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“Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.” -Richard Siken
There were often times as a child Wolfwood felt… odd.
Ignoring the brutality of the world that forced him out of said childhood quickly, he knew he was older than he was. In a way.
His mind, his body, and his soul held three different ages, and it messed with his mind in the cruelest of ways.
Places felt familiar.
People scratched a part of his brain that made him think he should remember them more than he did.
Surprises felt more like forgotten memories.
Names being called out around him made him turn as if he were the one being called.
The first taste of cigarettes on his tongue was welcoming, like refinding an old, favorite food from childhood. His first taste of a vice, or, first taste in a long time.
He used to muse his mom must have smoked while pregnant with him, and after he took his first shot of bourbon as if it were nothing but water, he figured she drank as well.
Rarely was there a moment of his life that didn’t feel like a never-ending feeling of deja vu. He got used to it quickly, it helped when some of the experiments got too painful. Part of him knew this wasn’t the worst pain he’d felt, and that weirdly brought him comfort.
What didn’t bring him comfort was the sting of sand in his eyes, the heat of the sun on his back, the hot breeze the desert brought that did more harm than good. At least the weight of the Punisher on his back kept him grounded, because ever since his mission had truly taken a start he felt as if the weird feelings of his childhood were nothing compared to this.
He knew of Vash. The humanoid typhoon, a human disaster, bringing chaos and destruction everywhere he went. Towns lost people, their plants, and their way of living after he’d left. Of course, Wolfwood knew this wasn’t Vash’s doing, but the people didn’t.
And Vash didn’t have the heart to correct them. If they wanted to blame him, he’d accept the guilt with a smile, a painfully fake smile that hurt to look at for some reason. Through all their traveling Wolfwood doesn’t think he’s seen Vash smile truly once. The one he’d perfected seemed to have fooled the reporters.
He wore his heart on his sleeve, and every damn person he ever met was blind to not see the true Vash, not this smiley personality he fronted with. It was enough to slowly drive Wolfwood mad.
This town was fooled all the same, but they weren’t making any moves to turn him in or start firing at the group for no reason, so they had that going at least. It was a small town, perhaps they were merely worried that Vash would do them more harm faster than they could do to him.
Idiots.
Vash the Stampede was a man who allowed children to crawl all over him, rambling about everything and nothing. Not the type of man who’d willingly level a town of people, innocent or not.
“Hey,” As heartwarming as it was, the sun was setting, and the four of them were due to leave in the morning, and he wasn’t about to be in the car with Meryl’s attempts of driving while Vash slept like a baby, “Get your ass up, we’re going to the inn.”
He was met with a small smile and a nod, and Vash stood, bidding farewell to the children as they scampered back to wherever it was they needed to be.
“You shouldn’t swear around kids.”
He raised an eyebrow, hands reaching into his pockets to fish out a cigarette, “Guarantee the kids have heard worse than the word ass ,” He placed the end in his mouth with an eye-roll, “Probably said worse too.”
Vash snorted, the small smile never leaving his lips, but never meeting his eyes, “Maybe. But in the off chance they haven’t, I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Suit yourself blondie,” The pair stood in silence, Vash watching a small cat trail across the benches that lined the town's center, and Wolfwood watching Vash.
“Smoking will kill you.”
Wolfwood chuckled, opting to take a long drag, relishing in the feeling of the burn in his lungs, “Cigarettes haven’t killed me yet, doubt they’ll kill me in the future.”
Vash shrugged, “You never know.”
It felt almost cryptid, the way he had said it. As if he truly feared that cigarettes would be what took Wolfwood out. He cursed to himself, God he was going soft. With an overdramatic sigh, he dropped it, stomping the half-burnt stick out, grumbling all the way. He looked up with a faux smile, “Happy?”
He grinned in response, as if the whole ordeal had turned amusing, “Very. Now, back to the inn?”
“Or shorty’ll have my neck for losing you in a town this small.”
“I doubt Meryl would be that angry.”
