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The ringing in Vash's head might've set a new record for how loud it could possibly get. When it starts to subside room is made for his thoughts, thrumming heartbeat fading into perception.
Wolfwood. Where is Wolfwood?
A firm weight is pressing on Vash's whole chest. He attempts sucking in a deep breath, stifling the panic leaking into his heart when it's frighteningly difficult. He tries kicking his legs, but they are held in place too. His body has almost gone numb underneath whatever is pinning him down.
What certainly isn't numb however is his head, aching as though his brain had been taken out, drop-kicked and shoved back in by someone with a thorough disdain for gunslingers in sunglasses.
His eyes regrettably peel open. There is no ceiling, just destroyed bricks and smoke; everything littered with rubble and rocks, air thick with dust, the sound of debris coming loose and falling. Vash angles his neck, skull throbbing as it moves; to see he’s being pinned down by a large, thick slab of concrete.
The first bout of mercy: his head and flesh arm are free.
Vash tries wriggling first; then pushing the weight off him with his free hand, but his body is weaker than usual. This won't work.
“Wolfwood?” he calls, helplessly feeling the slur in his voice. Another concussion for sure, Vash thinks.
“Ah… Wolfwood?” he slurs again, slightly louder this time. Raising his voice is tough, his lungs unsatisfyingly stopping short. His mouth is dry too.
“Spikey?!”
Vash forgets his pain for a moment at that sound.
Rushed footsteps grow louder and Vash cranes his head backwards to lay eyes upon Wolfwood, upside down in his vision, vaulting over debris in Vash's direction. His black suit is caked in gray dust, scuffs here and there, but he appears unharmed. Looks like the second bout of mercy is here.
“Spikey! There you are!”
Wolfwood's presence envelops Vash's soul with ease, focus scattering, and he snags his consciousness quick, terrified it was about to fade away.
He makes sure to smile gratefully as his partner approaches.
Wolfwood halts before Vash, processing the sight before him.
“Fuck, Blondie, you alright?” he asks.
Vash wants to form something witty but his head is swirling too much for that. He instead hums in confirmation, squeezing his eyes shut to go along with a widening grin.
“And how many double dollars will you give me for gettin’ that thing offa you?” Wolfwood teases, leaning over his face, a smirk appearing whose intention is to solve the mystery behind Vash’s cryptic positivity. He's trying to get him to talk on purpose.
“I'll buy you one drink.” A feeble attempt at playing along. He holds one finger up with his free hand to really sell it, but his ataxic speech has betrayed him for sure.
“Deal. You sure you're alright, Needle-Noggin?”
Vash tries not to let his expression fall. “Just- please lift this off me?”
Wolfwood looks Vash in the eye briefly before squatting at his side, tracing calloused fingers underneath concrete and testing its feel. Vash notes his delirium is apparently quite strong as it's melted away the mental barriers he'd set up for when Wolfwood being so close would fill him with an ease that shouldn't be so, so addicting. Not even discomfort this serious is strong enough to dampen out that.
“I'll give it a shot,” Wolfwood says, “but get out quick.”
“Okay,” Vash replies, “I'm ready.”
Wolfwood positions himself, clapping his hands and rubbing them together before inserting his fingers as far under the concrete as they can go. Vash braces himself to move, and as Wolfwood starts to strain he can feel an oddly painful relief as the pressure comes away, blood shuddering as it begins to pump through him normally again.
But Vash notices a soreness in his torso now, and suddenly he lifts off the ground with the concrete slab as if he were attached to it. Before he can even consider why, the hurt blossoms, screeching through his abdomen like molten lava has been poured into his guts, causing him to cry out, but suddenly he sees stars as the back of his head smacks the floor.
“Vash?!”
Pain reverberating, Vash catches a brief glimpse of a metal pipe sticking out of the concrete slab now above him, stained deep red and dripping at the end.
He whimpers as he scurries backwards, legs scrabbling messily over the ground.
"I'm out! I'm out!" he alerts, and Wolfwood gasps as he drops the debris which falls with a crash.
