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Vash is nothing at all like Wolfwood expected him to be.
Wolfwood tries to keep his expectations of others nonexistent, as he’s learned more often than not that it leads to disappointment and disagreements, usually rather raucous ones. However, having had the unfortunate chance to meet Knives, and learning his next mark is his younger brother, it’s rather hard to go in completely unbiased. Knives is almost hilariously unstable and incredibly vocal in his hatred for humanity. When Wolfwood starts sniffing around for information on his brother, what he learns leads him to think they’re similar enough. Only a monster could earn the reputation Vash the Stampede has, along with the obscenely high bounty to back it up.
Another thing Wolfwood has learned over the course of dealing with the wide variety of people he’s encountered in his life is to admit when he’s wrong. When he does finally catch up to the Humanoid Typhoon, he learns he’s likely never been more wrong about another person in his life.
Vash is kind and Wolfwood means that in the most insulting way possible.
He trips over himself to help others, even people that are directly trying to hurt him. Wolfwood can’t count on his fingers and toes how many times they’ve been in a shootout against bounty hunters that Vash will absolutely refuse to fire back at. The rare times they’re truly pinned and he has no choice, Vash always aims for nonlethal shots and even goes so far as to rip strips from the bounty hunters’ clothes to bandage up their wounds. Despite his desire to entirely avoid conflict, the second a fight breaks out he’s flinging himself directly into the thick of it, drawing all the attention to himself and pulling the fight away from crowded areas. He’s selfless to the point of absolute self destruction, usually ending the day with an assortment of new injuries that are usually healed by the next morning so he can do the same thing all over again.
He has none of the manic instability Wolfwood sees in Knives. In fact, when he’s not putting up his goofy front with that god awful fake smile that makes Wolfwood’s teeth grind together, he’s a lot more quiet. He gets this look on his face when he thinks no one is watching, this sort of tired sadness, something like resignation painted across his face. Unfortunately for him, Wolfwood is almost always watching, for the sake of his job, obviously, so he catches these moments more often than not. They end the second Vash realises he’s watching, though, giving him a small fake grin.
All of these things are absolutely fundamental factors of Vash, carved into his very bone marrow for how ingrained into him they are, and Wolfwood ordinarily wouldn’t care if some foolishly optimistic idiot ripped himself apart trying to be a hero but with Vash he has to care. He can’t afford to fail this assignment, meaning he can’t afford to let this particular idiot get himself killed, no matter how eager he seems to rush towards that very end. Vash is seemingly determined to make that goal as difficult as possible, and Wolfwood can only be grateful for the small mercy that his injuries heal quickly and are usually minor.
The whole not eating thing is a whole separate issue.
He remembers the first night he’d spent with this little ragtag group Vash has assembled around himself, how happy the little missy had been when Vash had started eating. That combined with Vash’s recitation of Wolfwood’s own words from earlier had struck something in him. He waited until Vash was out of hearing range, which didn’t take that long as the man seemed to linger just toeing the line of their little makeshift camp, not truly within it but not far enough away to rouse any genuine suspicion either. Once he was sure they wouldn’t be overheard, he cornered Meryl and asked her about it.
She seemed hesitant to answer at first, both her and the old man clearly thought he was shady, but she still told him about what happened at Jeneora Rock and how tonight was Vash’s first time eating since then. Wolfwood’s brows pinched as he processed that, lighting a cigarette as he thought. He was no stranger to refusing food himself, but he’d always done it in urgent situations back at the orphanage. He could live without eating for a little bit, but the little kids couldn’t, wouldn't, so long as he could do anything about it. But he wasn’t familiar with this, this deliberate starvation.
He’d sighed and tucked it away as another thing he’d have to keep an eye on.
To Wolfwood’s genuine amazement, it wasn’t a problem that really came up again. Not for a little bit, at least, long enough that it’d almost slipped to the back of his mind before it was suddenly thrust to the forefront.
Despite being a shit liar when forced to do so directly, Vash is an absolute expert at lying through omission. He hides any sort of injury, from as minor as a scrape to as severe as a bullet through the stomach. As a result, Wolfwood has taken to sticking to his side like glue whenever a fight breaks out, a frustratingly common occurrence when traveling with Vash. Wolfwood’s learned that, so long as he stays close enough, and keeps a sharp enough eye out, he can usually tell if Vash gets hit by something. It means Wolfwood ends up spending most of the fight watching him, but, well. He does that outside of fights anyway, so it’s not like it’s that hard a habit to keep.
Despite his practice at watching Vash, and his enhanced senses, he’s missed things in the past, if only because Vash rarely reacts in the moment to being hit and their ragtag group still hasn’t managed to break him of his habit of hiding injuries. Their current predicament isn’t even a particularly dire one. The reporters are on the outskirts of the small village they’d stumbled across refueling the van, leaving Wolfwood and Vash to enter the town proper to restock on supplies, mainly water. They’d managed to do so without issue, but on their way to meet back up at the van Vash had been recognised, another frustratingly common occurrence as the idiot insists on wearing the most recognisable coat and hairstyle known to man.
