Archive of Our Own

The Winnebago is a mess.

There are dents on the roof from Master Cole walking on it. Various things are scattered around the floor, ripped clothes and a hair straightener that’s been thrown so hard it’s embedded in the wall, a cupboard thrown open and almost ripped off its hinges, and—is that one of William’s gadgets? It might have been one of those things he uses to detect ghosts. An EMF reader, he’s called it. Regardless of what it’s called, it’s smashed to pieces on the kitchen counter, and all the little bits are pooled together like someone felt bad about breaking it and tried to push everything back together in a guilty panic.

If Vyncent didn’t know any better, he’d think Master Cole and Dakota had some kind of training session in here.

But he does know better, and when he looks at Dakota closer he sees a bruise on his forehead where he probably hit it against the cupboard, and a small scabbed over cut on his finger from the jagged broken plastic of William’s weird toy, and a large burn on the palm of his hand from the hair straightener.

The Winnebago’s always been a mess, but this is worse than usual.

Dakota immediately starts trying to straighten things out, talking about how long it’ll take to Deadwood and should they stop for snacks, should they maybe get a hotel later, that might be a good idea, they should maybe consider it and get a good sleep before getting to Deadwood, talking like nothing is wrong, like nothing is broken or off its hinges and there’s no physical evidence at all of a fucking nuclear level Dakota Cole meltdown.

Guilt wracks through Vyncent like an electric shock. They never should have split up. Nothing good ever happens when they’re apart.

William steps into the Winnebago. Vyncent glances at him from the corner of his eye. He may be alive, but right now the bags under his eyes make him look dead again. He’s got all his weapons on him, the bloodied axe in a holster at his hip, the shotgun over his shoulder with rounds of ammunition along the strap, his chainsaw hooked to his duffel bag.

The blade of the axe and chainsaw are both bloody. So is the butt of the shotgun.

He doesn’t remember who or what William even hit with the shotgun.

Dakota leans half his entire body out the window to yell something at Master Cole still sitting on the roof of the car. Vyncent doesn’t hear it.

It may be only halfway through the day, but he is fucking exhausted.

Dakota backs away from the window and shuts it. “Okay, we’re on our way to Deadwood!” He smiles, and it wobbles at the edges, and Vyncent knows if he tries to question Dakota about the mess he will cry. “Are you guys okay if I drive?”

“Yeah,” William says without hesitation, although his voice is quiet. “Yeah, you can—you can drive.”

“Cool!” Dakota slides into the driver’s seat. Vyncent doesn’t protest.

The engine sputters to life, and the Winnebago begins to move, Dakota steering them out into the city streets. Vyncent puts a hand on the wall to avoid falling over as the vehicle lurches.

William stumbles, blinking rapidly as he’s snapped out of whatever trance he found himself in. He looks up at Dakota in the front seat, then at Vyncent, and he only meets his eyes for a second before tearing his gaze away to look at the floor.

Vyncent opens his mouth to speak, but any words in his arsenal lodge in his throat like a piece of glass, sharp and painful. What does he even say? What could he say?

William blinks, and then he’s reaching for the axe at his waist. He unbuckles the strap holding it up, and the axe lands on the floor with a loud thud. He reaches for the chainsaw on his duffle bag next, unhooking it from its strap and tossing it to the floor. He drops the entire duffle bag right next to it, and then he’s reaching for the shotgun strap. His fingers tremble as he tries to undo the strap, and he can’t seem to get a proper grip on it, so he resorts to trying to pull it off over his head, but a shotgun shell pokes him in the eye and he hisses.

Vyncent reaches towards William, jerking into action so quick William flinches, and Vyncent pauses, hands hovering, unsure, wary.

“Um, can I help you with that?” he asks.

William swallows. He nods, letting the shotgun strap go so it rests loose on his shoulder again.

Vyncent steps closer, feeling almost like he’s trying not to scare a wild animal, and honestly William fucking might as well be because that shit he pulled yesterday at Belltech was like nothing Vyncent had ever seen, he never expected William of all people, scrawny awkward genius William Wisp to fly off the handle like that. Guy flew so far off the handle it was nuts. Did some kind of fucking flip off the handle or something. Acrobatic as fuck.

Handles and axes and chainsaws aside, Vyncent reaches for the strap of the shotgun and swiftly unbuckles it. He lets it fall to the floor with the rest of William’s shit. And now, looking down at a disarmed William, he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who, not even twenty-four hours prior to this, would be chasing down one of their friends in a real life fucked up nightmare horror movie sequence.

Right now, he just looks like he needs a nap.

