Wolfwood’s fingertips trail from Vash’s shoulder to his stump, touches feather-light.
“Does it still hurt?”
Vash nods. The periods of pain last longer than he would like, but with Wolfwood by his side, looking at him like that, he thinks it might just become a little more bearable.
“And you? Your leg?”
“I’ll live. Just gotta take it easy for a few days.”
Wolfwood reaches across the space between them to lightly smack Vash’s cheek. “Stop it with that face. I’m fine.”
“But—”
“Grab the gauze, yeah? The sooner we get this thing healed the sooner I can beat your ass. I still haven’t forgotten about someone’s recent donut escapade that left us damn near broke. I’m surprised we could even afford this shitbox room.”
Vash’s body shakes with laughter as he shuffles over to their bags, going through their few belongings to find what spare medical supplies they have.
He grabs a cigarette along with them for good measure, zipping up their bag and shuffling over to the bed, between Wolfwood’s legs. He raises the cigarette to Wolfwood’s lips, eyes raking over his bare chest. Wolfwood raises an eyebrow in question but accepts the offering nonetheless. Vash flicks the lighter open, raising the flame to the cigarette as a plume of smoke fills the air between them. He doesn’t put up a fuss when Vash shifts to help him.
Vash lowers himself to the floor between Wolfwood’s legs, getting a closer look at the injuries. It’s hardly the worst of what has happened to him, but he figures their combined effects must make putting weight on his leg rather painful.
Wolfwood collapses onto his back, trusting Vash to take care of him properly. He makes quick work of the wounds, cleaning them with practiced precision. He disinfects the smaller ones and bandages up the bigger ones that should be protected from sand, ripping the adhesive tape with his teeth. He lets out a satisfied hum when he finishes, tossing the supplies off to the side.
He raises himself to his feet and flops onto his back, mirroring Wolfwood’s position. He glances at his profile, finding him deep in thought, dark blue eyes trained on the ceiling.
“Whatcha thinking about?”
It’s hardly more than a whisper, but it’s enough to pull Wolfwood from his thoughts. He takes a long drag from his cigarette with a hum, the smoke curling into the air above them.
He smiles, saccharine sweet. “If you really must know,” he says, shifting to face Vash, “Heaven. I’m thinking about heaven.”