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Wolfwood finds him where he didn’t expect: at a bar, empty glasses lined up at his elbow, head pillowed on top of his folded arms, unconscious and snoring.
Vash being there isn’t unexpected in itself – he and Wolfwood have spent countless nights at countless bars in countless towns – but it isn’t like Vash to seek time alone in one to drink away his sorrows. That’s usually Wolfwood’s thing. Typically, he’s the one blowing away money on drinks (well, any of it not being saved for cigarettes, anyway) while Vash seems perfectly content to sit with him as he does so, spending the time talking Wolfwood’s ear off about something or other, or just resting in companionable silence.
It has occurred to Wolfwood before – perhaps Vash likes watching him drink and smoke. He’s caught him staring, more than once, at billows of smoke passing his lips or at traces of whiskey dripping to his chin, always with a look of want. Wolfwood thinks it might be part of the whole martyr thing he’s got going – the guy’s convinced he can’t let himself indulge in such pleasures. Stupid.
Wolfwood offers, almost every time (because he’s not a complete asshole) to grab Vash a whiskey, or even to share his own if money’s tight, but he declines almost every time. I don’t drink much, he said, and Wolfwood never pushed it (because he’s not a complete asshole). If Vash didn’t want to drink, he didn’t have to drink, even if Wolfwood thought he could stand to lighten up and let himself have the things he so clearly wants.
Vash doesn’t drink. Never really has, for as long as Wolfwood’s known him. Except for tonight, apparently.
The bartender eyes Wolfwood as he dries glasses with a rag. “You know him?” he asks.
He grunts in confirmation. “He cause you any trouble?”
“Only if you count driving away potential customers with his damn crying.” Wolfwood can hear the roll of his eyes. He can’t help but grin. Sounds like Vash.
As the bartender moves away, on to another task, Wolfwood leans over his unconscious partner. He hasn’t stirred, not one bit. Dumbass, Wolfwood thinks. Leaving yourself vulnerable like this, not even telling me where you’re running off to. What if some schmuck after that bounty found you like this, hmm? What then?
Wolfwood watches him sleep for a few moments. It’s jarring, in a way, to see him looking so peaceful, so unalert and relaxed. Then he pokes him in the side, hard, because he actually kind of is an asshole.
“Yo, Spikey,” he says. “Time to wake up.”
Nothing.
“Come on, now. Wakey, wakey.”
Nothing. Wolfwood straightens and lets his head fall back, thinks why me, God? Then he picks up the abandoned glass of something a few seats down and upturns it over Vash’s exposed neck.
He gasps awake with a cry, aborted as he presses his palm to his head, as if that’ll do anything to lessen its spinning.
“Nice of you to join me,” Wolfwood says. Vash turns sideways to look at him and his eyes widen, like he’s surprised to see Wolfwood there, like there would be anyone else to drag his ass to bed so he doesn’t spend the night sleeping on a barstool.
“Wanna tell me what you think you’re doing? You disappear on me, let me run around this whole damn town thinking someone might’ve hurt you or taken you or fuckin’ killed you, only for me to find you passed out here, where anyone could’ve recognized you and dragged your idiot self outta here and cashed you in – you don’t even drink, Spikey! Why are you drinking? And cryin’? I come find you and the old man tells me you been cryin’ loud as fuck, what’s that about? Why wouldn’t you just tell me if something’s wrong, huh, you that desperate to drive me up a goddamn wall?”
Vash just blinks at him, a disconnected, almost dreamy look in his eyes. Wolfwood wants to shake him.
“God fuckin’–” He stops, lets out an aggravated sigh. “I swear, I’m about to be a couple billion double dollars richer someday soon, Needle–”
“Gosh, you’re so pretty, you know?”
It takes a moment for the sentence to settle in Wolfwood’s brain. He glances behind him, briefly, to be certain Vash isn’t talking to somebody else.
“What?” he says, intelligently.
Vash hums softly with a short nod of his head. Wolfwood suddenly feels more tired than he did a minute ago.
“You seein’ me, Spikes? You know who I am?”
He nods more enthusiastically this time. “Nico,” he says, with his big, stupid smile.
