Archive of Our Own

He slumps to the floor as soon as his back hits the rocky wall. Vash dragged, almost carried him all the way to this cave. He winces at the way blondie carelessly shakes the Punisher off his shoulders, way out of reach. This little gesture stops him from thanking him.

“Ya sure they won’t follow us here?” he says instead. Scans the dim narrow tunnel once again. He feels trapped, backed into a corner. Never liked caves.

“Don’t think so. Entrance can’t be seen from the road.” It can barely be seen from the inside too. A narrow stream of light ends abruptly a couple yarz in, the rest he can make out thanks to his enhanced night vision. “Knew it’s there only ‘cause I’ve been here before.” He’s agitated, his words curt. Speaks without looking over his shoulder, elbow deep in his duffel bag.

Wolfwood was the one being dragged and still, he has to catch his breath. His right leg throbbed deep and hot, but feels better now, resting on the ground. He begins to roll the pant leg, but sudden pain makes him grit his teeth. Not better then.

“Knife.”

Few seconds of delay, then a thin steel handle is pressed into his open palm. Not without regret he cuts the fabric just below his knee, then drags the blade down to the ancle. What he sees confirms his worst suspicions. His leg is fucked up for good. A bone is fractured, bulges against the skin in an unnatural way that makes him taste bile. He knew. Just hoped it would be a clean break. The grinding sensation and throbbing that followed a particularly unlucky hit couldn’t be anything else. Damn those beleathered freaks and their swinging flails.

Vash’s face is all doom and gloom when he gets on his knees to inspect the injury, useless first aid kit in his hands. The severity of a broken leg in the middle of the desert is reflected in the crease of his frown.

“Can I?”

“Go ‘head.”

Vash might be the only person he trusts with his injuries. It’s a matter of survival. It’s also a matter of feather-light touch: long fingers hovering above the nasty bruise barely trigger his hairs. Looking at his poking bone makes his stomach turn, so he watches the hands instead.

They stop abruptly.

“I need to check if the fibula is broken as well.”

It’s also a matter of giving enough fucks to ask. If Wolfwood tells him to piss off, the hands will retreat and won’t press an inch further. He might never get used to this level of care and respect, but he’s not dumb enough to reject it. Besides, Vash has much more expertise at this.

“Alright.”

The hands resume their examination, now making contact. It takes some does that hurt?s from Vash and a lot of swears from him to map the damage.

“Can’t say for sure. It could be fractured but seems whole,” he concludes.

“Alright.” It’s bad, but nothing a vial can’t fix. Only if he drinks one now, it’ll fuse his bones as is, in an ugly knot. “Can ya put the other one back in place?”

Vash waivers.

“Yes. But it will hurt, a lot. And there’s a high risk of misaligning it, or shards tearing blood vessels, or emboly…” His eyes — they seem to give off dim glow — dart around, as if scanning through all possible outcomes. He seems to settle on the worst one: “It could kill you. Leave you limping at best. We should find a proper doctor.”

“In the desert?” he scoffs. “Closest town is forty iles away and I can’t walk.”

Helpless. He hates that. His mind is running escape plan number whatever and for whateverth time trips over the same obstacle: his fucked up leg. No cover, no way to reach the Punisher before a hypothetical bullet gets him, — or worse, Vash — never mind the narrow opening and a dead end. It’s a death trap.

Needle Noggin’s brain seems to function on entirely different wavelengths.

“I could carry you.”

“And the Punisher? And your bag?”

“I can handle this.” Stubborn as always.

“Just like I can handle a bit of hurt. Just align it proper, my serum will take care of the rest.”

He’s still unconvinced. “I’ve never done this before… Well, not for someone else.” There it is — classic Needle Noggin hypocrisy. “I could make it worse.”

The same old song starts to get on his already wound-up nerves.

“Don’t care. Do it,” he barks.

He receives a look. Two stubborn bastards, they can keep it up all day. Somebody’s got to give in eventually.

A defeated sigh: “Fine. But you’ll have to trust me on this.”

What an idiot. If Wolfwood didn’t trust him, his bones would be decorating the place of their first shootout. It’s too obvious to say, so he doesn’t.

Vash nods, acknowledging his silent conformation.

“This is how it’s gonna go: I’ll try to be as quick and precise as possible, but it still gonna Hurt. Capital H hurt. Keep your hands behind your back. I’ll have to pin you down, so you can’t kick me while I’m fixing your leg. And I gotta use something as a gag so you don’t bite your tongue off or crack your teeth.”

