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Wolfwood had thought he couldn’t be broken any further than he already was. But he felt the last intact piece of his heart shatter when Livio fell overboard. The blood and viscera splattered on the deck of the sandsteamer was a blot on his consciousness, and it nearly consumed him. He would’ve collapsed then and there if it wasn’t for the frantic rush that followed. He was kept on his feet only by his desperation to redirect the ion cannon and stop the sandsteamer freighting straight for the orphanage. And as soon as the steamer had rocked to a halt, Wolfwood could feel the despair creeping back over him, weighing heavier than his cross.
So when they found Vash in the plant room—iridescent and achingly, inhumanly beautiful—Wolfwood was almost thankful when Vash collapsed. When the sandstorm engulfed them, and a foreign ship landed just yards away, and people clad in all white, with visors obscuring their eyes, began to board the sandsteamer.
It gave him something to do with himself.
While Roberto loaded his derringer and he and Meryl moved to stand guard at the door, Wolfwood loosened the leather strap binding the Punisher.
The cloth covering it slipped loose and exposed the metal gun to the public eye, but Wolfwood was able to fit the strap over his chest, binding the cross to his back. Then he knelt down, neatly folding Vash’s arms over his stomach before hauling him up. And, God, if he wasn’t heavy for such a scrawny thing; but at least it balanced out the weight on his back.
Wolfwood groaned as he stood up, and cursed when his poor coordination caused Vash’s head to loll back, exposing his long, thin neck and giving Wolfwood a glimpse at the scar tissue hiding just below the collar of his turtleneck. He didn’t have the chance to be distracted for long, because then the white clad people were flooding the plant room.
Unable to use his own weapon, Wolfwood balanced Vash’s weight against his bicep to free his hand, and pulled Vash’s gun from the holster on his leg—praying (but not stupid enough to hope) that Vash had loaded the damn thing.
“Stay back,” he growled, lining his sights with the older woman steadily closing the distance between them.
But she didn’t halt, she didn’t even look concerned, as if she knew the gun Wolfwood had taken from Vash wouldn’t have a single bullet in the chamber.
“It’s okay,” Meryl called from the door. “Look,” she gestured to the clothes the people wore, and Wolfwood blinked when he realized he recognized the symbol. He glanced down to the patch on Vash’s chest to be sure. Project Seeds. Wolfwood swallowed, but slowly lowered the gun.
“Thank you for looking after Vash,” the woman said, her voice dignified but sincere. “Is he hurt?”
Wolfwood looked her over and grunted slightly as he adjusted Vash’s weight in his arms. “Don’t think so. Just fainted.”
The woman nodded, then looked behind her to the others she had arrived with. She waved them closer, and Wolfwood saw the two posts and cloth of a furled stretcher on one’s back. “If you lay him back down, we’ll—”
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Wolfwood snapped, taking a step back. Tightening his grip on Vash, who released a soft sigh, grimacing in his sleep. Wolfwood carefully adjusted his grip so his fingertips weren’t digging into Vash’s flesh; and his mind was spinning in so many separate directions, he jumped when he heard his name.
“Wolfwood,” Meryl said, exasperated. “They’re here to help.”
“It’s alright,” the woman placated. “You can carry him, if you’d like. But we’re bringing him aboard.”
There wasn’t room for argument in her voice, and even though they didn’t carry any weapons, Wolfwood knew he couldn’t take on all of them, especially since he wasn’t willing to let Vash go. And exhaustion was catching up with him. He knew he couldn’t keep this up for much longer.
“Fine,” he hissed. “But he doesn’t leave my sight until he wakes up. Got it?”
The woman raised her eyebrows as if amused, but she acquiesced, and stepped aside to make room for Wolfwood to trudge past her. He stopped in front of Meryl and let her take Vash’s gun from his hand to put it back in his holster. Then she and Roberto fell into step beside him as they were escorted aboard what looked like a goddamn spaceship.
Walking through endlessly similar hallways with his unwieldy burdens, Wolfwood’s mind was going fuzzy, and he nearly ran into the woman leading them when she stopped in front of an open room, and gestured Wolfwood inside. His vision tunneled in on the bed against the far wall, and he didn’t see anything else until he’d laid Vash down on the firm mattress, adjusted his arms into a more comfortable position, and removed his glasses.
Only then did he lean back and take in what was around him with a start.
There were at least a dozen pictures taped to the wall, with many different people in them—the only constant was a small blond kid with an uneven haircut and a beauty mark under his left eye. Front and center was one with the young Vash’s arms around the shoulders of two adults, his legs swinging in the air; and the woman in the photo, although significantly older now, was the woman who watched each of Wolfwood’s movements carefully. Protectively.
Wolfwood cleared his throat and left the bedside to meet the woman in the doorway.