These people are clearly no one special, simple bandits that happened to be what in their minds is the right place at the right time. They likely took no time at all to consider how this particular bounty could be so worthwhile and yet still on the loose. Vash hadn’t really helped his case, either, spending a good while trying to talk them down and effortlessly dancing out of the way of their bullets. That, of course, only pissed them off more, made them more liberal with their shots, and now Wolfwood and Vash sit pinned behind some crates, barely able to poke a pinky out without getting shot at.
Wolfwood has Punisher draped against his shoulders, knowing it’ll be no use to him in the limited space and time they have to fire, and is instead forced to focus solely on trying to get Vash to just draw already.
“Y’know, spikey, this’d be a great time for that ‘legendary’ marksmanship to make an appearance!” Wolfwood snaps, looking around for any sort of exit, or possible distraction that’d allow Wolfwood enough time to prime Punisher.
Vash is already shaking his head before Wolfwood has even finished the sentence, expression resolute. “No, there isn’t any need to shoot them, especially not in a place as remote as this. They’ll bleed out.”
Wolfwood swears the words are like a band wrapping around his skull, sending frissons of pressure and tension down to the knobs of his spine. Sometimes he thinks he shouldn’t even be around Vash, like the blood staining his hands will transfer to him and rot away his divinity. Most of the time, the man just pisses him off. “Spikey, goddammit, do you see another out?”
Wolfwood knows he’s looking, can see the way those bright blue eyes are jumping from bandit to bandit to their surroundings then bandit again. Vash’s eyes trace out patterns Wolfwood can’t even begin to follow, but apparently he finds what he’s looking for, as some of the tension in his brows eases. He finally pulls his Colt from its holster, though it remains aimed at the ground as his eyes scan the bandits one last time.
“Get ready to shoot,” Vash says, eyes narrowing like they always do when he’s truly focused on something.
Wolfwood, indicative of how much he does trust Vash, moves immediately, hands grasping the Punisher and maneuvering it as best he can given the limited space. He still sputters out as he does so, “Wha– shoot what?!”
Vash, damn him to hell, at least has the decency to grin sheepishly at Wolfwood before he responds. “Our cover.”
With that, Vash’s legs spider outward as he drops to a low crouch, one foot planting solidly against the ground for stability while the other shoots out, kicking the crate they’ve been huddled behind directly into the group of bandits. Wolfwood has no time in the moment to scold him for his stupidity, letting the Punisher fall forward against an arm and shooting out a spray of bullets at the crate. It splinters apart, kicking up wood chips and sand and, as Vash had likely intended, obscuring their view.
It’s in moments like these that Wolfwood is hit with the sudden, piercing reminder that Vash is not human. His marksmanship is incredible, unnaturally so, and his hands are always steady on his gun. Even Wolfwood, with all his enhancements and practice wielding the Punisher, has to account for the natural sway of lifting the gun when he aims. Vash holds his gun perfectly still while aiming, not a hint of swaying or shaking to be seen. His eyes dart from bandit to bandit, even through the mess Wolfwood just kicked up, like it’s no struggle for him to see them at all. He quickly empties his Colt’s chamber, aiming for the barrels of the bandits’ own pistols in a clear attempt to simply disarm them so he and Wolfwood can make their escape.
Most of the bandits end up exactly that, disarmed as they clutch at the hands that were holding guns mere moments ago. One bandit, however, drops to his knees wailing in agony and clutching at stumps where a few of his fingers used to be. Vash missed. It takes a moment, the words turning over in his mind a few times, before it fully processes, the realization landing almost like a physical blow when it does finally land. Vash missed? Wolfwood turns to look at the man next to him, a completely indiscernible cocktail of emotions bubbling up in his chest as he moves. In all the time Wolfwood has known him, the admittedly few times he’s seen Vash wield his gun, he’s never missed. Every shot he makes is precise, calculated, entirely deliberate.
Vash looks just as surprised as Wolfwood feels, hands unmoving from their aimed position, and in that frozen moment of shock Wolfwood notices. Vash is something preternatural, on a level towering above mere humans that he could maybe call divine were he a few drinks in. And that shows most clearly in how he moves. Not when he’s trying to hide it, flailing about like a chicken with its head cut off so no one really notices how smooth and fast and inhuman he is, but in those moments when Vash really moves. Wolfwood has seen him change the trajectory of bullets with impossibly fast kicks of his steel toed boots. Wolfwood has seen him outpace tomases on his own feet. He is always, ruthlessly, perfectly in control of himself and his movements.
His hands are shaking almost imperceptibly around the gun they hold, unsteady in a way Vash has never been.
Wolfwood moves, because he can see the moment Vash finally processes what he’s done and takes that first half step towards the bandit and there’s no way in hell Wolfwood is giving the rest of them the chance to retrieve their weapons and pin them all over again. He grabs the Punisher with one hand and latches onto Vash’s wrist with the other, pulling the man back towards him and making him briefly spin with the momentum before he takes off towards the edge of town. He can only hope the two reporters are still there, because the only reason Wolfwood can think of for Vash’s hands to be shaking is some hidden injury, and he swears he’s going to tear into him something fierce once they’re safe.