Wolfwood rolled his eyes as the pair began walking, albeit, slower than they could have been. Perhaps they were just enjoying the cool air, a welcome change compared to the desert.
“You just haven’t seen her get that angry 'cause she’s never gotten that angry with you,” It felt wrong to say— but it was the truth.
Meryl had never truly gotten angry at Vash, whether it be playful or dramatic or real. Angry at Wolfwood? It was second nature to her at this point. Roberto even threatened to handcuff them together until one of them was dead or they were better acquaintances. Meryl threatened to chew through her own wrist and that dropped that topic.
But some nagging voice in his mind supplied him with the sound of her voice, shrill and annoyed, directed at Vash. Realistically if she yelled at Vash, he’d pull his accidental puppy eyes, because he truly didn’t understand the power he held, and she’d be unable to continue.
Vash snorted at the comment, more amused than Wolfwood had imagined him to be, “I’d love to see that…”
“Didn’t peg you as the type to enjoy being yelled at.”
He laughed, high pitched and nervous, as if he was surprised that Wolfwood had heard him, “I just think it’d be funny is all!”
Wolfwood hummed, “If you say so.”
The rhythm between the two felt natural, their steps in sync, bodies swaying to and from each other, never bumping into the other, and never once has Wolfwood worried about almost hitting Vash with Punisher. He often walked a safe distance from people, he hated accidental touches, and they hated being hit with a gun this large and this heavy.
Wolfwood often felt weird around Vash.
He felt safe, he felt like himself despite never being fully honest with any of them, he felt like he needed to protect the smile that he’d never once seen from Vash.
Like he said— weird.
They made their way into the inn. Meryl, as Wolfwood predicted, chewed him out for taking so long to find Vash in a town this small. He merely rolled his eyes and told her to go next time if she had been so worried. Roberto handed him his and Vash’s room key in silence, looking ready to hit the hay.
The pair made their way into a familiar routine, stopping by the bar to grab a few bottles to nurse on if they wished, bid the others goodnight, and then they were alone. More often than not the reporters got their own rooms, or at least their own beds, while Wolfwood and Vash were to share one room, one bed. It stopped being a problem far sooner than it became one, as Wolfwood was learning, he and Vash work well together.
Watching the blonde take sips of his drink, laughing at his own story about what the kids told him in the town square, he got that familiar pain in his chest. His heart fluttering, lungs tightening. They sometimes worked too well together. Anyone else and Wolfwood would be suspicious— but this was Vash .
Sometimes it felt like he knew the reckless blonde more than he knew himself.
And the way Vash looked at Wolfwood— seeing past all the invisible scars and rough words— made him feel like Vash knew more about him than he let on.
Wolfwood sighed, placing his glass onto the table, feeling more than seeing the other’s gaze on him. It was a constant almost, Vash watching him with those soft eyes, thinking he was hidden behind orange glasses. Vash watching him with worry whenever they got into some scuffle with the locals or some gang that decided to try to capture the Stampede. Vash watching him in the quiet moments they shared.
Vash watching him as if he blinked and Wolfwood would be gone.
It sent a chill down his spine.
He fiddled with his container, the few cigarettes left rattling around. Their room, sadly, had a no-smoking policy. And he really didn’t want to face Vash’s puppy eyes if he lit one despite it. So he opted for playing around with it, fidgeting with the lid and absentmindedly rolling his fingers over the cigarettes. He could feel the eyes on him, and he glanced up, making eye contact, being met with the most tender gaze only one person was able to pull off.
He sighed, dropping the metal onto the table, the loud noise enough to bring Vash out of his little stupor, and he blinked rapidly for a moment, before a small, simple smile settled on his face.
“When’d you start smoking?”
Wolfwood raised an eyebrow at the question, “I dunno, probably like… seven. Or eight. The keeper tanned my hide the first time she caught me with one. Don’t even remember how I got my hands on it.”