“Luida Leitner,” she introduced herself.
“Wolfwood,” he muttered, then cast one more look over his shoulder before he stepped out of the room. Luida let the door slide most of the way closed, leaving it cracked just enough that if he strained, Wolfwood could still hear Vash’s gentle breaths.
“Is the brat home?” a voice came from down the hall. Wolfwood and the reporters all turned to watch a man—the aged version of who’d been beside Luida and Vash in the photograph—come into view. Though he had an unfriendly demeanor, there was clear affection in his voice.
“Yes,” Luida answered. “Unconscious now, but his friends are going to keep us company until he wakes up.”
“Hmm,” the man gruffed. “Well, make yourselves comfortable. When he’s out, he’s usually out for a while.”
He walked towards the door, and tilted his head to see Vash through the gap; but he was stopped when the woman said, “Brad,” then leaned in to speak into his ear.
“Again?” he asked, but sighed, resigned. “Alright. I’ll grab my tools. You’re wanted in the control room, walk with me. Tell me the damage.”
Luida nodded and left the three of them loitering outside of Vash’s room.
“Jesus. This is surreal,” Roberto grumbled. Meryl hadn’t said a word since they’d come aboard, but she stood in front of the door, peering in to keep her eye on Vash— a slight frown on her face as the wheels turned behind her eyes.
Allowing her the first watch, Wolfwood loosened the clasp on the leather strap that was cutting into his chest and he let the Punisher thump onto the floor before he dropped down beside it and leaned back against the wall. His back felt like a spring decompressing after it had been squished down for too long, and he focused on that for as long as he could. His attention kept trying to drift back towards Livio, but Wolfwood set his head in his hands, pushing his palms into his eyes to blot out the image in the forefront of his attention of Livio raising the gun to his own head.
Each time his mind whispered, Livio, Wolfwood drowned it out with Vash, Vash, Vash. There was someone still alive, someone he could still protect, someone he hadn’t already failed. He was destined to fail Vash, he knew that—in the worst way imaginable. But not yet. He still had time to wrap his life’s purpose up in Vash for as long as he could bear. As he bored his new mission into instinct, he refused to let himself consider that it was no longer because he was following his orders.
The man, Brad, hadn’t been fronting when he said Vash would be out for a while. Meryl had dropped down from watching Vash, to dozing lightly in front of the door, and Wolfwood was only keeping himself awake through stubborn determination. But the gasp from inside the room and the rustling of fabric caused Wolfwood’s head to shoot up. He was about to stand, but Roberto put a hand on his shoulder as Brad approached the room, a toolbelt around his waist, and spoke into his small radio. “Paging Luida. He’s up.”
The old man smacked the button to slide the door the rest of the way open, and walked inside. Wolfwood listened carefully and his shoulders slumped in relief when he heard Vash’s gentle chuckle in response to Brad’s ribbing. Luida hadn’t been stationed far, and she came moments after Brad’s call. When she walked past the sitting vigil to enter the room, she waved the three of them to follow.
They struggled to pull themselves to their feet, but did so nonetheless, following Luida into Vash’s line of sight. Wolfwood ignored the tangible, collective relief that washed over all three of them to see him upright.
Not even a minute had passed since he’d woken up, but Vash had already donned his tinted glasses once more. When Wolfwood’s attention focused from Vash’s glasses to his eyes, Vash was staring right back, his usual smile—cracked around the edges by an unfathomable pain—in place as he said, “We stopped the ship, all thanks to you.”
Wolfwood cast his eyes away and mumbled something barely intelligible to change the subject, hardly listening as Brad and Luida unveiled the miracles of technology that could keep them alive for 150 years. But where they had the luxury of falling into a deep slumber for likely over a cumulative 100 of those years, Vash had born the entire weight of that century and a half, and Christ, he looked tired. His eyes barely managed to follow whoever spoke as the conversation jumped around between everyone in the room but him.
Wolfwood was about to ask Vash if he was alright when Luida said. “You’re right. We do rely heavily on the plants to keep Project Seeds alive, but I have something I’d like to show you. Tomorrow, after you’ve had the chance to rest. We can make room for you all for the night. So if you all don’t mind, let’s give Vash some time to recuperate.”
Gratitude bloomed on Vash’s face, and he stood up slowly, unsteadily; but Wolfwood wasn’t given the opportunity to offer him support before he was being ushered out of the room by Luida. He cast one more look over his shoulder, seeing Brad offer Vash a steadying hand, saying: “I’ll need to do some serious repair, Vash,” as the door slid shut behind them.
Luida walked them to a series of uninhabited rooms and left them to decide amongst themselves as she was called off to other business. So Wolfwood took the closest room, and none of the others complained. He dropped the Punisher and fell onto the bed, his body bouncing once, but nothing like when Livio had gone down; body already limp before he hit the sand, his head cracking on the hard earth.