“Alright,” he says. “How drunk are you?”
“Can I kiss you?”
Very drunk, then. ”No.”
Vash pouts. Those big blue eyes of his are shining up at Wolfwood, wet and sad and beautiful and wanting. Wolfwood is very, very tired, and very, very weak. Damn him.
“Why not?” Vash asks.
“’Cause you’re drunk.”
“So?”
“So,” Wolfwood says, lighting a cigarette so he has an excuse not to look Vash in the eyes. “I don’t kiss drunk people.”
“Why not?”
Of course Vash would turn into a relentless, question-filled toddler after one too many drinks. Why not? Because it’s a bad idea. Because I don’t deserve you. Because you were my mark. Because maybe you still are. Because you’re too good for me. Because I want it too much. Because lust and greed are sins. Because if I get to kiss you once it would kill me not to do it again, again, again.
“Because I find one-hundred-percent-sober consent extremely sexy. Fear I just can’t kiss anyone without it.”
Vash shifts in his seat, straightens up almost eagerly, anticipating. “I do consent,” he says.
“Hmm. Skipping right over the little ‘sober’ part though, huh?”
Vash drops his head back and lets out a little whine, like he’s the one with any right to be exasperated by the situation. “Wolfwoooooooood.”
Wolfwood takes a long drag from his cigarette, lets it calm him. “Yeah?”
“I… I dunno. What was I sayin’?”
“Just talkin’ nonsense as usual,” Wolfwood says, ignoring the pang – the hope, the longing – in his chest.
Vash lets his head fall onto his folded arms again with a soft thud. His voice is muffled when he moans, “My head huuuuurts.”
“’S what happens when you drink too much, dummy.”
There’s more muffled complaining. It sounds something like “not fair.”
Wolfwood’s head also hurts – it feels like he’s spinning, making him dizzy, sick, like it feels when he’s taken too many vials in too short a time. Vash isn’t in his right mind now. He doesn’t know what he’s saying – Wolfwood shouldn’t pay it any mind. His focus needs to be on getting Vash back to the room in one piece. He exhales smoke slowly, leans his arm on the bar while still facing Vash. “You wanna tell me why you were sitting here drinking ‘til you’re halfway outta your own mind?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“You sure? It might be easier for you to get it out now while you’re—” he waves a hand in Vash’s direction. “You know I’m just gonna ask you about it later if you don’t. And you know I won’t stop buggin’ you about it ‘til you tell me.”
Vash turns his head towards Wolfwood, still pillowed in his arms but revealing his face, his brow wrinkled in concentration. “I can’t really… remember. Was thinkin’… something about you, I think. Got sad, or — a feeling. Some feeling… I don’ know….”
It’s like lighting goes through him, sharp, painful. Vash was drinking, and crying, because of him? “…A bad feeling?” he asks.
Vash giggles, like it’s the funniest thing he could’ve said.
“A good feeling, then?”
Giggles.
“You’re sending me some weird signals here, Spikey.”
“Sorry, sorry, I— it’s good, they’re… good. It’s you, you know? It’s good.”
“So good you had to go get drunk and cry about it?”
“Mmmh. I’m — I don’t drink a lot, you know. Or… or other things. Indulgences. Important to moderate them. So I’m here, ‘cause I thought the drinking’d be easier.”
“Right….” Wolfwood shakes his head. “That makes so much sense.”
“Yeah?”
“No, dumbass, it don’t.” He pushes away from the bar and puts out his cigarette on the underside of the ledge. “You’re not off the hook, so we’re clear. You’re telling me what’s been bugging you, when you can string more than half-sentences together. ’Bout time we head back, I think. You can just sleep it off. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
Vash’s eyes have closed again. “We goin’ home?” His voice comes out sleepy, slurred.
“Home?” Wolfwood chuckles. “If you mean back to the motel room, sure. We’re going home.”
A weak but honest smile crosses Vash’s face. “Okay,” he says, then reaches an arm towards Wolfwood without opening his eyes.
“What’s this now?”
“Let’s go,” Vash says.
“If you think I’m carrying you, Blondie, you—”
“Please?”