He can feel Vash tug on the hold he has on his wrist, nowhere near strong enough to break free like they both know he could and also both know he won’t. “Wolfwood–”
“Don’t even start, spikey!” Wolfwood snaps. “We ain’t got time for it!” Wolfwood hears Vash huff in frustration, and in any other circumstance Wolfwood would take some small thrill from that. That, even still, he is one of the only people Vash will show any of his actual emotions around. Right now, it just grates against his own frustration, sharpening it into something piercing. “Ya know, if you took better care of yourself ya wouldn’t have missed!”
Wolfwood can see out of the corner of his eye as Vash’s expression shifts through several emotions, that frustration showing more clearly with furrowed brows before breaking apart into confusion and incredulity. “Took better– What are you talking about?” Vash sounds truly knocked off kilter, like he hasn’t even realized, and Wolfwood takes a deep breath. The van is in sight, Roberto likely already sitting in the passenger seat as Meryl frantically waves to catch their attention from where she’s leaning out of the driver’s side window. It, irritatingly enough, wouldn’t be the first time Vash got hurt without even noticing, and Wolfwood can feel that anger rising, but not now. He can hear gunshots and pounding footsteps behind them, curses and calls of Vash’s name biting at their heels, and right now they need to move.
Wolfwood sprints the final stretch to the van, hearing Vash’s feet scrabbling against the sand for a moment as he’s pulled along by the grip on his wrist. Wolfwood nearly slams into the side of the van with his momentum, Meryl chanting 'c'mon, c’mon, c’mon!’ practically directly into his ear as he yanks the back door open. He tosses Vash and the Punisher inside before falling in afterwards, shouting at Meryl to hit the gas before he even has the door properly shut. The sound of tires squealing fills the air for a brief moment before the old van jerks to life, shooting forward and slamming Wolfwood hard against the backseat. Looking up he sees Vash in a similar predicament, attempting to reorient his long legs from where they’d been curled against his chest after Wolfwood threw him.
Wolfwood leaves it alone for a moment, long enough for Vash to settle into a position that more resembles actually sitting as opposed to the sprawling mess he’d been initially. He also takes the time to readjust the Punisher, settling it into a more stable position with the limited room they have in the backseat. But then he sees Meryl in the rearview mirror, opening her mouth to start one of her tirades that could easily rival any one of his mostly bullshit sermons, and he knows he has to cut her off before she starts or he won’t get a single word in for the next couple hours.
“Let’s see it,” Wolfwood grits out, turning to Vash with a pointed glare.
Vash, for his part, looks no less confused than he had before, though that tinge of frustration is entirely masked now that it isn’t just the two of them. “See what?”
Wolfwood swears he can feel a vein about to burst on his forehead, and the only thing keeping him from losing it completely is the knowledge that Vash, as pisspoor of a liar as he is, truly must not know about any injury. “You’re shaking,” Wolfwood says bluntly. “So there’s gotta be an injury hidden under there somewhere.” He reaches out towards Vash, intending to start searching for any warm, wet patches on his clothes, but Vash scampers backwards in the van, pressing himself against the far door and raising his hands palms outward.
“Wh– No, I’m not– I mean, I’m fine! No injuries here, promise!” Vash’s voice is hitched to a slightly higher pitch as he nearly trips over the words in his haste to get them out, a telltale sign that he’s hiding something.
Wolfwood simply raises a brow at him, disbelief shining clearly in his narrowed eyes. “Yeah, sorry, blondie, given your track record though I can’t really just take your word for it, yeah?”
Meryl briefly twists around in the driver’s seat to glance between the two of them, expression scrunched up in something between concern and exasperation. “Did Vash get hurt? Vash, didn’t we talk about this? You promised!”
Vash looks like he’d be crawling out of the van were it not currently shooting at top speed across the sands, his smile pulling just a little more unnaturally wide, a little more fake. He chuckles nervously, also very obviously fake, before saying, “Yeah, no, I know, but, uh, I’m really not hurt! Cross my heart!”
Wolfwood uses Vash’s momentary distraction to lean in, hands pressing to the other man’s shoulders to remove his coat. He can feel the way Vash tenses at the touch, freezing completely, though to his credit he makes no attempt to lean away. Wolfwood had established this with Vash awhile ago, after the third time in as many weeks the man had collapsed from blood loss. If he was going to continue hiding his injuries, then Wolfwood was going to check him over after any scrap they managed to find themselves in. Vash has by this point learned, thankfully, that it’s easier to simply let Wolfwood get it over with so they can all move on.
“Yeah, ya keep saying that, blondie, but I saw you shaking and it hasn’t stopped, so something’s going on,” Wolfwood huffs, hands pressing against Vash’s torso as he checks for any wetness, any indication of something broken or misaligned, anything to explain the faint tremor he can feel even now. As Wolfwood works his way down, his hands hit several points of sharpness that definitely shouldn’t be there, and realization settles in with a glacial chill that definitely doesn’t belong in the middle of the desert. Wolfwood’s fingers pause there, pressed against Vash’s ribs where he can feel them through the skin tight turtleneck he wears beneath his coat, and he can feel Vash tense impossibly further in response.