Everything makes sense to him, so there’s no objection. He places his hands behind his back and leans on them. It’s not gonna take long, so his own weight should be enough to hold them in place.

“Do what ya have to.”

Vash takes this to heart, and Wolfwood is immediately robbed of personal space. One pointy knee is lodged between his thighs, and his bad leg is getting thrown over the other. Quick manoeuvre, but it still brings a low sound out of him. Vash ignores it. Rolls up his red sleeve to reveal the hand enveloped in belts. Wolfwood expects him to unbuckle one or two and opens his mouth to warn he’ll easily bite through them, but Vash stops at securing his sleeve.

Then looks him directly in the eyes.

“Lean back.”

Something in his tone makes Wolfwood oblige without any questions.

The walls of the cave are uneven, and he has to lean further than would be comfortable. The rocks dig into the back of his head, his shoulders, but it’s better than if he’d started thrashing and slammed into the wall by accident. Something that didn’t even cross his mind. Fuck, he really knows what he’s doing. The way Vash moves has changed completely. No hesitation, only sure smoothness.

Wolfwood realizes what’s gonna happen next well beforehand. The heat running through him at the thought is surely just a natural reaction to a broken bone, nothing else. He can already picture it in his mind’s eye, all while Vash slowly, deliberately raises his forearm until it stops inches before Wolfwood’s lips. So close, he senses his own hot breath reflected.

The silence stretches. He can’t tell if this is an offer or an order. The later is much easier to except since there’s no better alternative. He’s used to orders. But the look Vash gives him suggest the former. In the blue glow of those eyes — the certainty of offering his good arm to be chewed on and potentially hurt. Wolfwood is capable of it. Can crush bones for sure, probably bite all the way through if he really tries to. It is a great show of trust he can’t betray.

Tough job for a professional Judas.

He opens his mouth slowly, making a show of his sharp canines. Just so they’re clear on that. Without a word, Vash puts his arm inside the toothy trap. Pushes it deep, back to the very molars, making him breath through the nose to avoid gagging. Belts taste of gunpowder and sand. His tongue stumbles on a metal buckle, but his teeth feel only the satisfying give of worn leather. And, if he presses deeper, skin. Somehow the layer that conceals the other’s pulse makes it so much more tempting. Some primal part of him wants to try his luck, but he doesn’t go that far, tries to do the opposite and keep his jaws wide. It’s hard to do as Vash presses him further into the wall, sending chills down his spine.

He’s fixed like that, can’t turn his head and can’t look down. Can only feel Vash lining him up, closing a grip on his ankle. It takes a lot of concentration to smother the growing panic. He breathes slowly through the nose and doesn’t look away. Rule number one: don’t let them see your fear. This one he made up. Actual rule number one is 'be not afraid'.

Defenceless. Right now, Vash could do anything he pleases, and Wolfwood won’t be able to offer any resistance. He can’t discern anything from Vash’s focused expression. Does he just do what the situation requires? Does he enjoy this? He’s left to wonder, the only guaranty of his safety — the arm lodged between his jaws.

As if this one is not the most dangerous of the two. He’d seen what it can do, a third sun in the sky taking a bite out of moon. He feels it through his fangs — a distant humming. Hidden, constricted by tight assortment of belts. But he knows it’s there.

And Vash knows that he knows.

He wonders if he can get rid of the hidden sun for good. Will severing the arm be enough? Will it release this angel from his terrible power? Will it object to the destruction and kill them both? He would do it if it meant freedom.

He wonders if Vash can hear his thoughts or read them in the darkness of his irises. If he knows, he doesn’t show it.

“I’m gonna count to three. Ready?” The grip on his ankle tightens.

He just wants it over with.

Lets out a sound of confirmation — a growl.

“One. Two.”

Pull comes before three.

Pain           b l i n d s           him.

Fills        his      nerves      with      l i q u i d    f i r e.

Burns     away      every      bit      of       reason,

every   ounce    of   restraint,

and leaves only one raw instinct.

He

          Bites

                         Down.

And tastes blood.

Tastes pure condensed light seeping between his teeth and staining walls with whiteness.

Tastes sharp cut on his tongue as something unfurls between the leather straps and lunges at the roof of his mouth and the sun–

……………….……….how can anything be so bright

melting candle of a city……………….