Weak. Nicholas D. Wolfwood is a weak, weak man.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “But you’re carrying some’a your own weight, ya hear? You ain’t a goddamn princess and I still gotta carry my gun, too.”
“Yessir, Nico.” Vash takes his arm back just long enough to give a half-assed salute, then reaches out again, waiting. Wolfwood loops Vash’s arm around his neck and lifts him from his seat, easy, taking most of his weight until he finds his balance. Vash’s fingers curl in his hair, with a sense of familiarity and comfort that does things to Wolfwood’s brain he’d rather not analyze. He adjusts his grip around Vash’s waist and has the absolutely absurd thought that helping Vash get “home” might be the most important thing ever asked of him.
The streets are quiet this late at night, something Wolfwood is thankful for, namely because it’s less likely for a man carrying a giant machine gun and a drunken idiot to attract unwanted attention. Vash clutches onto his suit jacket and trips over his own two feet as he shuffles along.
He’s surprisingly quiet as Wolfwood leads them back to their room on the other side of town, a testament to how tired he must truly be. It’s nice, actually, because part of Wolfwood — the hungry, longing part — is satiated just by having his arm wrapped around Vash’s waist. It’s also not-so-nice, because it means Wolfwood has a bit too much time to overthink everything Vash said in the bar, with his arm wrapped around Vash’s waist, his own heart rate picking up with every passing moment.
He glances at Vash a few blocks into the journey, thinking he must be half asleep, only to find his eyes focused on Wolfwood’s face. They’re sharper than they should be, for someone so out of it, and warmer than they should be, for someone looking at him.
“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that, huh?” Wolfwood asks, and hopes they aren’t close enough for Vash to feel the blush on his cheeks.
“Can I kiss you?”
Wolfwood’s heart stutters in his chest. He blames Vash’s closeness, it’s— flustering him, yes, he’ll admit it. He can stay calm about this; he needs to stay calm about it. A practice of self-restraint. He can manage.
“Already told you, I don’t kiss people when they’re drunk, Blondie.”
“What ‘bout tomorrow, then? When I’m not drunk?”
Wolfwood lets out a puff of laughter, but it sounds sad and disbelieving, even to his own ears.
“Sure, tell you what. If you remember any of this tomorrow, and you still wanna kiss me, you ask me again. Ask me tomorrow, when I know it’ll be because you mean it, and I’ll say yes.”
Vash’s eyes become impossibly brighter. “Really? You promise?”
“Cross my heart. I’ll kiss you as much as you want. Ask me.”
Wolfwood lets Vash sleep in the next morning only because he’s sure he’d prefer listening to his snores over listening to him complain about hangovers. That, and a part of him might be riddled with anxiety. He sits at the small table in their room, knife in hand, absentmindedly carving into a leg from the other chair (which was already cracked in half and doing nothing for the chair when they checked in, for the record). For the time his eyes spend on Vash’s sleeping form compared to his whittling, he’s lucky he’s so practiced at it.
Vash wanted to kiss him. Why wouldn’t he have said so sooner if that’s how he really felt? Why did the desire only show when he was drunk? When his reasoning was compromised? Maybe he didn’t really want to kiss him, and it was just the alcohol talking. And that’s fine, if it was, Wolfwood can handle it. It’s fine. People say shit they don’t mean when they’re drunk all the time, it isn’t a big deal. Then again, people also say shit they really, really do mean when they’re drunk, too….
God, he’s glad he’s never gotten wasted enough around Vash to say all the things he thinks about him out loud. It’s bad enough that he hasn’t slept a wink all night, feels on the edge of insanity because he was too busy thinking — agonizing, more like — over whether Vash actually thinks he’s pretty, like some lovesick, delusional teenage girl. God, he’s pathetic. He needs to get his head screwed on straight again. He can’t afford to be anything less than level-headed when Vash finally wakes up.
The thing is, it’s not a question whether the other man will have any recollection of the night before — he’s almost certain Vash will remember perfectly fine. The question is whether he will pretend not to.