There’s a lot Wolfwood could say to break the thick silence that has settled between the two of them. He wants to give outlet to the anger he can feel simmering just below that layer of icy knowing, anger at Vash but also at himself because he’s known about this since he started traveling with the group and let it slip to the back of his mind. Didn’t pay as much attention as he should’ve, and now he can’t remember the last time he saw Vash eat something, truly eat something more than the crackers and nuts they mostly keep as emergency rations. He wants to really tear into him for it, because today would have gone a whole lot worse for everyone if there’d been more than one stray bullet, if Vash had missed by more than a scant few centimeters. He could call him on it right now, in the van with everyone, where he knows Meryl would jump on him, too, and there’d be no opportunity for Vash to dance away from the conversation as he always does.
He could do all of those things, and he knows with bone deep certainty that if he does any of those things it will only make Vash pull back further. The blondie’s already got himself pressed against the opposite door of the van, clearly trying to look casual but this close to him Wolfwood can see the pinpricks of his pupils, the way his chest rises and falls with breathing that is far too even to be anything but deliberately controlled. And as clear as Meryl’s affection and care for the man is, Wolfwood has noticed it tends to overwhelm Vash in a way that’s more hindrance than helpful. He’s like a kicked dog, wary of every hand that reaches towards him and so he shies away, even if their intent is only to help.
“Well?” Meryl calls from the front of the van. “What’s the verdict?”
Wolfwood locks eyes with Vash and maintains contact as he speaks. “No injuries, false alarm.” He can see the shock on Vash’s expression at the answer, and Meryl’s skepticism through the glance she shoots him in the rearview mirror, but she doesn’t push and he doesn’t elaborate. He tightens his grip on Vash’s torso briefly, sending him a silent look promising this conversation, at least between the two of them, is far from over, and then he lets the other man go entirely. He moves back to his own side of the van, leaning against the window and trying to look as calm and casual as he can manage. It’s slow going, but Vash does eventually, gradually, uncurl himself from where he’d been pressed against the door. He settles down against the seat properly and even makes a show of leaning his elbow on the windowsill, chin resting in his hand as aquamarine eyes take in the rolling dunes. But Wolfwood feels the weight of those eyes on him for iles after silence claims the small space.
Vash, to the shock of almost everyone that has learned as much about him, knows how to cook.
Having grown up on a big, largely empty ship, with his only company, excluding Rem and Nai, being the occasional human that at the absolute best tolerated and terrified him and his sister Plants that made him nauseous to think about, Vash had learned very quickly how to keep himself entertained. He’d learned first how dangerous boredom was for himself, and that it was something to be avoided at all costs.
Rem knew how to cook, too, and when Vash had asked her about it she’d smiled at him and told him she’d be more than happy to teach them. Nai had refused, claiming it to be knowledge he had no need for, and would never use. He still stayed as Vash learned, both of them so unwilling to be too far away from each other back then. He’d stuck his fingers into the various concoctions Vash had created early on, tasting them and making exaggerated faces of disgust and agony to get on Vash’s nerves. Vash would smear liquids and powders on Nai’s face in retaliation and they’d both end up filthy and Vash no more learned in the culinary arts than when they’d started, but it’d made Rem laugh.
Vash had tried to explain it to Nai a few times. How good it felt to make something, not with the powers of production granted to them with their biology, but with his own hands, with heat and time and care. To create in a way that is so intrinsically human, and for those creations to be for humans, yes, but also for them. A shared experience. Nai had never really understood, he’d always refused food at mealtimes, insisting as Plants they didn’t need to eat. It was technically true, as while eating could help maintain energy balance, food wasn’t a necessity for them the way it was for humans. Vash hadn’t pressed, had simply enjoyed the feeling of eating with Rem and knowing the food was something he’d brought into existence.
Much, much later, Vash will regret never pressing. Will spend sleepless nights with an empty stomach plagued by the uncertainty of whether it would have mattered if he had or not. If Nai would’ve opened up to him about his fears of being consumed, if Vash would’ve been able to do anything to assuage them. If either of them could’ve ever been anything other than what they are now, doomed to be apart and clashing only to hurt each other.
Vash holds close to his heart the memory of ships crashing through the atmosphere like shooting stars, deceptively beautiful, and he doesn’t cook anymore.
By the time they stop for the night, Wolfwood is almost exhausted enough to just let it wait until the next morning. They’ve been driving all day, only stopping a handful of times to stretch their legs and relieve themselves, and Wolfwood can feel the achy stiffness of having spent too long cramped into the backseat. He’s really not in the mood to go through the steps involved in trying to get anything past Vash’s self-destructive haze of ignoring his own body, a dance he’s never quite been able to memorize as Vash changes the tempo every time they do it. But he also knows if he leaves it tonight, tomorrow Vash will act like nothing ever happened at all and sidestep any attempts Wolfwood could make to try and bring it up. And Wolfwood can’t just never address it at all, so tonight it is.
He’s giving himself and Vash time to center themselves, first. Their group has downgraded to only paying for three rooms for quite some time now which Meryl claims to be a result of funds, an excuse that only Vash actually believes. No one is going to make Meryl share with any of them, and Roberto snores, so Vash and Wolfwood are stuck together. It’s something that Wolfwood honestly doesn’t mind that much, but it does mean that however their conversation goes, they’re going to be stuck in a motel room together for the rest of the night. So he figures it’s better to let them both get level headed now and hopefully have a somewhat productive conversation rather than go into it when Wolfwood’s still pretty damn irritated and Vash is so skittish that they’ll just end up arguing and accomplish nothing.