Vash is clambering to his feet now, hands sloppily darting over rocks to find something that doesn't give beneath him. Wolfwood is at his side immediately, and Vash feels a strong arm wrap round his chest and hoist him upright. The movement causes Vash to yelp, a wide sting shooting up his insides.
“The hell was that?!” barks Wolfwood before his eyes land on Vash's hands, clutching the new problem in his abdomen rather than the usual slung over Wolfwood's shoulders; body twitching as sparks of pain ignite randomly.
“I didn't know,” is all Vash manages in response.
He can feel the wetness spreading, soaking into his clothes. Wolfwood bats his arms away with his free hand and observes; still piecing things together; and that's when Vash's knees buckle.
“Woah, Spikey,” remarks Wolfwood, quickly shifting to support Vash's full weight as they lower to the ground together.
In these situations Vash would usually be fighting until he couldn't any more, the familiar terror that this would be the time his soul finally gets extinguished infecting his lone mind, untethered. Now though, he finds himself relaxing into Wolfwood's grip; allowing the person he trusts most to keep him safe. He wonders if with one torment out of the way his body can stop complaining and focus on healing sometime soon.
“Oh jesus, Vash...” he hears Wolfwood remark.
The mask has slipped, giving way to a bubbling worry. Wolfwood sets Vash's head down and removes his jacket, shrugging with aggression and hands frantically pulling at sleeves. He's an attractive sort of disheveled in just his shirt, Vash muses in delirium, but please don't ruin your handsome jacket...
Wolfwood scrunches it up and presses it hard on the injury, the contact of fabric making the fresh wound sing, a whimper escaping Vash's lips.
“I know, I know,” he hears him coo, tone so soft it's alarming. The pressure stays.
“It's fine...” Vash tries, voice broken, “You don't need to-”
“Shut up,” Wolfwood’s conduct breaks with a snap, eyes wild for a moment before looking away again. “Now ain't the time.”
Vash obediently swallows.
This wound is by far the worst he's ever sustained around Wolfwood. The pipe seems to have cookie-cuttered out a small chunk of his torso, and Vash thinks it'll be a nightmare to heal if his body manages it. He wasn't able to regenerate a missing arm, so he wonders faintly if his healing powers can stitch a hole like this back up.
Vash feels warmth tickling his hands lying next to him on the ground. His instinct is to lift them away, but manages only his metal arm at the elbow; his flesh joints heavy with emptiness; numb.
“Shit,” he hears Wolfwood murmur out of view now, Vash's head lolled to the side.
The world is tilting, clarity wafting away like Vash’s ears have a leak. The adrenaline probably keeps the pain mostly gone, he thinks, but he still feels his body shudder strangely.
“It's gone through you, Spikey,” he hears.
“Wolfwood,” Vash breathes. He doesn't want the last thing he sees to be the gray, broken, crumbled, dead space that he's about to become part of. He knows his actions haven't paid for destruction or salvation like Nicholas believes. A few months ago maybe he wouldn't have cared, but now...
“Wolfwood?” he asks selfishly.
Vash feels a shift in pressure on his abdomen, something much stronger appearing. Shadows move; and gently a hand creeps under his head once more. Wolfwood's face appears in Vash's vision; and he notices wet trails down from Wolfwood's glassy eyes poking out underneath his hair; curling around his chin. He's frowning, jaw clenched.
He looks like he is trying to find something to say, something is behind his tongue trying to come out, but he remains silent. An expression Vash hasn't seen before. He wants to tell him he's beautiful, that he wants to see his face this close every day. Blackness starts to bloom and disappear, his breaths feel painfully unsatisfying. Vash rasps, trying to suck in the air he needs to speak. Wolfwood catches this, staring him in the eyes, fear tugging at their sides.
“Sorry,” Vash mouths.
This seems to send Wolfwood over the edge, hanging his head and letting out a sob. Vash wants to reach up and wipe his tears away; cup Nick's face in his hands and tell him everything will be alright; that he can live, but he's lost his strength now.