And Vash sighed at the memory, as if it were his own and he was there, reliving those moments in his head. He did that often, ask questions about Wolfwood’s past and listen with such intensity it was as if these memories would jog his own, help him remember bits of his own childhood he had forgotten. Vash always sounded so terribly fond, so soft and content, head resting on the palms of his hands. It was a look that Wolfwood had burned into his mind, whether he was aware of it or not. After all, he seemed to be the only one capable of bringing that look out of him.
“Why do you do that?”
The question tumbled from his lips before he could stop it, the warm buzz of the alcohol unlocking his lips. Vash stiffened before forcing himself to relax, tilting his head, “What do you mean?”
“You just,” He motioned towards the blonde, “Get so… soft and shit. Whenever you talk to me. Or look at me. And you say my name the way you do.”
“The way I do?” He sounded amused, and Wolfwood rolled his eyes, words weren’t his strong suit, but he knew that Vash always knew what he meant.
In that weird way, only Vash could do.
“ Yes , the way you do,” His hands, moving as if to accentuate his point, waved about, nearly knocking his drink over, and he moved quickly and clumsily, ensuring they weren’t fined a cleaning fee.
Vash chuckled, all fond and sweet despite looking at the mess that was Nicholas D. Wolfwood.
“Wolfwood…”
“Like that,” He pointed, almost accusatorially, “ That .”
“What?”
He ran a hand through his hair, “It’s just the way you say my name… as if it’s special.”
Vash smiled, all teeth and just so sad , “Nicholas D. Wolfwood. I’d say it’s a pretty special name.”
He grabbed at his drink, because what else was he supposed to do? “Whatever you say, angel.”
The name slipped out almost too easily despite him having never said it. His cheeks flushed, because why the fuck did it feel so natural to go from nickname to pet name? He risked a glance towards Vash, and was gutted by how broken he looked from the simple word.
“Woah— what’s—”
“It’s nothing!” He laughed, quiet and high pitched, and Wolfwood’s head spun, that laugh was always so familiar— and in his almost drunken haze, he felt like he used to dream of that laugh.
“What are you keeping from me, blondie?”
“I,” He chuckled, playing around with his own glass, eyeing the liquid as if it held all the answers he had ever needed, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Bullshit,” He slammed his hands down, ignoring how the table rattled, voice lowering, “ Bullshit . You know something. Something that explains— this!”
“Explains what— Wolfwood?” Vash’s voice had never been this serious, so empty sounding, eyes still fixated on his cup.
He sputtered, “Whatever this is, needle noggin.” He motioned between the two of them, “The way we just… click. You trusted me the moment we met despite me giving you no fucking reason to, and I— I—”
Vash shrugged, “Maybe I have a good sense of judgment.”
“That’s the biggest lie you have ever told,” He pinched the bridge of his nose, “Actually, second. You know something more than you’re letting on.”
“Wolfwood—”
“And don’t lie to me. You’re not telling me something.”
Vash was silent, before he slowly looked up. Wolfwood felt his breath hitch, heart skip a beat in his chest. Vash’s baby blues, so rarely not covered with his glasses, were filled with unshed tears. Sure, Vash was a crybaby, but this felt different.
This felt almost too real.
“How can I not be telling you something when you don’t even know what to ask, Nico?”
“What?”
Vash wiped his eyes, laughing pitifully, “Nothing, forget I—”
“ Vash ,” He prided himself on having walls built around his being, but Vash apparently prided himself on unknowingly tearing them down, “Please…”
His pleading was enough, it seems, because despite how tense the blonde got, despite how much he looked like he wanted to do nothing more than run, he just sank into his seat, lips pursed, brows pinched together.
“This isn’t the first time we’ve met.”
If anyone else had ever said something along those lines, Wolfwood would have assumed they had lost their mind. But Vash said it so simply: such simplicity hardly held malicious lies. And despite the sentence making no sense logically, he believed it.
After all— they worked together a little too well for people who’ve only known each other for a few months.