Letting out a controlled exhale, Wolfwood stared at the ceiling light until the image melted away.
He’d registered a line of searing pain across his chest while he’d been sitting in the hall, but now alone, Wolfwood lifted up the collar of his shirt to find that the leather strap had rubbed so tight that the skin was friction burnt and beading with blood. He slapped himself on the chest to ignite the burn and focused on that for as long as he could. But it wasn’t enough. He needed to feel the burn deeper.
Luida, smelling the smoke on him, had told him when he’d boarded that there was no smoking on the ship, but he knew ways around that. Besides, even if he was caught, they wouldn’t stand a chance of forcing him to leave. Not while Vash was still onboard.
Wolfwood slumped his way to the bathroom and a cloud of steam poured out the moment he opened the door. The bathroom was more communal than he’d expected for such an advanced ship. It was a large square room with sinks and toilets on one side, and lockers and shower spigots on the other. But he didn’t really need privacy as long as whoever was in there didn’t tattle; and given the amount of steam, his guess was that Roberto was one step ahead of him in disguising the smoke under the hot water.
But when his eyes moved to the showers, he found himself mistaken.
And when Wolfwood saw the whole picture of Vash the Stampede for the first time, his heart ached impossibly worse.
The scars from bullet wounds were the least surprising, even if there were many more than Wolfwood would have guessed, many over vital organs that would have put any human six feet under. No, it was the shiny skin of long-since healed burns, and the bumps covering the uneven expanse of his back where years old shrapnel was still buried that sent Wolfwood’s vision into hues of red. It was the metal grafts, and the cage over his heart that filled him with bloodlust for anyone who’d ever raised a hand against Vash.
But worse than the scars was that which was missing entirely.
The prosthesis didn’t go as far up Vash’s arm as Wolfwood had been led to believe by the matching pauldron on his shoulder, but instead ended just above his bicep.
The twitching of exhausted muscle just above the connection was visible even from where Wolfwood stood. The lost technology arm was riddled with dents from bullets he’d blocked from hitting himself and the other passengers on the sandsteamer, and cracked from winching himself between the deck and the cannon. Wolfwood had felt his own bones creaking with the effort of it, but he that knew his joints would’ve given out long before the pressure became enough to cause bone to splinter. Vash had locked his prosthetic joint, knowing full well it could’ve shattered his left arm, for the sake of the orphanage. And Wolfwood had let him do it.
He was about to clear his throat, alert Vash to his presence so he wouldn’t startle, but his voice faltered as Vash let out a soft sigh and raised his hands, cupping them together.
Although water slipped through his metal fingers, enough pooled in his palms for him to splash onto his face; but rather than letting his hands fall, or sliding them up into his hair to wash out the sand, Vash brought his hands together just in front of his lips, palm to palm.
Rivulets of water trickled down Vash’s neck as he leaned his head back, eyes closed, and if Wolfwood could be trusted to identify it, he would’ve thought Vash was praying.
But then the markings on his face began to glow, and Wolfwood realized: this ship ran on the power of hundreds of plants, if not more. Plants that generate the water Vash stands under, plants that produce the electricity that warms it, plants that purify the air he breathes; and for that, Vash was offering his thanks.
For the century and a half that he’d been on this planet, Vash had been too eager to give—to right his brother’s wrongs; and the world had taken every ounce it could wring from him, without ever showing him compassion in return. And yet Vash was the very picture of gratitude as he accepted the fruits of his sisters’ labor, taken for granted by every human Wolfwood had ever met.
And Wolfwood seethed with how unfair it was.
He spun on his heel and stormed back out and down the hall. He didn’t bother knocking before sliding open the door to Roberto’s room. The man was reclined on the bed, a magazine in his hand, and he didn’t look surprised to see Wolfwood.
“Tell me you have chew,” Wolfwood demanded.
Roberto eyed him for a minute, and Wolfwood readied himself for a ‘what’s in it for me’ or ‘and who says I’d share if I did’, but Roberto just gestured for him to shut the door. Wolfwood did, and Roberto groaned as he forced himself up into a sitting position. “Don’t tell the newbie about this,” he conditioned. “Don’t need another damn lecture.”
Wolfwood was nearly buzzing with impatience as Roberto pulled a small tin out of his jacket pocket and held it out. He wanted to grab it immediately but asked, “Why are you so generous all of a sudden.”
Roberto’s expression was nearing something that could be called soft and Wolfwood regretted asking, because he knew what came next. “That was your friend, wasn’t it? On the sandsteamer?”
Wolfwood bit his tongue, hard, and Roberto waved the tin in his direction.
“You need it today.”