His vision is being eaten by darkness. That familiar smell of ash and sandalwood; home; lingers in his mind, the smoke engulfing his brain like a weighted blanket. How selfish he had grown with Wolfwood at his side.
He knows Nicholas is talking to him now, softly. Vash wonders what he's saying.
There is silence. But not nothingness silence. The kind of silence where you can almost hear the air around you, the humming of the earth beneath your body.
Vash notices he's breathing. Each intake is strange, but he feels some air enter his lungs, and now he knows it's happening he wants to take a deep breath in, to invite life to pass through him, to feel it reach his fingertips. It doesn't work.
Something's rumbling.
Familiar footsteps on an unfamiliar creaky wooden floor. Early mornings are a pain, Vash thinks. Hopefully Wolfwood doesn't decide to rudely shake him awake yet. It’s rare he gets to sleep in a bed. He wants five more minutes at least.
Something hurts. I don't like it, Vash thinks.
Someone’s watching him. He sends the signal to his brain to open his eyes; but nothing happens. He tries again, putting more oomph into the surrounding muscles and this time feels give. Gaining confidence he keeps at it, managing to slice them open just slightly, his lashes obscuring blurry slices of light. He's rewarded with the sound of a voice.
Silence again. His chest gently heaves as it takes in breaths, still not right but a little easier than before. It's nice.
A foreign texture presses into bare skin. He’s lying on a bed he doesn’t remember getting into, instantly letting him know how much shit he’s in. A pain in his abdomen. He frowns, trying to find a way to breathe that doesn't agitate it, shuffling a little, but his heavy body makes it annoyingly tough.
“Spikey?”
Vash opens his eyes at the sound of his favorite voice, a cracked ceiling greeting him instead. It's ever-so-slightly dark, wherever he is, and Vash wonders if his vision is damaged or nighttime is just closeby. He tries lifting his head to find Wolfwood, but he only manages angling his neck slightly before it's overwhelming.
He hears a creak, shuffling, and suddenly Wolfwood appears overhead, eyes wide and curious as if Vash had just turned water into wine.
“Wuh... Wolfwood?”
A beat.
“Vash,” Wolfwood says slowly.
Vash can do nothing but stare, confusion spilling over like suds in an unceremoniously poured beer; short-circuiting his synapses.
“Um, ah. Needle-noggin. How do you feel?”
“Tired?” Vash croaks after a moment, head spinning. The scratch of his throat aches as he speaks. “Thirsty.”
Humiliated, Vash thinks. Pitiful. Where are we?
Wolfwood sighs, closing his eyes. He pulls away and Vash finds himself wishing to follow; pulled by gravity, outweighed by the galling black hole that is his body.
“Heh, glad to see you're finally awake,” Vash hears his voice move, the quick reverb and moaning of floorboards telling him they’re in a small room, probably a hotel. "Hold on..."
Wolfwood's casual demeanor appeared too abruptly, they both know it’s clearly a front. Vash is familiar enough with him to tell by now even while he’s still pulling himself into reality, but he hasn't the energy to perform his dangerous hobby of looking for the seams between the barriers.
“Oh man,” groans Vash. His throat bears that awful, rotten prickly sandpaper-like feeling he only knows from this situation, so he chooses short sentences. “How long?”
“Eight days. New record for you. Sorry, couldn't find any girls who wanted to give your ugly mug a wake-up kiss.”
Eight days. Vash starts to cringe at the thought of his clothes being changed; his body being looked at, but then Wolfwood offers him a water bottle.
He can barely lift his arms. He tries to raise his head again, managing only a slight movement. Wolfwood catches on quick and disappears from view again dutifully returning with some cushions.
Vash feels a gentle, calloused hand reach behind his head and grip softly, his limp hair laced between strong fingers. The touch sends warmth up and down Vash, closing his eyes to let Wolfwood lift, thankful he didn't have to ask. Experiencing this whilst he is able to appreciate it fully is-
No. Vash tucks that thought away quick before it turns into something else.