“It,” Vash laughed, a sound that was without humor or happiness, “It never lasts very long. We meet, we work together, we work well together. You show me in so many new ways how to be human , and then you— you die.”
Wolfwood wasn’t sure what to say. He had no memory of dying— not really, at least. He always got to the brink of death, before he was back, wounds healing, scars fading, body looking as if he’d never even been injured before. So he just let Vash continue.
“I try not to get close to people, really. I’m going to outlive… so many people. It’s easier, you know? But every time I meet you— you have this annoying habit of worming your way into my life. And I get so hopeful that maybe, maybe this time will be different. And then I see you die— or I find your body,” He took a shuddery breath, eyes shut so tight it looked almost painful, “It hurts no matter how many times I’ve had to do it.”
“Vash,” His voice was soft, cracking in the middle, but the blonde just shook his head, “Vash, look at me.”
It took a few moments, but he cracked his eyes open, blue eyes swimming with tears that Wolfwood knew he’d refuse to let fall. Vash never let himself truly cry, truly show his emotions. Wolfwood moved before thinking, kneeling in front of him, hand moving to cup his jaw, thumb stroking the meat of his cheek.
“Vash,” He choked on a sound, biting his lip, preventing any sobs to escape, “Hey, I’m not— I’m not going anywhere.”
“Don’t,” Vash shook his head, lips pursed into a pained smile, “Don’t say that.”
“Have I ever made you that promise before?”
“To not die?” Wolfwood nodded, ignoring the faux laugh that was being forced out of the blonde, “No. Not directly, at least.”
“I’m promising it now, Vash, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to leave you.” Again.
“You can’t promise me that you won’t—”
“I can,” He cut him off, face stoney and determined, “I can and I will. Vash, I am not leaving you. I haven’t wanted to leave your side since I met you, well, this go-round I suppose.”
Vash shook his head slightly, trying not to shake off Wolfwood’s hand, “Wolfwood, I—”
“I’m going to kiss you now.”
He stretched himself forward, growing closer to Vash’s face, less than an inch of room between their faces. He could feel more than hear Vash’s breath hitch, the blonde’s tear-filled eyes wide, lips parted, searching Wolfwood’s expression for— for something.
“Okay.”
That was all he needed to hear, closing the gap that was between them.
Wolfwood had often wondered what kissing Vash would be like. He had dreamed of it, embarrassingly enough. He never anticipated their first kiss— or his first kiss?— would be after he learned that he had known Vash for more than this life.
He hadn’t anticipated the kiss to be wet with tears that Vash was finally letting fall.
He hadn’t anticipated it to feel like he was home.
The kiss was slow, it was soft, and it was loving. It was sickenly sweet, the type of kiss that was present in those stories the keepers used to read to the younger kids. It was too perfect to be between two unperfect people.
He pulled back, taking in the sight before him. Vash’s eyes were shut, and he leaned forward, following after Wolfwood. The blonde blinked his eyes open, looking torn between shedding more tears and smiling— a true, smile, at that.
“You know,” His voice was thick with emotion, “You’d never kissed me before.”
“Oh? Sounds like I was a coward before.”
Vash shrugged, “We assumed we had more time than we did.”
They were murmuring, voices barely above a whisper, “I suppose I’ll have to make up for all of the missed opportunities.”
He received a smile back in response, small and shy, but genuine, something that reached the baby blues, sparkling as they looked at him— as they looked at Wolfwood. He shut his eyes, tilting his head forward, foreheads pressing against each other, just basking in the calm, the tranquility of each other’s presence.
“You have to stick to your word,” He almost missed the statement, so broken and raw coming from Vash, “You can’t— you can’t promise me that and break it.”
“I’m a man of my word,” He wasn’t— not until he met Vash, “I’m not leaving you. I’ll fight Heaven and Hell to stay with you.”
“Given our lives, you may just have to.”
Wolfwood snorted, “So long as I keep you by my side, I think that’s a fight I’m guaranteed to win.”