He takes a long drag from his cigarette, leaning against the wall of the rundown motel they’re stopped at for the night. Everyone else had retired to their rooms almost immediately, though none quicker than Vash, who nearly ate shit several times in his haste to escape the van and the gazes of their group. Meryl had given Vash a long look, concern and frustration etched across her face in equal measure, something Wolfwood can definitely understand. Vash seems to specialize in evoking a perfect cocktail of both of those things in equal measure in the people around him. Meryl’s gaze had shifted from Vash’s back to Wolfwood’s profile, and their gazes had met for a brief moment. She’d somehow managed to look judgmental and hopeful and even more irritated all at once, and Wolfwood had quickly looked away. These people were exhausting to be around. At least the blondie and the shorty were. The old man seems more Wolfwood’s type, more experienced in the ways of the world.
A sudden stinging in his fingers pulls him out of his thoughts, and Wolfwood looks down to see he’s let his cigarette burn down to the filter. He huffs in agitation and figures that’s as good an indicator as any. He lets it slip from his fingertips and fall against the sand, cooled slightly from the lack of sunlight setting it ablaze. He stomps it out and counts out the spare double dollars he has. Not much, but it’s enough for him to hit the bakery he saw on their way into town. Vash isn’t at all subtle about his sweet tooth, and while it’d certainly be better to get an actual meal into him, something is better than nothing. And Wolfwood figures he’ll have a hard enough time convincing Vash to get this little bit down. Especially with how bad it’s gotten, for Vash, as nonhuman as he is, to have that constant tremor Wolfwood had seen in him, felt in him. He picks up half a dozen donuts and then makes his way back to the motel, and then up to the room he and Vash are set to share.
He doesn’t bother knocking before swinging the door open. The two of them have shared a room often enough now for Vash to know he never knocks, and Wolfwood knows the man’s hearing is just as good as his own, if not better, so if there was truly something he didn’t want Wolfwood to see he’d have plenty of time to hide it. Nothing unexpected is waiting for him, anyway. Vash has at least removed his coat, but his turtleneck and pants and prosthetics are all still on as he sits curled against the window, watching the few lights in this sleepy settlement flicker off as time ticks on. His bag is resting against the lone bed, settled on the side closest to the door. Vash likely knows by now that Wolfwood would want the side by the window, to keep track of all possible entry points. It’s such a simple thing, a result of them having traveled and roomed together for as long as they have, but it still has something warm and dangerous kicking up in his chest.
To both distract from that and to get this over with, as Vash’s unmoving figure clearly shows no intention of initiating the conversation himself, he grabs the chair from the desk against the far wall and places it next to the window, settling into it and pulling open his box of donuts. Then he looks to Vash with steely determination and holds the opened box out to him.
Wolfwood watches as Vash tenses and then forcibly relaxes in the span of a few seconds. His bright blue eyes, on full display with his glasses folded on the desk, don’t so much as glance at Wolfwood as he speaks. “No thank you.”
Wolfwood doesn’t budge, in either direction. Doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t pull back either. “Wasn’t asking, spikey.”
Vash does turn to him, then, and Wolfwood keeps his expression and posture carefully neutral. He wishes, in moments like these, that he wasn’t able to read Vash as easily as he can. That he was as blind to the depths of self loathing in that gaze as the rest of their group seems to be, that he could see the man’s behaviors as simple kindness and not the self destructive martyrdom of someone who cares about his life only in terms of how he can give it to others. “I don’t need to eat,” Vash says then, not quite an admission of his lack of humanity but an allusion to it, the roundabout method being the only way Vash will ever speak about that aspect of himself. “You should, though, and I’m sure Roberto and Meryl will take whatever you don’t finish.”
Wolfwood feels a spike of frustration, though he really isn’t surprised. Vash never makes things easy, especially not for himself, and Wolfwood, having the express goal of keeping Vash alive and mostly well, more often than not ends up as unfortunate collateral. “I’m sure they would, but I didn’t buy ‘em for them. And considering the fact I felt your fuckin’ ribs earlier, I gotta say I think you actually do need to. So you can either eat, or you can talk to me.” Vash looks at him with a cocktail of emotions swirling in his eyes. He’s got a special talent for making things far more complicated than they have to be, and Wolfwood, loath as he is to admit it, would do just about anything if it’d convince Vash to just give himself a break already.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Vash says quietly, gaze skittering away once more to look out the window. The town’s gone completely dark by now, everyone having since retired for the night. It leaves an unobstructed view of the moons and stars, something Wolfwood knows Vash loves to look at from all the times he’s caught the man at a standstill doing exactly that. Vash always looks to the sky with a sort of wistfulness, as if the shapes the stars make up there are figures he recognizes. He also looks at them with an agonized resignation, as if he won’t even allow himself the indulgence of remembering things he has long since lost. It’s another bullet point on Wolfwood’s incredibly long list of ways Vash pisses him off.