He feels pillows slide underneath, tickling his neck, and something inside him gets taken away alongside Wolfwood's hand.
“May I?”
“Mm.”
With precision Wolfwood tips the liquid towards Vash's lips. It's lukewarm, but still a marvel against his raw throat. A little embarrassingly some spills down his chin, and Vash enjoys the cross-eyed look on Wolfwood's face as he wipes it with his sleeve.
Usually when Vash got hurt around Wolfwood, the man would linger; offering help here and there but mostly observing silently, motionless; his eyes following Vash's hands as they poked into wounds and removed bullets, dirt, not even winces appearing around the awful squelching sounds that had Vash cringing. If things ever got so dire, Vash hadn't expected... this.
Safety.
“Thank you,” says Vash, the water instantly having a mild healing effect on his alien body. Wolfwood grunts in response, sets the bottle on the bedside table, leans against a wall and stares forward, not meeting Vash's eyes.
“What do you remember?” Wolfwood asks.
“How I got hurt?” Vash asks back, piecing together what Wolfwood’s agenda here could be.
“Yeah. From that day, what's the last thing you remember before waking up here?”
“I remember,” Vash begins, reaching into his own head, messy thoughts stacked high like a dreaded pigeonhole, “you lay me down and helped me. I asked for you and you held me, I think...” he trails off feeling the blood rise in his cheeks; knowing his thoughts at the time were engulfed by affection for the man before him; his defenses too weak to stop it. He tries to keep his heart down and away, holding its head underwater as it struggles for air. “...and, I'm sorry I worried you.”
“Tch.” Wolfwood looks away at that. “You're stupid to be sorry.”
“Ha. Yeah, I'm stupid.”
“So that's it? That's all you remember?”
Vash can feel some strength come back a little now, and he lifts a heavy flesh hand out the sheets to clasp his forehead. “Yeah, I think so. You said something about the wound... What happened after that?”
Wolfwood closes his eyes and sighs once more, the low rumble of his vocal cords joining in this time. “Took you out the wreck and legged it, found the bike and abandoned town with you in the sidecar. After a day of riding bumped into a doctor. Got what we needed from him then snuck out with you that night. Heh. Rode ‘til morning and found this place. Made friends with the landlady to get a good deal. Took in a bounty for the cash to extend our stay, it wasn't hard. Been dressin' your wound every day myself. Sorry, by the way. I know your rule about doctors.”
“A bounty?!”
Vash is stunned. He firmly believes bounties are not their business. Wolfwood knows that.
“I could've healed outside in the sidecar or something-”
“Don't start, Vash.” Wolfwood correctly senses an onslaught and pulls a pack of cigarettes out his jacket.
“You don't know who-”
“It was either bounty or let you die. I had no choice.” He flicks a flame into existence, breathes in through the embers. Vash knows if it weren't for the cigarette his tone would be far harsher. “And we can barely afford gettin' by even with the discounted price from the sweet landlady who took pity on us—name's Tesa, by the way,” he says as smoke leaks from his mouth and nose. “Sure she'll want to meet you now you're awake.”
Vash opens his mouth to say something, but nothing happens.
Wolfwood looks at him, nose wrinkling like the snarl of a wild animal, cigarette between two fingers. “I've had a nightmare the past week,” he utters. “Don't give me any crap now you're talking. ‘Think I preferred it when you were quiet.”
Clarity is reappearing now, unfortunately bringing the pain with it. Vash is trying to organize his head, but it's so tough with new information appearing every few moments, new twinges of pain combining with them rudely. His abdomen aches.
He sees the pipe, leaking red around its edge, a hole in his side that wouldn't let his vision in past the blood. He reaches for it over the covers.
“The wound...” he remarks.
“It's been healing,” Wolfwood tells him, turning away again; aggression's tail end in his tone. “Spikey... How the hell did you survive that?”