And Wolfwood didn’t want pity, but he needed nicotine, so he accepted the tin, shook it slightly, then pried off the lid to grab a tobacco leaf. Once he’d stuck it in his mouth, and maneuvered it into his cheek, he mumbled, “Thank you,” and handed the tin back.
“Don’t mention it,” Roberto said; and Wolfwood huffed a slight laugh, knowing he meant it as a literal directive, not a nicety.
It didn’t take long for the nicotine to hit his system, and the relief was immediate. The irritation that had been sitting at the back of his throat lifted and he dropped into the chair by the table, letting out a long exhale.
“You doing better now that Vash is awake?” Roberto asked him after a minute. “You were pretty wound up while he was out.”
“Thought we were having a moment, gramps,” Wolfwood teased. “Why’d you have to go and bring up the typhoon?”
“Because he’s half of why you’re this worked up, isn’t he? You froze when he went down.”
Before Wolfwood could contest that, Roberto raised his hand and carried on.
“Not for long, I know. But you did.”
Wolfwood was quiet for a long while, hating that Roberto was right. He’d already been shattered by what had happened to Livio; and watching the light fade from the markings on Vash’s face when he collapsed would've been the final straw if he hadn’t felt Vash’s breath against his hand when he’d ran to his side.
Eventually Roberto laid back down. “The kid has been through a lot. It’s okay to be upset about it,” he said, then picked his magazine back up.
The buzzing in his head was back, so Wolfwood used his tongue to adjust the leaf in his mouth, grinding it between his teeth. Then he stood. “I gotta go. Thanks again.”
The artificially sweet leaf was beginning to disintegrate in his mouth, which just let the nicotine into his bloodstream that much faster. Still, he supposed he’d had enough. He trekked back to his own room, spit the leaf into the trash, and picked up the Punisher before hauling it back down the hallway towards Vash’s quarters.
The door was shut, so he didn’t know if Vash was back or not, but he propped the Punisher against the wall and took up his post nonetheless. When he began to sway slightly, from exhaustion and the rush from the tobacco, he leaned back against the wall. He was about to slide down onto the floor but he startled when the door whooshed open and he caught the tail end of whatever Brad had been saying. “—it back as soon as I’m done.”
“Thank you,” came Vash’s voice from inside, smaller than it usually was.
Brad stopped in the doorway when he saw Wolfwood just outside. He shifted whatever he was holding to the side out of Wolfwood’s line of sight. “You can take the night off, guard dog. Ain’t no one going to hurt Vash here.”
“Wolfwood?” Vash asked, and Wolfwood didn’t know if he was asking Brad to confirm who he suspected was outside, or calling to Wolfwood expecting a response.
“Yeah, it’s me, blondie,” he answered regardless of who the question was aimed at, still half distracted by whatever it was Brad was carrying that he didn’t want Wolfwood to see.
“It’s alright, Brad, he can come in.”
And though Wolfwood hadn’t come expecting an invitation in, he wanted to vaunt that this guard dog was allowed on the couch. He hauled the Punisher over his shoulder and stepped past Brad and into the room, pretending he didn’t feel the older man’s eyes on his back until the door slid shut between them.
Then, when Wolfwood’s were the only pair of prying eyes in the room, his attention fell to Vash, sitting on the edge of his bed. His hair was still wet from his shower, and water trickled down the side of his face when he looked up to Wolfwood. The perfect blue of his eyes was once again hidden by his tinted glasses, his scars by his turtleneck, and his slender fingers by his stupid shooting glove. But Wolfwood swallowed around nothing when he saw the left sleeve of Vash’s turtleneck hung empty—tied in a loose knot.
He forced his gaze upwards, not wanting to stare, and Vash didn’t have enough time to wipe the melancholy from his expression.
“How bad was the damage?”
“Lost tech is pretty sturdy,” Vash skirted the question, fidgeting with the loose sleeve. “Brad thinks he can have it fixed by morning.”
Wolfwood nodded. “And you?” he asked. Then cleared his throat at how tender his words sounded. “How are you after… all that?”
“Me? Oh, fine. Fine. I’m sorry for any trouble I caused.” He averted his eyes and looked down at the ground before he said, “And, Wolfwood…” His voice was too soft, and Wolfwood didn’t want to hear what he was about to say. “I’m… I’m so sorry. About your friend.”
Every muscle in Wolfwood’s body tensed with the effort it took to keep himself from trembling. He couldn’t think about Livio. He wasn’t ready—he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready to accept what happened. Instead, he looked away and readjusted the cross on his back. “You should probably get some rest. Whatever your grandpa says, I’m going to keep watch tonight. Rest easy—”
“You don’t need to do that. You need rest too.”