William looks up at Vyncent, but he still doesn’t meet his eyes. He glances to the side, down to the floor, and the guilt in Vyncent’s gut surges into his chest and makes his heart ache, like there’s something stuck in his lungs he can’t get out. He should’ve been there, he should have stayed with William in Belltech, he should have stuck around and made sure he didn’t go too far, reigned him in, been his tether—

William brushes past him and beelines for the bathroom. He doesn’t say anything as he slips in and shuts the door behind him.

Vyncent looks at the bathroom door, then at Dakota in the front seat.

He kneels down next to William’s duffel bag and opens it. He rummages around in the various supplies—there’s a gas mask, a spirit box, a magnifying glass, a pair of headphones, pepper spray, dozens of things he doesn’t recognize or know how to use—there’s usually a jackknife in here but Vyncent can’t see it, maybe William has it on him or it’s just lost in the mess of supplies—and finally, he finds a small first aid kit. He pulls it out of the mess and stands up, stepping over William’s weapons on the floor, and he makes his way to the front of the Winnebago.

Bobo is in the passenger seat, idly chewing on the cord of a hairdryer, but he looks up at Vyncent and hops onto the dashboard to let him sit shotgun. Vyncent lowers himself into the seat and opens the first aid kit.

Vyncent holds out a hand, palm up. “Dakota, can I see your hand?”

Dakota glances over at him, eyes wide with surprise. “What? No, dude, I’m driving, I gotta keep my hands on ten and two. And I’ll need to shift gears when we leave the city.”

“If you need to shift, Bobo can do it.”

“Bobo can’t drive, he’s a monkey.”

“Nah, he’s smart enough. Come on, just gimme your hand for two minutes.”

Dakota hesitates. He stares straight ahead at the road. His left hand grips the wheel so tight his knuckles are white, and the other is looser, just barely ghosting over the wheel like it hurts to touch. Slowly, he lifts his right hand off the wheel and holds it out to Vyncent.

Vyncent takes Dakota’s hand gingerly, spreading the fingers and gently pressing down on the palm, listening to the way Dakota inhales sharply as his burned skin is touched. Vyncent wants to ask what the hell he even did with the hair straightener to do this, but if he asks, he knows that’ll open the floodgates and Dakota will cry.

He digs through the first aid kit and pulls out some burn cream, twisting open the container and scooping some out with his finger. He slathers it on Dakota’s palm. As gently as he can, he begins to massage it into the skin with both hands, circling the burned flesh with his thumbs. Dakota lets out a shaky breath. Vyncent doesn’t look up, allowing Dakota the privacy to sniffle and wipe his eyes with his shoulder without being watched.

“We should have taken care of this last night,” Vyncent mutters, mostly to himself.

“Sorry,” Dakota mumbles.

“Not your fault. I should have noticed.”

I should have said something is the sentence that hang from Dakota’s lips without being spoken, but they both know he never would have. Dakota did this to himself, therefore he thinks he should deal with it alone. Vyncent disagrees and Dakota knows that.

He keeps working the burn cream into Dakota’s skin, long after two minutes have passed, but Dakota doesn’t pull away. His hand twitches as if to try when they take an exit to leave the city, but Vyncent reaches out with one hand to shift gears for him, still gently pressing at Dakota’s palm with the other. Once they’re through the exit and on the highway, he shifts them into a higher gear and then returns to massaging Dakota’s hand, trailing his thumbs along the lines, lacing his fingers with Dakota’s, making sure the cream gets everywhere that might have been even a little bit singed from whatever happened during his meltdown.

When the burn cream is gone, absorbed into the skin, Vyncent keeps going, migrating from Dakota’s palm to his fingers, pressing gently at each pad of his fingertips, rolling his knuckles, which are scabbed and scarred over from punching things he should not have been punching. Probably a tree. Or a wall. Or Master Cole. Vyncent knows if he tried to punch that guy, he’d probably break his hand. Whatever.

He reaches into the first aid kit and brings out a roll of bandages. He starts wrapping them around Dakota’s wrist first, securing them with a piece of medical tape, and it’s kind of hard to maneuver everything with only one free hand, but Vyncent is nothing if not versatile, and he manages to wrap the gauze around Dakota’s wrist and up to his palm.

He’s careful as he wraps up Dakota’s hand. The burned skin looks irritated, even after the cream. He’s left it uncovered and touching things for hours at this point, because of course he fucking did, he’s Dakota, if he had a heart attack he wouldn’t tell anyone that anything is wrong until he was dead on the floor.

