Chapter Text
Vash lost the fight when his assailants took his arm.
There was nothing he could do without gravely injuring them, or outright killing them, but he refused to take such drastic measures. These people had very little, especially in the corner of town Vash and Wolfwood had arrived in. Lost technology went for a lot of money; morbidly, Vash wondered what they would make off his prosthetic.
Knees and hands dug into his back and joints. In the struggle, his coat had been torn off. He searched for its familiar shade through the blur of tears in his eyes.
His arm burned. Or at least, the space where his arm should be. They had offered to buy his prosthetic. When Vash politely refused, they seized him and separated them by force. They pulled and pulled and pulled until they ripped it away, heedless of Vash’s pleas and cries.
The muscles in his shoulder and the stump of his bicep lurched and twitched. Needles drove into his flesh by the hundreds. Stray wires dangled in the corner of his vision. Vash sobbed with half his face buried in the sand, held there by a large fist in his hair. He regretted leaving Wolfwood at the mechanics. He regretted walking away to find a snack.
Still, he didn’t regret not putting up more of a fight. The town needed the money. He would be fine without his arm.
Boots crunched by his head. “Ya think he’s got any more lost tech on him?”
“Could be worth a look,” another voice replied from somewhere behind.
A hand gripped his injured shoulder.
Vash howled as a fire blazed across his skin. His raw throat bled. Instincts buried deep within himself, forced to remain locked up to hide the inhuman parts of him, roared to life.
His wings burst from his back. The hands and bodies on top of him fled. Razor sharp feathers sprang up across his shoulders and neck. He scrambled to a crouch and, elongated canines nipping his lip, snarled at the terrified faces surrounding him.
Get back! Get back, I don’t want to hurt you!
Shots rang out. Pain flared in his legs and toppled him. Several bodies tackled him and pinned him to the ground once again, flat on his back. He beat his wings. Sand billowed around them. He twisted and bucked in their grasp, frantic to free himself before his sharp feathers could hurt anyone.
A boot pinned one wing. Another boot crushed delicate bones beneath its heavy sole. Given the idea, more booted feet joined the foray.
Vash could hardly hear himself scream over the high pitched tones and his own heartbeat in his ears. He reached out, blinded with vision painted white, to chase them away. His determination not to cause pain became a mission to flee from pain himself, a battle he had little chance of winning.
Vash managed to wriggle through an opening and crawl from beneath their boots. The cacophony around him rose to a peak. Shouts ricocheted off his sensitive eardrums. Bullets struck the earth and lodged themselves in his flesh. He fisted sand and tugged himself through it, his wings like twitching dead weights and his good arm straining.
He met resistance. Something struck the side of his head- the butt of a gun, perhaps. He collapsed. He bit his tongue as his chin hit the ground.
Footsteps signaled that he’d been surrounded. His fingers grasped uselessly for something to hold other than that hot, coarse, bloodied sand.
By some strange miracle in answer to his prayer, Vash closed his fist around his coat.
He drew it to his face and burrowed his nose in the worn fabric. He muffled his wails and broken sobs in the familiar seams, tracing the stitches with his trembling hand. He needed to get away but how could he without hurting people? How could he run when his body barely obeyed his mind’s fractured demands? The only way he might escape was up, if he could make it.
He flexed his wings. He gnawed on his hand through his coat to muffle a cry as agony erupted in his shattered bones. Despite the pain, the limbs moved at his command.
He gathered his legs beneath him. He grit his teeth. He hadn't flown in a few decades, even longer on injured wings.
A gun barrel rested against his temple. Panic spiked through his core. Vash pushed off the ground and soared into the sky.
He sailed over dozens of buildings and vacant streets before his wings gave out. He plummeted, unable to slow his descent. He crashed into a wall, then landed in a spray of blood, sand, and loose feathers.
Vash lay on his stomach, keening and moaning. He wrestled with the urge to curl in a ball and stay there to pass out or die. He lifted his head to search for a hiding place.
Ahead of him, he spied crates and trash cans stacked haphazardly in a corner. He dug his fingers in the ground and hauled his heavy, battered body forward. Every movement sent fire coursing through his veins. His lungs stuttered and struggled to keep up with his waning energy, spent from his escape and the grueling task of healing. Dirt coated his skin and clothes, mixed with blood and sweat in a thick mud.
The shadows greeted him in their cool, dark embrace. Vash huddled behind his metal and wooden shelter. He tucked his knees under his chin and cocooned his body in his wings.
Vash closed his eyes and prayed no one would find him.
Wolfwood arrived too late. The obvious assumption, judging by the blood smears and feathers scattered on the ground. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified that Vash was nowhere to be seen.
He chewed on the unlit cigarette between his teeth. He tilted his head down to stare over his sunglasses. As he did, he moved his thumb off the Punisher’s release. People lingered on the street. Many of them carried guns. Several of the men shouted commands and pointed down side streets.