“What, you’re telling me you don’t think you’d sleep easier with someone watching your back, tonight of all nights?”
Vash didn’t answer the question. “It’s really not necessary.” But the tone in his voice gave away the real issue.
Wolfwood let the Punisher thud against the floor and fall back against the nearest wall. He leveled Vash with a glare for the ages. “You don’t plan on sleeping, do you?”
Vash looked up at him, and there was something resigned in his eyes, a twitch that showed he knew the irony. He was in a place he must consider home, finally without the weight of lost tech weighing him down, and his mind wouldn’t be able to be put to ease. He shrugged his left shoulder and asked, “Do you really think I can sleep like this?”
Shaking his head, Wolfwood stepped closer. “The door locks, doesn’t it? And I’ll be right outside. What could possibly happen? You’re safe here.”
“It’s not about whether or not I feel… safe. I know I’m safe here. But I just… It’s just not that simple.” He looked like his exhaustion was about to consume him, and Wolfwood wasn’t going to relent on this.
“I can handle complicated. Tell me what you need.”
Vash’s brow furrowed. “Why? I’m telling you that you don’t need to do this. You can let it go.”
“I want you to have one night,” Wolfwood snapped; the anger he felt on Vash’s behalf, for all the agony he’d endured, infused his words as desperation. “One fucking night, blondie, where you’re not pushing yourself to your limit.”
Vash responded in kind, an unusual tinge of frustration in his words. “You don’t know my limits, Wolfwood. This is just the way I am, and I’m used to it—”
“I carried you today. When you collapsed,” he interrupted, watching the way Vash recoiled at the knowledge that he’d been even a slight inconvenience to another person. “And I don’t know what plants are made of, but I know what’s left of your body doesn’t weigh as much as my goddamn cross.”
He was exaggerating, of course he was, but it made his point.
“Your arm is so heavy,” Wolfwood rasped. “And I know you must feel…” he couldn’t say vulnerable no matter how true it must be. Vash had given up so much, Wolfwood couldn’t take his pride. “It must be stressful to be without it; but if you’re already being forced to endure one night where gravity isn’t crueler to you than anyone else on this godforsaken planet, I want you to make the most of it. Let me give you that.”
Vash shivered under the weight of Wolfwood’s gaze.
“Please.”
And Vash, who was held together only by the desire to atone, Vash who couldn’t deny anything asked of him, had to cast his eyes away.
It had only taken a day or so upon meeting Vash to work out what made him tick. Once Wolfwood had realized Vash was so filled with guilt he should be choking on it, he knew exactly how easy Vash would be to manipulate. He’d seen immediately that Vash would use himself as a shield until there was nothing of him left at all. Wolfwood hadn’t wanted to take advantage of that fact, even though he knew Vash would let him. He considered himself an honest deceiver, after all.
But this was the one time he would use Vash’s self-sacrificial doctrine against him.
“Please, Vash,” he whispered, and the look Vash gave him nearly brought Wolfwood to his knees. It was wounded, like Wolfwood had just used the dirtiest trick in the book by saying Vash’s name; and Wolfwood knew he’d won.
Vash held Wolfwood’s gaze as he reluctantly brought his wrist up to his mouth and caught his bracelet between his teeth. His sharp canines flashed as he maneuvered his head to pull the cuff over his hand. Then he dropped it to the side and rubbed his forearm along his thigh to raise the sleeve of his shirt up to his elbow where the glove ended. He was about to bite the end of the glove to remove it as well, but didn’t have the chance before Wolfwood had dropped into a kneel in front of him and slipped his finger under the tight leather right at the crook of Vash’s arm. Vash made a small noise of surprise, but didn’t object as Wolfwood slowly peeled the glove down his arm and off his long fingers.
Wolfwood dropped the glove into Vash’s hand, to let him decide what to do with it. Then he grabbed both ends of the shoelace on Vash’s left boot and pulled the bow free.
“You don’t need to do that,” Vash said right on cue, excusing Wolfwood from helping Vash complete the task he’d sicced on him.
“I know.” His voice came out more raw than he was anticipating, and in that moment he was thankful for Vash’s constant, suffocating consideration, knowing he wouldn’t bring focus to it.
He just watched as Wolfwood steadily loosened the rows of laces, and when he was finished with that, wrapped one hand around Vash’s thin ankle—to hold it steady, he would lie—and pulled his clunky boot off.
But when Wolfwood reached for the right, Vash pulled his foot back. “Really, Wolfwood, I can do it myself.”
When Wolfwood looked back up, he saw confusion in the furrow between Vash’s eyebrows. Confusion, and a tinge of anxiety, revealing that nothing Vash had ever received had come without a price. That every act of kindness he’d been granted had cost twice as much when the favor was inevitably called in.