Wolfwood can picture it now: Vash playing dumb, saying he doesn’t remember last night at all, that he must have had more to drink than he had planned, all while chuckling, soft and fake, trying to mask the fact he’s lying as if Wolfwood isn’t able to read him like a goddamn book in large print.
It leaves Wolfwood with a choice — if Vash plays dumb, should he call him out for it, or go along and pretend nothing ever happened? Would Vash try to blow it over because nothing he said was true, or because he assumes Wolfwood wouldn’t feel the same way? Vash may be a shit liar, but even knowing when he isn’t being honest, Wolfwood can’t always pinpoint the reasoning behind it. And he can’t — won’t — risk losing him or altering their relationship for the worse by pushing him towards something he decided not to pursue, for whatever reason.
Vash will have to choose. Wolfwood will follow, as always.
It’s early afternoon by the time Vash finally stirs, and Wolfwood, having run out of whittle material long ago, tries to hide the fact that he’d been sitting there watching Vash sleep.
Vash, on his part, doesn’t seem too concerned with Wolfwood, as he lets out an overly dramatic moan before inelegantly rolling off the side of the bed, hitting the floor with a loud thump and yet another, more pained moan. Wolfwood ponders what it says about him, that this is the guy he’s so sick in the head about.
“Mornin’!” he bellows, to impart some revenge on the one who, even unconscious, has been driving him to madness the past several hours. “Or afternoon, rather. Sure slept a long time there, huh?”
Vash shushes him from where he lies facedown on the floor. “Please, have mercy.”
Wolfwood smirks. “No problem, Spikey. I’m the definition of merciful, you know that.”
Vash hums. Whether in agreement or not, Wolfwood isn’t sure.
“So?” he continues. “Did we learn any valuable lessons from last night?”
Next move’s yours, Vash.
Vash flips over onto his back, eyes squeezed shut, then clamps his hand over them as if to block out nonexistent brightness. “Uh. My alcohol tolerance is never as high as I think it is?”
“Probably could’a helped you remember that, if you had let me in on your plans for the night, idiot.” Wolfwood fights to keep his smile in place, his tone light. “Anything else?”
Slowly, Vash pulls himself into a sitting position and leans his head back to rest on the mattress, eyes still firmly shut. “Isn’t… isn’t just one life lesson enough for a night?”
Wolfwood lets the smile go, tries not to let disappointment show. Vash seems… fine? Comfortable, more or less. He isn’t behaving the way he would be if he was trying to hide something, if he was trying to play off last night like none of it happened when he knew it did. Does he not remember? He mustn’t. How could he be this calm, and quiet, if he did?
Well. Well, then. That’s fine, really, if he truly doesn’t remember anything. Wolfwood can move on, too, just like Vash will. He’ll be fine, even if he’ll never know whether Vash meant any of it. Even if he knows he will never be able to look at Vash exactly the same way again, and even if part of him feels off, like he knows some kind of secret he isn’t meant to know, like he’s seen through a window into Vash’s heart and mind when the curtains should’ve never been open.
“I suppose you’ve got a point, there. One is enough, I think.” Wolfwood stands, feeling half-dead on his feet, and decides he might just sleep until he forgets all about this. He heads towards the bathroom, if only to give himself a few moments of privacy.
Vash stops him before he can reach the door. “Uh, Wolfwood?”
Wolfwood turns back to face him. He’s got a hand on the back of his neck now, his nerves showing in a way Wolfwood had been expecting them too just moments ago. He waits.
Vash bites at his lip. He braces his arm on the bed and brings himself to his feet. Wolfwood thinks, as he tends to, whenever he sees Vash in bedclothes with his hair soft and wilted around his face, that he seems so very human, and so very precious. He takes a single step closer to Wolfwood. He can see him clench his fist. It clicks, suddenly. Hits Wolfwood like a bullet. He does remember. He was never planning to run, this time. He was never planning to hide.
“Can I kiss you?”
Wolfwood never knew it was possible to feel so many things at once. Relief, affection, certainty, fear. He can’t lose this now. There is no going back. He doesn’t think he’d be able to give Vash up if he tried.
“Yeah, Spikey,” he says, smiling. “You can kiss me.”