Wolfwood sighed. Shit, Spikey. All this and you've only been gone an hour. He grimaced at the bitter taste of regret. I shoulda gone with you.
He approached the nearest commanding figure. He stuck his free hand in his pocket in an attempt to appear more casual and relaxed. “Y’all lookin’ for something?” Miraculously, his voice didn’t betray the way his heart hammered in anticipation of bad news.
The man rested his shotgun on his shoulder. He appraised Wolfwood with a raised eyebrow high in the brim of his hat. “You a priest?”
“Sure am,” Wolfwood replied, “Was hopin’ to do some preaching ‘round here, spread the good Lord’s word, but y’all seem a bit preoccupied. Y’all got an escaped criminal or what?”
“Worse.” The man’s eyes shifted side to side, then he leaned in, as if afraid someone would overhear them. “There’s a devil loose in this town.”
Wolfwood forced a chuckle through his tight lungs. Vash, a devil? Not a chance. He took his lighter out, flipped it in the air, and lit his cigarette. “A devil, y’say? What makes ya so sure?”
“Well, it ain’t a man.”
“Ain’t much difference between a man and a devil these days.”
“That may be true, sir, but this here’s a right devil.” The man adjusted his white knuckled grip on his gun. “Creature’s got fangs, claws, an unnatural color, wings sproutin’ outta its back. Laid its beady eyes on me and I swear I thought I was done for.”
Wolfwood smothered his heartache. Wings and all, huh, Needle-Noggin? Shit, I gotta find you fast. “Damn. Is that so?” he said aloud. He offered the lighter as the man pulled a cigarette out with a visibly trembling hand. “Sounds like yer in more need of a priest than I thought.”
The man huffed. “I’ll say.” He inhaled a deep lungful of smoke and released it. He waved another man over. “Thing had some lost tech on it. We pulled this in the struggle. A real marvel, dare I say it.”
Wolfwood’s vision narrowed.
The second man held out Vash’s prosthetic.
Wolfwood slipped the lighter in his pocket. He took the arm, careful to keep his face neutral. He tilted it and studied it as if he’d never seen it before, as if he’d never laced his fingers with the precious metal joints or pressed kisses to the gears of the wrist and the ridges of the knuckles.
A spatter of blood near the port caught his eye. He shoved the lid on his boiling pot of emotion and spoke with a dry, heavy tongue. “Wonder what a creature like that would be doin’ with lost tech.”
“Hell only knows,” the first man commented. He scratched his head, suddenly looking rather ashamed. “We were planning on sellin’ it, before all this.”
Wolfwood’s tongue soured. “I see. Mind if I keep it?”
The man gave him an odd look.
“Y’know, to banish any trace of evil,” he added hurriedly.
“Ah. Be my guest, sir.”
“Thanks.” Wolfwood scanned the thinning crowd. “So, which way did yer devil go?”
The man let his gaze wander across the horizon. “East, over those buildings there.”
Wolfwood choked. “Over?"
“I did say it’s got wings, didn’t I?”
“You did...”
“We lost sight of it after that,” the man continued, “I sure hope it ain’t terrorizing the rest of the town, after all that work to corner it.”
Wolfwood peered east, as if he might see a trace of Vash in the ramshackle buildings and sand. “Is he hurt?”
The man laughed, startled and short. “He? Yer an odd fellow, Mister Preacher. What’s it to ya if the thing is hurt?”
Wolfwood cursed himself. He should have shut up, ducked his head, and joined the search before he dug himself in an inescapable hole. “Just curious, considering the blood.”
“We did a number on it before it escaped. Shoulda killed the creature already, if we’re lucky.”
“Right.”
“Honestly, what’s it to ya?”
Wolfwood took his spent cigarette out and crushed it under his sole. “I take it yer religious?”
“Yessir.”
“What do the angels say, when they appear?”
The man blinked, taken aback. “Pardon?”
“They tell us not to be afraid,” Wolfwood explained, “In the book of Ezekiel, it’s written, ‘they had a human likeness, but each had four faces, and each of them had four wings. Their legs were straight, and the soles of their feet were like the sole of a calf's foot. And they sparkled like burnished bronze. Under their wings on their four sides they had human hands.’ Terrifying thought, ain’t it?” He stared at the man over his sunglasses. “Y’sure this creature you’ve found ain’t an angel?”
The man and his companion both gaped.
Wolfwood hefted the Punisher on his back. “‘Scuse me, gentlemen, I have work to do. Best if y’all stay outta this.”
He didn’t wait to see if they listened. He walked east, kicking up sand in his haste. He searched for any signs of Vash amidst the shadows of the empty alleys.
It wasn’t until he’d covered quite some distance when he spotted the first clue. A wall, between two buildings, with an ugly dent in the side. Splintered wood speckled in blood and delicate white feathers carpeted the sand below. A heap of red cloth had been discarded.
He knew it right away. Vash’s coat.