Wolfwood slumped further, and rested his head against Vash’s knees.
“Just shut up and let me help you,” he’d meant it to sound demanding, but it spilled from his lips in a pathetic plea.
At least it did the trick.
An involuntary tremor twitched in Vash’s leg just under Wolfwood’s forehead, but he let Wolfwood untie his other shoe. He let Wolfwood grab his right ankle as he had the left, the circumference small enough that his middle finger overlapped with his thumb, completing a tragic circle. Once he had set the other shoe to the side, he let his hand fall from Vash’s ankle. “There. Was that so hard?”
He hadn’t meant it to sound condescending, but he should’ve realized the graveled rasp of his voice wouldn’t allow him to come across any other way.
Vash stood up so suddenly that Wolfwood was startled from his kneel and he dropped onto one hip. “That—I didn’t mean it like that,” he cringed. But then Vash was lowering his hand to Wolfwood, who took it without thinking and was suddenly on his feet, lifted with incomprehensible ease.
“Would you lock the door?” Vash asked. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, Wolfwood heard; but he’d gotten what he came for—he didn’t need Vash to humor him any further.
“I’ll be just outside if you need anything,” he said. His caretaking was rusty, but he hoped Vash knew he was sincere, and that truly all he wanted was for Vash to allow himself a single night of reprieve before—
“Wolfwood.”
Wolfwood turned around, and he saw Vash looking back at him. He looked small in the bright room, a black hole eating his surroundings, his wet hair a gentle slope along his forehead—clean perhaps for the first time since they’d met. He’d removed his glasses, and while Wolfwood hadn’t wanted to use the word, there was no other way to describe the look in his eyes besides vulnerable. “Yeah?” Wolfwood rasped.
“I don’t—if I’m…” Vash’s fist clenched, and he had to look away before he could say: “I don’t want to be alone.”
The ache in Wolfwood’s heart grew tenfold, and he could hardly breathe around the knot in his throat.
“Stay. Please.”
And Wolfwood looked heavenwards for a brief moment before his eyes fell back on the angel in front of him. “Alright,” he whispered. His hand fell from where it hovered over the open button as he looked for the lock. He must have taken too long, because then Vash was behind him, leaning in to place his palm on the pad beside the door. The screen flashed red, and Vash hesitantly pulled his hand back before dimming the light to just a faint glow.
Wolfwood averted his eyes as Vash unbuttoned his pants and slowly stepped out of them, but took them from Vash once he was done, folding and setting them aside as Vash approached the set of drawers set into the wall. He pulled out a pair of loose white pants similar to what the men aboard the ship wore; and something in Wolfwood settled knowing the abysmal contents of Vash’s backpack weren’t his only belongings—even if these didn’t suit him nearly as well as the black cargos Wolfwood was accustomed to seeing him in. Those added a bulk that made it easier to imagine Vash wasn’t quite as gaunt as the flash of his ankles and wrists made him appear.
These did look much softer, if nothing else.
Vash turned back around, and Wolfwood quickly averted his gaze, turning around as Vash sat heavily on the bed. Wolfwood crossed the room and plucked Vash’s gun from the holster hanging up beside his coat, and he heard Vash’s dry gulp before Wolfwood adjusted his grip to hold it by the barrel and carried it over, setting it on the bedside table just within Vash’s grasp.
Then he walked towards the chair tucked under the table, but before he could sit down, Vash requested, “Wolfwood, please come lay down,” and Wolfwood startled. But he knew he couldn’t deny Vash a single thing he asked for in this moment. He crossed to the other side of the bed, removing his suit jacket and stepping out of his pants, kicking them haphazardly into the corner before cautiously climbing into bed beside Vash
Though he liked to lay on his stomach, taking up any space he could, Wolfwood laid on his back, nearly falling off the side. This wasn’t his night for comfort.
Vash rolled onto his left side, facing Wolfwood, and Wolfwood stared at the ceiling for as long as he could bear before his head tilted to the side and he made eye contact with Vash.
Vash smiled at him tentatively. “Thank you.”
Wolfwood growled and looked back to the ceiling. “Don’t thank me.”
“I wouldn’t be able to do this alone.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said, more forcefully.
Vash was quiet for a long while, but he hadn’t relaxed, he wasn’t trying to sleep. From his peripheral, Wolfwood could see Vash’s eyes raking over him, taking him in, seeing each and every crack that Wolfwood was barely holding together.
He sighed and rolled onto his side to face Vash. “Thank you,” Wolfwood muttered. “For saving the orphanage.”
Vash’s slight smile fell, and his eyebrows furrowed once more. “I’m so sorry about your friend,” he said again, and this time, eyes already locked with Vash’s, Wolfwood couldn’t pretend he didn’t hear.
He bit his tongue. “It was too late for him. I told you then.”