Like daggers through his own heart. Vash knows he's a monster, barely worthy of enjoying life among real people. The depth at which his inhumanity runs… Wolfwood caught a glimpse.
Soreness grows and fades with each breath.
“I don't know. It just happens.”
“I thought-” Wolfwood's voice hitches just a little and he cuts himself off, hand cupping his mouth, cigarette poking through. He lets out a breath, smoke streaming from his nose.
The moment permeates Vash's brain, comes back up and pulls a memory out with it—Wolfwood's face, achingly close and twisted in pain to a degree he had never seen before, eyes wet with tears.
Vash doesn't know what to think, what to say except "Wolfwood,” the word betraying an abyss of emotion like it’s never passed his lips until now.
Wolfwood looks away even harder. “Right. You know what I said, eh?”
Caught off-guard, Vash thinks for a moment. “You told me to shut up...”
An empty chuckle escapes Wolfwood. “Yeah. Maybe your memory ain't so bad.”
“What's wrong, Nick?”
He grunts irritably at that, swaying off the wall. “I'll get us some fresh food and water,” he says, not turning to face Vash before disappearing behind the door.
Vash awakens to the gentle shaking of his arm, letting his eyes slide open slightly to catch Wolfwood at his side.
“Oi Vash,” he says, hushed and soft. “You should have some water.”
Vash, still pulling his brain from the sticky recesses of sleep, groans.
“I know,” he hears Wolfwood whisper, “But you need to drink something before I call it a night. There's food too if you want.”
The gentleness of Wolfwood's tone tugs Vash further into existence. It's something Vash has never experienced from him before, his eyes widening a little to see if what he's witnessing is even real. There Wolfwood is at his bedside, one hand on Vash, the other holding a glass bottle of water, straw helpfully poking out the top. His face is painted a dim blue by the moonlight outside. The image of the back of Wolfwood's head is still hurtfully lingering in Vash's mind.
"I fell asleep?" Vash croaks.
"Yeah," says Wolfwood.
"Please don't leave again," he mumbles, knowing he sounds pathetic.
Wolfwood is taken aback by that. "Spikey, I gotta leave to get you food."
"I- Where-"
The dryness of his throat alerts Vash he is indeed very thirsty, and instinctively he reaches out to take the bottle. The sheets feel too heavy over him, and for the first time he notices his prosthetic is not attached.
"Hey," says Wolfwood, motioning for Vash to stay put, "let me..."
He brings the bottle up to Vash's face, a gesture that has Vash fighting turning giddy; realizing he’d missed it since last time. He feels the straw poke gently at his lips; which he parts, and when the water hits the back of his throat he coughs and sputters.
"Jesus Spikey, take it easy!" Wolfwood complains, not making it out of the splash zone in time.
"More," Vash says simply, nodding for Wolfwood to come back; and he cautiously does. Vash gets a few gulps down, the cool liquid soothing the raw skin in his parched throat. He’s surprised at just how much he can drink, and eventually Wolfwood pulls the bottle away.
"Okay." Wolfwood sets the bottle down on the bedside table again. "You hungry? There's jerky and fruit."
"Thank you, but wait..." says Vash, attention drawn elsewhere. "Where are you gonna sleep? This is the only bed."
"You can sleep now if you ain't hungry. Sorry for waking you."
"Wolfwood?"
Nicholas The Punisher rolls his eyes. "The floor. Or chair."
Vash frowns, using his lone arm to shift and sit upright. He sees a wooden armchair occupying the far corner of the room, currently home to his prosthetic.
Footsteps over the creaky floorboards play again like a beloved old record; and Wolfwood pulls a thin blanket out from some overhead shelving and whips it out over the cold, hard ground; Vash observing as it flutters into place outstretched. It looks a little pitiful as a place to sleep; and another nail drills itself into the coffin where Wolfwood's frigid ego resides.
Wolfwood makes incredulous eye contact with Vash and gestures at it.
"There," he says.
He begins unfastening his jacket—nice and clean now—quiet pops as each button comes undone.
"Share with me," Vash says.