Vyncent wraps the gauze around each of his fingers, just a thin layer over his knuckles, leaving it flexible enough so he can still move his hand, but hopefully it’ll provide enough protection that he won’t bust his scabs open the moment he punches something.

Vyncent doesn’t let go of his hand when it’s all bandaged up. He just holds it, idly trailing his thumbs over the gauze. Dakota sniffles and wipes his nose on his other arm.

“You should check on Wiwi,” Dakota says quietly.

Vyncent nods. The absence of William’s jackknife in his bag has him a bit worried. Not surprised, but still. Worried.  

He gives Dakota’s wrist a small squeeze, and then he stands. Dakota returns his hand to the steering wheel.

Vyncent stumbles over William’s weapons on his way to the bathroom. He has half a mind to open the door without knocking, but he doesn’t want to startle William if he’s got a knife, so instead he pauses and gently knocks on the door.

“William?” he calls.

“Don’t come in,” comes William’s voice, words short and clipped, voice quiet.

Vyncent nearly grabs the doorknob and pushes it open anyway, but his hand falters in the air.

His last mistake was inaction. He doesn’t want to leave William alone.

But confronting William right now might make it worse.

He curses at himself in his head and steps back from the bathroom, sitting down on the one couch they have in the Winnebago, William’s weapons sitting on the floor in front of him. He leans down and puts his head in his hands.

What are you doing?

Vyncent jolts at the voice in his head. Fuck, he forgot he had someone in there.

Fuck off, Vyncent thinks back at him. This is Vyncent’s issue, not Jason’s.

He almost wishes Jason weren’t here at all. He’s not like the Greats, who knew how his world worked, who helped him feel less alone in such a strange new reality. Sure, they argued over controlling his body for a bit, but they all got accustomed to their situation quick, and before Vyncent knew it they were all able to pass around their consciousness like a baseball, quick and effortless as if they were made to be that way, controlling Vyncent’s body like a well oiled machine with all seven of them playing equally important parts to keep them running, working as a collective, a unit.

With Jason, it feels like wrestling William for the steering wheel of the Winnebago, but instead of William it’s a self righteous obnoxious movie star.

So it fucking sucks.

Go talk to him, Jason’s voice says, too loud and too much and Vyncent is not in the mood to fucking hear it, not from him.

No, dude, leave me alone.

Look, you guys went through some shit. I get that. But holy fuck, can you just talk to him instead of dancing around it?

You don’t get it. Leave me alone, man.

Fucking teenagers, Jason scoffs, and Vyncent can feel his exasperation radiating through his brain like it’s his own feeling, just more distant, like there’s some degree of separation, but he still doesn’t like it. It was fine with the Greats, it was good, he could block things off if he wanted and none of them would mind, and sometimes their thoughts and feelings would bleed through but they made it work, somehow.

Jason is just fucking annoying.

Vyncent smacks himself on the side of the head with the heel of his hand, like he could somehow shake Jason out of his head and let him fall out of his ear like water. He hears—feels?—Jason moving around in there, cursing at Vyncent, are you trying to give us a concussion, what is wrong with you, and Vyncent does it again, harder this time, hoping to make him shut the fuck up again, because this is not Jason’s issue, he shouldn’t be here, get out get out GET OUT—

Fine, fucking hell, he hears, and Jason’s presence fades back to a miniscule pinprick at the back of his head. Vyncent takes a breath, running his hand through his hair, ignoring how his head throbs where he hit himself.

He’s fine.

He looks down at William’s weapons. Blood congeals on the blades of the chainsaw and the axe, and the thin layer on the butt of the shotgun is beginning to flake off.

He doesn’t want to sit around and do nothing.

He reaches into William’s bag again. Luckily, William’s bag is stocked full of random supplies, and he finds a packet of wet wipes within the mess. He opens it up and picks up the axe.

The blood is a bit hard to scrub off. A little bit of moisture and some scrubbing isn’t going to do the job perfectly, but he tries anyway, rubbing a wipe over the metal until the drying blood comes off, leaving the blade of the axe gleaming silver. There are still small flecks of blood on it that are just too stubborn to come off, but it’s good enough. It doesn’t look like someone was murdered with the thing, anyway.

He sets the axe down and looks at the chainsaw. With a sigh, he shucks off his jacket, freeing up his arms for a little more mobility, and reaches for the chainsaw.

It’s a bit heavier than he expected. He can carry it with ease, but he’s stronger than William. He wonders how heavy it is to Will. Maybe their training did more for him than Vyncent thought.