Wolfwood jogged towards it. He leaned the Punisher against the wall and set Vash’s prosthetic beside it, trading them for the coat. He traced the rips and stains in the red fabric, almost reverently, and cursed under his breath. He raised his head and peered down the alley from side to side.
A clatter echoed around him. He whipped his head. A trash can lid rolled towards him and fell flat. Downy feathers, tacky with blood, stuck to the rim.
Wolfwood dropped the coat. He stepped towards the shadows, heart in his throat. A trench had been dug in the sand, as if something- or someone- had dragged through it. Blood stained the grains, squelching and crunching beneath Wolfwood’s shoes.
As he approached the corner, a low rumble reverberated in his chest and rattled his bones. Rusted trash cans and old, forgotten crates clustered in the darkness. He licked his cracked lips. “Needle-Noggin, ‘s that you?”
Two glowing eyes peered from between the stacks. Two beacons, surrounded by the faint pulse of an eerie blue light.
Wolfwood stepped closer, faster. “Come on, we gotta get out-”
In a burst of stray feathers, Vash scrambled from behind his shelter, knocking over more of the precariously perched items in the process.
Wolfwood froze, eyes wide and fixed on the man in front of him.
Vash crouched on his hand and knees. His wings spilled from his back, bloody and mangled at unnatural angles. Wires trailed from his missing arm. Blood and grit coated his body. His markings shone on his pale skin, waxing and waning in intensity, the vibrant blue tinted a sickly gray. His eyes, dilated and blown wide, continued to glow the same color.
Wolfwood swallowed the lump in his throat. A trickle of fear dripped down his spine; nothing to do with Vash’s body and everything to do with the amount of blood and bone visible on his flesh.
Slowly, he bent to kneel in the stained earth. “Vash, it’s alright now,” he soothed, “They ain’t gonna hurt you anymore.”
Vash’s lips pulled back in a snarl. Sharp canines glistened in the afternoon sun. Feathers cropped up on his shoulders and cheeks.
Wolfwood shuffled towards him. “Vash-”
Before he could say more, Vash’s wings expanded. Needle points and blade-like feathers shot out at all angles and raised in ridges across his skin. Deep, animalistic growls and hisses ripped from the depths of Vash’s chest. Even as the sharp edges zipped towards Wolfwood, Vash himself scurried backwards. He compacted his remaining limbs in a tight ball.
Wolfwood didn’t move. He saw no threat as he gazed into Vash’s eyes. He saw his friend, his partner, his lover, drowning in pain, terror, and confusion.
Wolfwood sat on his heels. He raised his palms to face Vash. “It’s alright, darlin’. I won’t let ‘em hurt you anymore.”
The approaching feathers stopped inches from Wolfwood. With each sharp intake of breath, the warning snarls became desperate whimpers. Vash retreated for the darkest shadows, dragging his battered body along with his one good arm.
Wary of startling him, Wolfwood stayed where he knelt. He listened to the high pitched whines and rumbling undertones. It reminded him of countless times he’d heard Vash’s sounds, or music as Wolfwood preferred to call it (mostly to see Vash blush); the cat-like purring in times of safety and happiness, the chirps and whistles audible if one paid attention when he laughed, the song he trilled when he stood with his forehead against the glass of another plant’s tank.
An idea occurred to him. Wolfwood knew that song by heart. Although he couldn’t exactly sing it, perhaps he could match it. Anything to bring Vash out of the fog he was lost in.
Wolfwood began to sing a lullaby, the notes low enough to rumble like that purr and high enough to catch everything else. He held himself perfectly still as he sang. He kept his palms raised toward Vash but lowered his eyes, praying that perhaps his own vulnerability would break through Vash’s mind.
In the middle of the second verse, Vash crawled to him.
Sand shifted beneath him as he dragged himself close. He moved until he knelt there with his knees a hair's breadth away from Wolfwood’s own. Vash joined the song, a low tone settling beneath a series of clicks and chirps. He breathed sharply through clenched teeth. A whine escaped every couple notes. Wolfwood didn’t dare raise his gaze- not yet, not before he was sure Vash recognized him.
It only took a few more lines of the lullaby. Vash pressed his hand against Wolfwood’s outstretched palm, their fingers aligned and wrists together. Vash rested his forehead against Wolfwood’s brow.
With that touch alone, energy zipped through Wolfwood’s body like an electric current. His heart swelled and overflowed with emotions, many he could name as his own but several he thought for sure must be from Vash; how, he couldn’t explain, but there they appeared all the same. Heat like the first rays of morning sunlight or the caress of a campfire flame in the night warmed his limbs from the inside out. The lullaby and the music Vash made collided and wove in a tune that danced around them and within them.
Once he had sung the last verse of the lullaby, Wolfwood cupped Vash’s cheek with his free hand. His thumb smoothed over his feathery cheekbone.
Vash shuddered, but he leaned into his touch. “Nick?”
Wolfwood whispered, “I’m here, angel.”