………………….the smell– oh God are those people

………………..can be done

…………..…..

…………just ask

it doesn’t work like that………

Something light as a feather and sharp as a blade forces his jaws apart.

His teeth leave the arm with a squeak of wet leather, and he doubles over, coughing up blood — his and Vash’s mixed, indistinguishable — and a long crystalline feather.

The what the hells in his head, still dizzy with pain and whatever just happened, turn to oh fucks. He went too far. He went so far he triggered Vash’s defences.

“The fuck was that?” The words still burn in his mind. Hands shaking from adrenaline rush, he wipes his bloody mouth. Avoids looking at Vash who is still way too close. A weird thing to be concerned about after their thoughts blended together.

“Psychic link of sorts? I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would do that.” He has the balls to sound guilty, like it isn’t Wolfwood’s fault.

“Cut yer sorries, I should be the one apologizin’.”

“For what?”

“I hurt ya.”

Pause.

“It’s nothing.” The feathers seem to disagree. Slowly, as if against their will, they thin out and disappear under the belts. Change of subject: “How’s your leg?”

"Lemme see."

At last, Vash backs away. Wolfwood takes the space to inspect his leg that still hurts like a bitch, but at least now it’s anatomically sound. Having no interest in dragging this out even longer, he fishes out a vial from the inner pocket of his suit and takes a satisfying gulp.

Serum washes away blood and the cuts with it. Rapid regeneration makes steam come out of his mouth, creating an illusion of a great beast breathing, trapped in a dark tunnel. It dissipates shortly, and it’s just him. He feels his bones start to grind back together. Like any time, it sucks, and he wants to distract himself by smoking, but the pack comes up empty. Bummer.

Beside him, Vash nurses his arm. The last belt joins its brethren in a pile at his side and leaves the pale skin exposed.

Wolfwood stretches out his hand — both apology and an offer.

Vash lets him take his arm and bring it closer.

The bitemarks are a red eclipse across the skin full of scars. He never meant to add more. Four leisurely bleeding spots mark the entry points of his fangs. The sun hums all the same from its hiding spot. It can go fuck itself.

Apart from the four tears, the mark will disappear in a few days. Nothing serious, it would never make the top tiers of Vash’s injuries. Still, Wolfwood makes a point of cleaning it up and wrapping it in a tight bandage. Vash plays along, hands him the necessary materials from his first aid kit, finally useful.

When Wolfwood is done, he holds onto the arm for a moment longer to press his lips to the bandage.

“So it heals better,” he says, letting go. Something Miss Melanie used to say. Something to show he isn’t all teeth.

Vash’s face does a weird thing, like he can’t decide what expression to put on for the occasion. Face blank, he runs his fingers across the bandage, just making sure it’s secure, but the way he lingers on the spot Wolfwood kissed absolutely does not stir anything in his chest.

“I think it’s already working,” Needle Noggin murmurs. Then decides on a classic jolly tone. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up! For a Wolfwood, you bite like a kitten. When I did this myself, had to apply stitches afterwards.” He grins, revealing his own unnaturally large fangs. “Can’t show it though, it was on the other arm.”

His animated goofiness is fake through and through, but Wolfwood doesn’t break the illusion. He absolutely does not want to talk about it. Besides, Needle Noggin’s cheer is contagious, and he can’t stop himself from mirroring the grin.

“Weirdo.”

“Boringo.”

“That’s not a word.”

“You’re no fun.” He makes a face. For a moment, a flash of concern showns through as he takes a quick glance at Wolfwood’s leg. “You sure it’s gonna be alright?”

“Sure.”

“Good.” He collects his belts and first aid kit. Looks quizzically at the small knife Wolfwood hands him — he forgot it on the rocks. “I thought you’d want to cut the other one for symmetry. Ports would be more desert friendly.”

“What port?”

“Ports. Like jorts, but with pants,” he says with a shrug, like it should be obvious.

It’s the dumbest thing Wolfwood has heard in a long while, so he entertains himself by bickering about it for the rest of the day. Even with the help of serum, it takes time to heal, so they make camp. It’s tempting to ease back into their comedy routine and forget, but he doesn’t.

Those words keep ringing in his head. Ones about the sun that is not a sun. Swallowed whole. Not a possibility. For now. He runs the edges of his teeth with his tongue. Still sharp, still up for a job. Maybe, after the world is saved or over. Maybe never.

Just in case, the sun should be afraid.