He takes out a couple of wet wipes and starts wiping down the jagged, pointed blades. He tries to be careful not to nick himself, but the blood just does not want to come off, clinging to the metal as if it belongs there, like it knows what Will did and wants to stay, be a reminder, torment them all with Vyncent’s incompetence, the way he ran away and failed to save William from falling.

The blade scratches his thumb open. He ignores it and keeps scrubbing at the metal.

When the chainsaw is more or less clean of blood, he just. Holds it for a second. Wonders how William even fights with this, how he manages to swing it around and use it as a weapon with how heavy it is. Maybe Will is stronger than Vyncent thought.

He shifts his hands to the places he thinks he’s seen William hold the chainsaw by before, one hand on the upper handle and the other gripping the starter cord. Part of him wants to pull on it, start it up, feel the way the engine rumbles under his palms, and maybe, maybe he’ll get what Will felt back in Belltech, the buzz of a dangerous machine in his hands, watch the way the blade spins and understand the temptation to see how easily it could rip through flesh—

He puts the chainsaw down.

The shotgun still lies there, attached to the shoulder strap lined with ammunition. He picks up the gun and props it against the floor, barrel down, holding it between his knees as he grabs a couple of wipes.

The shotgun is easier to clean off. Vyncent scrubs the butt of it with a handful of wipes, and they come away dark red, leaving the shotgun sparkling clean.

He lifts it from between his legs and holds it across his lap, just looking at the thing. A shotgun is different from an axe or even a chainsaw. It’s a lot more... removed. Distant. He’s never liked guns all that much. He doesn’t know how Ram uses them.

Hesitantly, he turns it over, and with hands that do not shake, shut up Jason, get back from the front you shouldn’t be here fuck off!!! he lifts it and places his hands where William’s would rest. Will’s left handed, so it feels kind of weird, but Vyncent’s been trained to fight with either hand, so although it’s different he can more or less comfortably hold the shotgun the way Will would, placing his palms over the places he’s seen Will hold it by, curling one finger around the trigger, the other hand gripping the fore-end. He wedges the butt into his shoulder, lifting the stock to rest against his cheek. He looks down the barrel, where it’s pointed at one of the windows.

It's not loaded. He doesn’t think.

He shouldn’t load it, shouldn’t cock it, shouldn’t even rest his finger on the fucking trigger, because if he misfires this thing a bullet could rocket out of the Winnebago and hit some poor old lady driving in her Prius, or a random animal on the side of the road, and he doesn’t want to see a splatter of blood on the highway.

It feels. Weird. Holding this. Having some machine with a dozen movable parts in his hands, something capable of rocketing a piece of lead out the other end fast enough to reduce a person’s head to smithereens with just a simple press of a single switch.

His finger twitches against the trigger. His hands are shaking.

He really doesn’t like guns.

He catches something shift out of the corner of his eye and looks up. William stands in the bathroom doorway, staring at Vyncent and the shotgun in his hands. He looks like he’s been standing there for a few minutes, entranced at the way Vyncent’s fingers curl around the barrel of the gun.

He catches Vyncent’s gaze for half a second and looks down, turning his attention to the clean weapons on the floor. “Uh...”

Vyncent lowers the gun. “You okay?”

William visibly swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yeah.” His voice is a bit hoarse. He shuffles out of the bathroom and very slowly lowers himself to sit on the couch, leaving a foot of space between him and Vyncent. He still can’t seem to look Vyncent in the eyes, looking from the chainsaw to Dakota in the front seat to Vyncent’s hands wrapped around the gun.

Vyncent puts the shotgun down with the other weapons. He turns to look at William, who’s still keeping his eyes anywhere but Vyncent’s face. He keeps fidgeting with his sleeves.

Vyncent holds out a hand. “Will?”

Will hesitates. He looks at Vyncent’s hand like it’ll burn him.

Shaking, he places his right hand in Vyncent’s.

Slowly, like William is an animal he doesn’t want to spook away—and actually he kind of is like one if Vyncent thinks about it, he’s like a spooked deer and Vyncent doesn’t want to be the headlights that freeze him in place but someone has to do this—Vyncent tugs Will’s sleeve up, gently pushing it up his forearm and turning it over to look at the inside of his wrists.

Four small shallow cuts greet him, a little red ladder running down his arm. They’re only barely bleeding, just tiny beads of blood smeared across old white scars and newer scabbed ones.

Vyncent lets out a small sigh of relief. It doesn’t look like much, unless there are more in places Vyncent can’t see, on his legs, stomach, upper arms, even his chest—Vyncent’s caught little lines in dozens of places, but he’s not going to make William strip down and then grill him about it right now, wrong fucking time. He’s just glad these look like they’re shallow.