Wolfwood's hands pause their fiddling.
"What?"
"We sleep together in the bed," Vash tells him.
"No." The hands resume.
"We've done it before! Just to save money," Vash groans, that last part teetering close to a dangerous edge.
"You're hurt this time, Spikey. And it’s only a single."
“If you’re close…” Vash begins, “then if something happens, you’ll know. I can nudge you, I don’t have to move much or try to shout,”
“No-”
“And you can finally rest on something soft,”
“No!”
“And if you don’t, I’ll take the floor.”
It’s quiet, the pair achingly close. Vash feels the heat radiating off Wolfwood’s body, the purposefully measured rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. They both face the ceiling, refusing to look each other in the eye; scared to move as though it would break the universe.
"Sorry," Wolfwood says.
Sorry?
Vash had arrived back into the world in a cozy bed, wound dressed, a comforting presence by his side. He hadn't had to crawl around, to drag his dissolving body, mixing into the dirt to find help; food, water. He hadn't needed to look over his shoulder, lay terrified at the mercy of some doctor he'd never met or stay wherever fate put him all alone for weeks; body broken, starving, wondering what it would take for it to give up.
Everything had been taken care of by someone who truly cared; the kindness of their heart unable to disguise itself behind their actions; harsh words not big enough to keep from view a glowing, beating, tender soul Vash always knew was there.
Yet here Wolfwood is; sorry.
"Don't be," Vash tells him, a familiar sickness with himself threatening to rear its ugly head. "I can't imagine what it was like for you. You've done nothing but care for me for eight whole days. I'm sorry you had to do all that."
"I didn't have to do anything."
"This is my fault."
"Don’t be stupid."
Stale air melted away, Vash rolls over, the side of his face slightly squashed against their single pillow. Wolfwood watches him.
“It was a bad call,” he admits. “I should've known it was dangerous, I shouldn't have made you-"
"I don't care, ain’t your fault."
Wolfwood turns to mirror Vash’s position, utilizing the eye contact to incontestably put his foot down. "Let me apologize. I’ve fucked up lots over the past week, but this evening took the cake. You were alone, upset and confused. Sorry for leavin' you today."
"I'm sorry for stressing you out so much you had to leave. After everything you've done for me too." Vash fires back instantly.
Wolfwood pinches the bridge of his nose. "That’s no excuse for me, Spikey..."
"Hah," muses Vash, "Looks like we're both pretty sorry. Call it even?"
Wolfwood smiles, and as he shifts, his free hand brushes over Vash, sending sparks up and down his spine, reaching his head and infecting his brain, startling him. Wolfwood startles too and whips it away, the speed of his own gesture catching him off guard.
He blinks.
Vash stares.
"That was..." Nicholas the Punisher mumbles.
That wasn't just him.
Vash processes what the sparks do to him like he does every time, how the serenade they play on his heartstrings has become what he lives for. Every little thing Nick does fills Vash with a dangerous warmth, a sweet medicine for his soul he had chosen to live without forced down him. And… he’s starting to let it happen. Nobody had done this before. Nobody could keep up with Vash like Wolfwood could.
For a luxurious moment he considers that maybe; if Nicholas is still here, perhaps Vash won't doom every being whose misfortune guides them through the path of The Humanoid Typhoon.
He can’t help himself.
Vash leans in, closing the distance, pausing once or twice to give Wolfwood an out if he wants it; but the man remains still, his gaze mellow like his brain is turning to candy floss.
Vash kisses Nicholas, cupping his face in his hand, eyes fluttering shut, careful not to let loose the beast months of shoved away pining has gradually pieced together. The silence of the cheap hotel room is interrupted only by the soft sounds of their lips, polluting each others’ hot breath, staying gentle.
Vash’s heart lifts as he feels that strong hand reach into his hair, holding their heads close, soft scratches on his skull sending shivers through his body.
Knowing someone, a person, like this; so close.
It’s amazing.
And through Wolfwood’s kiss, he thinks he feels the same way.