“Then I’m sorry I was wrong.”
“Don’t fucking apologize.” Wolfwood snapped and Vash startled, blue eyes wide in the low light. “You didn’t do that to him. You’ve never harmed anything in your life. You should never apologize to anyone. Ever.”
Vash looked away. “I’ve done more harm than you could possibly understand.”
Before he knew what he was doing, Wolfwood had reached forward, his hands on either side of Vash’s face. Forcing him to look back. Immediately, Vash’s hand darted up, gripping Wolfwood’s left wrist tightly as he let out a small gasp. And Wolfwood felt guilt eating away at him. He shouldn’t use more than one of his hands right now. He shouldn’t be allowed to have that advantage over Vash—it wasn’t fair.
He quickly tried to pull his hands away, but only his right came free. His left was held in place against Vash’s face by the tight grip around his wrist. Although Vash was breathing quickly, he didn’t look afraid. In fact, he tilted his head nearly imperceptibly into Wolfwood’s palm.
And Wolfwood allowed himself to gently stroke Vash’s cheek with his thumb. “You’ve done more good than anyone else to ever step foot on this planet.” Wolfwood knew those words to be truest he’d ever spoken. Even if Vash truly was only the twenty-some years old he appeared to be, he’d have still done more for humanity than anyone to ever walk Noman’s Land. In 150 years? Well, the state of his body, ripped to shreds by all the bullets and blasts he’d taken for other people, spoke for itself.
Yet, even in the face of the empirical evidence, Vash had the audacity to shake his head. But before he could even open his mouth to argue, Wolfwood slid his thumb over Vash’s lips.
“Shut up,” he said, but there was no bite. There couldn’t be with how soft Vash’s lips felt against his calloused fingertip. “You saved more lives today than anyone else could’ve managed. Okay? Where everyone else knew it was the sandsteamer or Hopeland, you saw a way to save both.”
“I couldn’t have done it alone,” Vash’s lips whispered over Wolfwood’s finger, and it felt a bit too close to salvation. It was simply too much to have a creature like Vash tell him he took part in an act of life rather than death, especially when that act was saving the orphanage—the last place he was ever truly human. The last place he’d experienced real emotions, not the twisted approximation of feelings he had now.
He couldn’t accept it. “It was all you, Vash. You see hope when no one in their right minds would. Where I thought Livio was—” Wolfwood’s words died on his tongue, and he nearly choked on them.
Vash pulled his hand from Wolfwood’s wrist to rest his own palm against Wolfwood’s cheek, their forearms creating a cross in the small distance between them. Wolfwood startled at the sensation. Although he’d had his hands all over Vash, being on the receiving end struck him to his core. When was the last time someone had comforted him? The matron at the orphanage, maybe. But the last time someone had touched him with such gentle reverence and obvious care? It had simply never happened before.
Wolfwood drew in a stuttering breath. “Where I thought the Livio I knew was gone, you saw that he was still in there. You brought him back to me. If only for a moment, I got to see,” his jaw locked up and he shook his head slightly. Concern and guilt flickered over Vash’s features, but the gentle pass of Vash’s fingers over his temple as he tucked a few strands of messy hair behind Wolfwood’s ear loosened the words and they tumbled out: “You let me see my brother again. You saved me from having to kill him with my own two—” and Wolfwood, who thought he couldn’t possibly break any farther, crumbled in on himself.
“Wolfwood—Nicholas,” Vash’s hand left his cheek, and his fingers tangled in Wolfwood’s hair.
And Wolfwood gasped in relief. This was a kind of touch he could understand. Rough hands gripping his hair, fingernails leaving scratches on his back—that was human, and carnal, and familiar. It was far easier to accept than an achingly soft caress from an angel that he knew he didn’t deserve. And he wanted it; not only for the distraction from the heaving pain in his heart—he wanted to experience Vash that way. He wanted to be allowed to let his hands explore Vash’s chest and back, feel the different textures of all his scars; to feel fury on Vash’s behalf once more, rather than the despair he felt firsthand.
But there weren’t nails against his scalp. Vash didn’t tug his hair, didn’t pull Wolfwood’s head back to bare his throat. There weren’t teeth against his neck or a tongue pushing past his lips.
No. Before this moment, Wolfwood hadn’t thought Vash to be capable of cruelty, but that was the only descriptor Wolfwood had for the way that Vash used the hand cradling the back of Wolfwood’s head to draw him in until his forehead rested against Vash’s chest. There was no other way to interpret how Vash leaned into him until his lips brushed against the crown of Wolfwood’s head in a ghost of a kiss as he whispered his name.