“Bullshit,” Wolfwood hisses. Vash stiffens at the harshness of the word, the way it slices through the distance between them, both hardly anything at all and also a gap stretching so wide Wolfwood thinks some days he can scarcely make out who it is at the other end of it. He rubs the bridge of his nose with his free hand and makes a conscious effort to soften his tone as he continues. “Look, blondie, I don’t wanna corner you, yeah? I wanna help, but I can only work with what ya give me. I know I’m a lousy priest, but I could even take it as a confession, if that’d make you feel better about it.”
Vash huffs something that could very loosely be considered a laugh, though there’s no humor in his expression. “I don’t really think my sins can be absolved. Besides, I wouldn’t have any idea what I’m doing.”
Wolfwood laughs, then, something a bit more genuine, tinged with the usual fond exasperation he catches himself feeling around Vash. “It ain’t like it’s hard, tongari. And it’s just me sittin’ here, so it don’t gotta be all formal. Just stop overthinking it.”
“Easy for you to say,” Vash whines, but it’s mostly superfluous as he does shift in the windowsill, one long leg falling out of it as he turns to face Wolfwood properly. He’s tensed back up slightly, but his eyes are gleaming with fondness as he looks at Wolfwood, and something else that neither of them can give name to. “Do I just… start listing?”
Wolfwood smirks. “Well, you could always start with ‘forgive me, Fa–’”
“Alright!” Vash squeaks, face burning and eyes darting away. “Alright, that part. We can just skip over!”
Wolfwood laughs again. It’s encouraging, for Vash to still be this easy to rile up. It means he’s still here, getting closer to a point where Wolfwood can actually reach him. “Ok, ok, ease up, blondie. Go on, then.” Vash sits there quietly for a moment, looking unsure. Then he smiles, and it feels like Wolfwood’s skin is crawling because it’s fake, exactly the way he smiles right before he says something idiotic, like maybe this time Wolfwood will actually allow the deflection and drop whatever prompted it. He opens his mouth to speak and Wolfwood decides he just isn’t in the mood for it tonight. “Don’t say anything stupid.”
Vash’s smile drops and he just looks tired. It takes a lot for Vash to get genuinely tired, his stamina reaching far beyond that of any human, beyond even Wolfwood, but sitting in this shitty motel, framed by the light of the stars and moons, eyes on full display, it’s easy to forget he’s not human. He’s slumped, and now that Wolfwood is actually looking for it he can see how much more prominent Vash’s cheekbones are, the slight bags under his eyes. Vash breathes in a long inhale and releases it with a measured exhale. “I already told you. I think my sins go beyond what any priest could exonerate. I couldn't ask that of anyone.”
“Well I ain’t a normal priest, yeah? Try me.”
Vash curls in on himself, though he does at least remain facing Wolfwood. His hands are clasped together in his lap, a poor imitation of holy devotion, though, looking slightly up at the angel before him, Wolfwood supposes he can’t really judge on that particular front.
“Eating feels. Wrong. For me to do, sometimes.” The words come out stilted and unsure, and that more than anything tells Wolfwood this isn’t Vash deliberately trying to be vague to continue avoiding the question. Vash is laughably shit at talking about himself, especially in a more emotional manner.
Wolfwood nods encouragingly, raising a brow. “Okay… do you mean, like, physically? Are you not… compatible? With certain food?” Wolfwood has seen Vash, when not stuck in his own head, put away just about anything set in front of him, but Wolfwood also wouldn’t put it past Vash to continue eating things his body’s not meant to process for the sake of blending in. He doubts Vash ever would’ve willingly revealed himself, if the situation on the sandsteamer had never happened.
Vash shakes his head. “It’s not a physical issue.”
“Ok… then you’re gonna have to be a little more specific, blondie.”
Vash’s hands come apart from each other, metal fingers moving to fiddle with the metal band wrapped around his flesh wrist, the band Wolfwood’s always suspected to be a handcuff and has never asked about. He does this, sometimes, when words are particularly elusive. Wolfwood watches as his fingers’ movements get more frenetic, as his expression becomes blank, bright blue eyes going dull. Wolfwood hates when Vash gets like this, hates that he works himself up to this point even with Wolfwood sitting right in front of him directly offering help, but he knows that’s not a particularly fair thought. And it won’t help either one of them.
Wolfwood moves carefully, settling the box of donuts into his lap with a steadying hand and reaching his free one forward. He goes for Vash’s metal hand, knowing from past experience that he tends to respond better to that one being touched. Vash has explained to him before that he can only halfway feel with his prosthetics, mostly just pressure as opposed to actual sensations, and Wolfwood gathers that when he’s this far in his own head it’s likely a less startling touch, since it’s muted.
Vash’s eyes still snap up to lock onto Wolfwood’s at the contact, wide and eerily blank.
“Hey, tongari,” Wolfwood breathes. “What’d I already tell ya, huh? It’s just us, just relax already.”
Slowly, Vash’s fingers curl around Wolfwood’s, awareness dripping back into his clear eyes slow as molasses. His fingers twitch, like he wants to clutch at Wolfwood’s hand and is holding himself back. Wolfwood tightens his own grip.