There is still so much to be found in the nooks and crannies of humanity, Vash thinks. The universe inside Wolfwood alone would be enough to quench him for eternity.
As they part, Vash can't help but smile; feeling it reach his sultry eyes.
Wolfwood takes in the expression, brows slackening then going the opposite way, eyes wide. Vash catches redness appearing in his face before the mattress rumbles as Wolfwood bounces onto his other side, facing away.
“That's a real smile, Needle-noggin.” Vash senses these are Wolfwood's parting words for the night. “Suits you.”
“Thank you,” Vash tells the back of Wolfwood's head.
“Glad to see you're takin’ a compliment for once.”
“That and... thank you so much for looking after me. You did good.”
“Tch.”
Nicholas strains, remembering to keep his grip on Vash's head gentle through his seizing muscles. He'd lost so much blood, and though Nick is familiar with the sight of some unthinking fool paying the ultimate price for his own stupid mistakes; this is Vash.
He thought Vash was invincible.
“Vash, come on,” he begs.
He presses their foreheads together, the Stampede's body limp and eyes barely slitted open.
“Fuck...” his voice breaks. “I don't wanna lose you,” he says, a squeak in his tone.
There's no response.
The warmth of life continues to leak away under Wolfwood's cramping knee, wetness soaking through his trousers.
He digs it into the injury harder.
His hands are sticky with Vash's blood now. Disgusting, Nicholas thinks. How anyone could wish harm like this on an angel like Vash, he doesn’t know. Everything he did, he did for them.
And for what.
Nick shudders, his lungs heaving for a deep; shaky breath he can't control. Nobody normal would be able to survive this—his hopes are pinned on Vash’s unique biology pulling something out of the bag.
“Urgh...”
Vash's cries echo in Wolfwood's soul, causing the kind of pain he didn't know he could feel any more, breaking the heart he thought had been torn from him long ago. The angel must've been suffering so much.
The silence though... it's far worse. It crawls on Wolfwood's back, amalgamating with his sins; haunting him. He can't think straight, there's something heavy and viscous dripping through his brain. He takes a few moments, heaving, the leg pressed on Vash's wound burning, refusing to seize up completely, steadying himself into a rhythm.
“Why- why can't I live without you any more? What's wrong with me?”
He knows his words are damning, but hearing his own voice grants him a small bout of clarity; and Nicholas uses it to scramble his hands around Vash's chest, tearing open his thick jacket, feeling the fabric unstick from the wound, reaching under his shirt and searching for a heartbeat. He imagines Vash's disgust at this, he'd ask not to be touched, blushing; hiding his skin with whatever's closeby.
Tough, Nick thinks.
He knows Vash's heart runs far faster than any human's, almost like a vibration—he'd heard it before when they'd shared sleeping space—and desperation pulls him apart as he presses around, trying to find a place where it'll come through, fingers catching on the notches and metal embedded in Vash's skin.
“Come on, come on...”
He feels it. It's there, faster than he'd thought possible, fainter like the rumble of a faraway celebration. It's so wrong, abnormal even for Vash, but it's there still.
But he's not breathing.
“Vash?! Vash?!”
Wolfwood's mind races, and he swings a leg over Vash in preparation for the kiss of life when he stops himself. He licks a finger and holds it under Vash's nose, and after a few moments feels the faintest, weakest coldness as the flow of air comes out.
Nick breathes out a sigh of relief, a depleting sigh that leads into a chuckle which feels manic. He lets it happen, lets the relief drive him crazy for a moment— the back of his mind on standby to remind him things could still very much go all to shit.
He needs to get out of here to give Vash a chance. Debris is threatening to jeopardise their position again, the bounty on The Stampede’s head has abolished the time they’d left in this town. He's a plant, some kind of angel, and Wolfwood has witnessed him heal in record time from lacerations, bullet wounds, broken bones.
He has no idea what to expect. He scoops Vash up, whose eyes are now shut, and looks for a way out; abandoning the reaper amidst the rubble.