And Wolfwood shattered. A sob ripped from his throat, and the first thing he felt was shock. He hadn’t thought he was still capable of this—the way his vision blurred and his breathing sped up, each inhale a painful wheeze, each exhale a coughing sob. The second was humiliation burning in the pit of his stomach. Wolfwood cursed himself. Crying? In front of his mark—breaking down in his embrace? How fucking stupid was he?
Get a hold of yourself, Punisher, something inside of him commanded, and Wolfwood, as he always did, followed his orders. He held his breath, stifling the hiccupping sobs into choked grunts, his eyes shut tight as he willed the tears to stop. He could feel his heartbeat speeding up at the lack of oxygen, but he fought against it—he couldn’t allow himself to break here.
But Vash squeezed him tight with his one arm—constricting his lungs and forcing Wolfwood to exhale. “Breathe, Nicholas. It’s okay, let it out,” he was whispering, and when Wolfwood took another breath and let it out in a stuttering cry, Vash began moving his hand in small circles over Wolfwood’s back. “You’re okay. I have you, you’re alright.”
And Wolfwood didn’t know what to do with it—with Vash’s kindness, as with only one arm, Vash comforted him like no one ever before. So he let himself fall apart in Vash’s embrace. Even though Wolfwood had promised to keep all but one hand to himself, he couldn’t help but wrap his arms around Vash’s tiny waist—drawn into the comfort Vash offered like a moth to flame. With his face hidden from the light, he felt less shame as he choked out, “After everything.” After all they took from me. “He was the one thing I wasn’t ready to lose.”
Vash curled around him as best he could, continuing to rub his hand up and down Wolfwood’s back as his lungs wracked with sobs. His fists balled in the back of Vash’s shirt, clinging to him like he was still a fucking child. Crying like he’d never cried before—even when he was a child at the orphanage, he’d been the one to comfort those around him, to soothe their tears. But here it was just him and Vash; and even though he’d wanted to give Vash one night of comfort, he was stealing it for himself, as selfish as ever.
When his tears finally ran dry, Wolfwood untangled his arms from around Vash and brought his hands between them—as much to wipe his face dry as it was to force some distance between them. But Vash didn’t let his hand fall from Wolfwood’s back. Instead, he slid it up along his spine to rest on the nape of his neck, allowing Wolfwood to wipe his tears without interfering.
And Wolfwood didn’t know what to do now. The children he comforted usually fell asleep in his arms, still crying softly in their sleep; there was never conversation, nothing to break the tension. So he said the first thing that came to mind.
“Sorry I got your shirt wet.” His voice got stuck between his tonsils, and Wolfwood was surprised his words were intelligible enough for Vash to huff a soft laugh. His laugh tapered off though, as Wolfwood slid his hands slid downwards to the hem of Vash’s shirt. He felt Vash’s throat bob around a swallow, and breathlessly asked, “Can I?”
Vash hesitated, but he nodded and Wolfwood slowly pulled the skintight black fabric up. Vash lifted his arm so Wolfwood could pull it off completely, and it dropped to the side.
Wolfwood was thankful for the low light, so the scars weren’t quite so visible, otherwise he probably would’ve broken down again. As it was Wolfwood shuddered. He shuddered at the knowledge of just how terribly much Vash had given up.
But he didn’t have much time to think about it, because Vash’s hand was working at the top button of his shirt. Wolfwood moved to help him, but he stopped when he saw relaxion in Vash’s expression—thankful for a task rather than frustrated by how long it would take him. So he let Vash undo each button. And he let Vash’s warm fingers soothe the burn from where the leather strap had cut into his chest, as his own moved forward to trace the grate protecting Vash’s heart.
And when his eyes drifted up from Vash’s chest to his eyes, to find Vash already looking at him, a protective affection on his lips, Wolfwood wanted desperately to taste it. He moved in, taking the distance from inches to centimeters, but he stopped when he felt Vash’s warm breath on his face. It wasn’t his night for comfort, he reminded himself, and he moved to pull back, but Vash chased after him, just barely brushing their lips together.
And that alone was enough for Wolfwood to taste what it felt like to be cared for.
Rather than breaking him down further at the revelation coming far too late in his life, it soothed a craving he hadn’t known existed.
Thank you, Wolfwood wanted to say, but what came out was, “Will you sleep tonight?”
“I think so,” Vash replied.
In his relief, Wolfwood allowed Vash to pull him in once more, to how they’d been earlier, his forehead resting against Vash’s chest, his arms wrapped around Vash’s waist. Now, their skin bared to one another, Wolfwood’s fingers could brush over the tattered skin of Vash’s back. But rather than the fury he thought he’d find, he felt his primary instinct, the desire to protect, tangling with something new: the comfort of being protected.
But before he could think any further, Vash whispered, “Rest, Nicholas,” into his hair. And Wolfwood, as he always did, followed his orders.