“It’s… hard to explain,” Vash eventually murmurs. His eyes have dropped down to where their hands are joined. “Food isn’t really something I need. It can be beneficial, but I don’t need it to survive like you all do. And with how scarce it is, and…” Vash trails off, and the look on his face has Wolfwood’s chest feel like it’s caving in. He looks young, so much younger than Wolfwood knows him to be, older than everyone else in their little group combined. It reminds Wolfwood of the look he saw on some of the kids back in Hopeland, the ones that were punished for taking up space and reacted to every little mistake with shaking hands and pinprick pupils.
It’s the same look Vash always gets right before he starts apologizing for something that’s not his responsibility. Wolfwood swears he can feel a vein throbbing in his forehead, and he carefully sets the box of donuts down from his lap to rest on the ground next to them. Then, with his now free hand, he brings his fist down onto the top of Vash’s head.
“This is a Spikeyism, isn’t it?” he growls.
Vash, always one to play up the dramatics, immediately brings his human hand up to rub at the spot with a whine. “Wolfwood, wha– Spikeyism–?”
“Vash.” Vash immediately stops talking, the use of his name combined with Wolfwood’s tone of voice indicating clear as day that he needs to listen. “This isn’t atonement. I don’t know what great evil deed you think you’ve done this time, but this isn’t the way to go about making it right.”
Vash’s expression has shuttered, his hand reaching up to push Wolfwood’s fist off of his head. “Is that what your scriptures say?”
Wolfwood’s eyes narrow, and he pushes his hand right back into Vash’s face, grabbing his chin and forcing eye contact. “That’s what I say, spikey. As shit a priest I am, even I can tell you that starving yourself ain’t gonna accomplish anything but making shorty worry herself sick.”
Vash flinches, guilt draping itself over his shoulders like a thick cloak and making him droop under its weight. Wolfwood could kick himself. He knows heaping more shame onto Vash isn’t at all productive, but God damn him if the man doesn’t make it exceedingly difficult to control his temper.
“You’re right,” Vash says, and it’s so toneless and mechanical that it has ice dripping down every knob of Wolfwood’s spine. Then he leans forward towards the box of donuts, and there’s no way in hell it’s happening like this.
Wolfwood reaches down before Vash can grab anything, snatching the box up and pulling it away. “No.”
Vash’s eyebrows and mouth do some truly impressive maneuvers in an attempt to properly articulate his incredulity. “No?”
“No,” Wolfwood repeats, firmly. “Not like that. It’s my bad, that was dumb to say, but it’s not gonna count if yer just doin’ it out of guilt.”
Vash’s brows draw together in a rare show of anger. “So it only ‘counts’ if I eat how you think is right?”
“Ok, poor choice of words, but you have to see how that’s bad, right? What if it was me doing this, or shorty, or any other fucking person on the planet besides you?”
Vash curls back into the window, fingers clenching into the fabric of his pants. “That’s different, and you know it,” he hisses.
Wolfwood, emboldened by his frustration, reaches a hand out, resting his own on top of Vash’s prosthetic. “I don’t, actually, spikey! Because you obviously need to eat just like we do, even if it’s not as often, and you’d be giving any one of us that kicked puppy look if we weren’t eating. Because you care about everyone so Goddamn much, but not yourself, right? So why’s it so different with you, huh?”
“Because it’s my fault!” The words rip themselves out of Vash with a force that is almost physical. He springs to his feet as he says them, his hand grabbing Wolfwood’s and throwing it away from himself. The words hang between them, Wolfwood trying to process them and figure out what exactly Vash has decided he’s solely responsible for now that could justify starving himself, and Vash paling at an almost impressive pace as he also processes what he has just said.
Well. He’s made it this far, right? No turning back now. Wolfwood does put conscious effort into softening his tone as he asks quietly, “What’s your fault?”
Vash heaves a disbelieving sound that could almost be called a laugh, if perhaps Wolfwood was hearing it from the other end of a very long tunnel. “Everything. It doesn’t matter. Forget I said that.”
“Spikey, for Christ’s sake–”
Vash runs a hand through his hair, dislodging the spikes and causing several strands to flop down into his face. He paces a few steps before settling turned away from Wolfwood, the nail of his flesh thumb held between his teeth. “The Great Fall.”
Now Wolfwood is really confused. The Great Fall is something all children are taught about, the event that resulted in all of humanity being stuck on the shitty desert planet of Gunsmoke, instead of, oh, literally anywhere else. Wolfwood remembers being taught that the cause was supposedly some sort of malfunction in the ships’ navigation systems. He also remembers overhearing many of the older adults in his life scoffing and murmuring about how that didn’t really add up. It wasn’t something Wolfwood had ever really questioned, as they were already here and no amount of pondering or lamenting was going to get them off this planet.
Looking at Vash right now, Wolfwood can tell he’s spent countless agonizing hours crucifying himself over whatever this is. As much as he’d like to tell Vash for the hundredth time that he can’t be solely responsible for every bad thing that’s ever happened, he can also tell it’d be pretty dismissive to just brush it off like that. He takes a steadying breath, gathering up every fraying thread of patience he still has.
“Ok,” he breathes out. He sees Vash jerk, spinning around to look at Wolfwood with wide eyes. He’d clearly been expecting an argument. Wolfwood refuses to give it to him. “Let’s say it was. There isn’t a prayer book in the world that’d tell you ya have to repent for over a century.”
Vash’s gaze skitters away again as he chews on his nail. “I already told you, my sins can’t be exonerated.”
“And I already told you, I’m not a normal priest.” Wolfwood jerks his chin towards the Punisher, leaning heavy against the wall. “I can carry a lot more. So lemme share some of it.” He bends down and scoops up the discarded box of donuts, once again holding it out to Vash.
Vash doesn’t refuse immediately this time, but he still doesn’t reach out, hesitation and awe and guilt and that nameless something else that’s always dancing between them battling for dominance on his face. “Wolfwood, I–”
“Chrissake, blondie, surely you’re not about to tell me you don’t think I can handle enough weight for one donut.”
Vash’s lips twitch up at one corner before quickly falling flat again, and he stands unmoving for a moment that feels like a lifetime. Eventually, his mouth curls back up into a smile, and it takes Wolfwood’s breath away, because it’s real. Small, barely perceptible, but real nonetheless. It’s moments like this, when Vash lights up the whole world, shining past the dingy inn room they’re occupying, that Wolfwood knows for certain he’s following the wrong brother. He reaches forward, his hand still shaking, slow moving as if he still hasn’t quite committed to his decision. Wolfwood’s about ready to cram one down his throat by the time Vash’s long fingers finally pluck one of the donuts out of the box. A plain glazed, because of course this idiot’s favorite food is something so disgustingly sweet and of course his favorite variety is the blandest possible option. Always a walking contradiction, even down to the littlest of details.
Wolfwood watches Vash as he eats the donut, that tiny but real smile still present and his eyes suspiciously shiny. It’s nowhere near enough, but Wolfwood has learned once he manages to get through to Vash on something the initial time, he becomes easier to convince when Wolfwood has to inevitably do it again. It’s a step, and it’s honestly better than Wolfwood had been expecting for tonight. He takes one of the donuts for himself, mostly to save Vash from feeling awkward for being the only one eating, and sits back down heavily in the chair, a wry smile on his face as he digs in.
“Hallelujah.”
That night, with food in his belly for the first time in weeks, Vash lays on his side and watches Wolfwood. It’s not something he does overly often, as humans are far more observant than they even realize, and it causes them to wake up unnerved, being watched all night. But he indulges tonight, still feeling a typhoon of swirling emotions in his chest as he thinks over and over and over their conversation tonight. Vash has never met someone like Wolfwood, someone that could make things so much simpler and so much more complicated all at once.
He’s never met someone that can so easily read him, that can cut through all of his posturing as if he’s not even doing it. He hasn’t ever been known like this, not since Nai became Knives and he became the Stampede. It’s exhilarating. It’s terrifying.
He feels the mattress shifting and his attention is drawn back to the present, to Wolfwood laying in front of him, rolling over to his other side before settling back into the sheets with a ridiculously undignified snore. Vash feels his expression soften, mouth twisting almost involuntarily into a smile. Wolfwood’s turned away from him now, so Vash can’t see his face, but the sight of his bare back is certainly not an unwelcome one. The muscles are defined, tan skin largely blemish free save for a few moles and a couple scars. Vash wonders, as he always does, how horrific the wounds must’ve been, to scar through those vials Wolfwood drinks. How many more wounds he must’ve endured, that Vash will never know of because he’s constantly forcing his body to regenerate, always pushing himself forwards.
Wolfwood already has so much weight on his shoulders, constantly working to protect the orphanage and always putting up that front of being a bad man, like if he can just convince himself he’s evil then the blood on his hands won’t matter to him. Despite all of that, he still worries about what Vash is shouldering, no amount of bluster able to erase from Vash’s mind the look on the other man’s face back in the van, when his fingers had pressed against Vash’s ribs. The frustration, the horror, the worry.
Vash doesn’t know what to do with any of that. He never does. Especially not when it’s coming from Wolfwood. He’s strong, absolutely, but no one is strong enough to shoulder the weight Vash has been carrying for over a century. No one should have to. It’s Vash’s burden alone. But Wolfwood still offered, like it was easy, despite not even really knowing. Is sleeping peacefully now, as if his spine isn’t being crushed under all of it.
That night, Vash doesn’t fall asleep to the remembered sight of ships burning up in the atmosphere around him. He carefully rests his forehead against the warm skin of Wolfwood’s back and he breathes and his thoughts are only of brown eyes and the smell of cigarettes.
When Wolfwood wakes up the next morning, he’s alone in their room. His immediate instinct is to panic, but then he sees Vash’s bag in the same place he’d dropped it last night and knows he hasn’t gone far, isn’t trying to pull a disappearing act. Fear assuaged, he takes his time getting ready. Halfway through buttoning his shirt, he notices something on the desk. The box of donuts is still there, but there’s a couple less in it than there was when they went to bed. Tucked under the corner of the box, presumably to ensure it didn’t get blown away, is a piece of paper.
It’s a crudely drawn picture of Vash, one hand held up in his traditional love and peace gesture. Based on the childish scrawl of the ‘Thanks, Wolfwood’ written next to it, Wolfwood can tell it’s a self portrait. He closes the lid on the donuts and finishes getting dressed. When he sits down to clean the Punisher, the paper is carefully folded and tucked away in his pocket, and there’s no blond idiots around to gush about the smile on his face.