“I just—I felt like I was dead,” William says, already trying to explain, his voice trembling as much as his hand, “I thought I couldn’t breathe for a second and I’m—I’m tired and I thought I was dying and I needed to make sure, I’m sorry, I know it’s your blood and I shouldn’t fucking—I shouldn’t waste it, I don’t even know if my body’s alive enough to even make blood of its own, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Vyncent says, even though it’s not. It really fucking isn’t, because Will shouldn’t have to feel like he needs to do this to make himself feel alive, he is alive, and it’s confusing and scary and Vyncent worries himself half to death about William because of this—Dakota too, fuck it, he’s just as bad, because even though Kota doesn’t hurt himself on purpose like William and it just happens to him because he gets so overwhelmed his brain short circuits and he flips his lid, he still doesn’t tell anyone when he’s hurt or do anything to take care of it, and that’s as bad as doing it himself and letting it fester.

Helping William when he does it on purpose is almost easier than helping Dakota when he does it by accident, really. William craves the touch because it makes him feel just as alive as the pain does. Dakota flinches from it half the time like letting someone bandage his wounds will hurt just as much as getting the wound.

He grabs the first aid kit and rummages around for some disinfectant. He lowers Will’s hand to rest on his lap so he can reach into the kit and grab a cotton ball. He wets it with disinfectant and then takes Will’s hand again.

He doesn’t need to tell Will in advance that it’ll sting. William hisses, and then actually sighs in relief as the cotton ball touches his wounds. If he had it his way, he’d probably pour the whole bottle onto his arm and relish in the way it stings and makes his blood bubble.

Vyncent dabs the cotton ball over his cuts. He pulls it away to put a little more disinfectant on it, and then he holds it to Will’s wounds and presses. Not too hard, but enough to make William inhale sharply, and Vyncent almost feels bad about it, but he keeps the cotton ball there just a little longer than maybe he needs to. He knows it hurts, but the disinfectant is doing something good, getting the bacteria out of his wounds because god knows Will doesn’t clean his knife, and it’s okay if it hurts because it’s helping at the same time, and if Vyncent is the one to hurt him while helping, that’s...

Fine.

That’s fine.

If it were William doing this, he’d probably rip his own skin open just to feel the sting even worse. It’s better Vyncent do this for him.

He sets the cotton ball aside, little lines of red soaked into the material, ignoring the way Will almost whines at the sudden lack of pain. Vyncent finds the roll of gauze for the second time today and unwinds some of it. Very carefully, he fixes it in place with some medical tape, and then he begins to wrap it around William’s wrist.

William lets him, staring down at where his blood seeps into the gauze. Vyncent is slow with it, making sure the gauze doesn’t catch or pinch on his cuts, wrapping them up nice and tight. He fixes them in place, and when he’s done, he just. Holds Will’s arm for a minute. He rests his thumb on his pulse point, feeling the way Will’s heartbeat thumps under the pad of his thumb, rabbit quick the way Dakota’s used to be, and it hits him again that it is Dakota’s heart, he gave it to William the same way Vyncent gave his blood to him, and that’s the reason William’s even fucking alive right now, that’s the reason he even bleeds.

Vyncent holds Will’s hand in both of his. That’s his blood pumping through Will’s veins right now, keeping him alive. He can’t stop William from doing this shit—well, he could, but physically restraining him would feel. Wrong. He could confiscate his knife, but William would just pick at his nails and chew at his own skin, find some other way to make himself bleed that’s messier and harder to heal.

He doesn’t—he doesn’t fucking endorse this, he doesn’t like it, but at least his knife is sharp and his cuts are clean. Better than teeth marks on the edges of his fingers and bleeding flesh scratched red and raw by jagged fingernails.

Vyncent places Will’s hand on his lap. He holds Will’s hand with one of his, and with the other, he reaches into William’s jacket pocket and pulls out his jackknife.

William doesn’t watch as Vyncent flips it open. It’s not that bad, just a touch red along the sharp part of the blade. Still, he grabs a wet wipe from the little open packet and wipes down the metal until there’s no trace of blood left. He leans down and places the knife in William’s duffel bag.

Done with William’s various weapons, he picks up Will’s hand again, turning his fingers over in his hand, tracing the lines on his palm. William still hasn’t looked at his face.

With his free hand, Will reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He struggles to open it with one hand, but Vyncent doesn’t want to let go of his other. He can feel William’s heartbeat in his wrist. He doesn’t want to stop feeling it.

Will sticks the cigarette in his mouth, and then he holds his index finger up to the other end. Nothing happens. He furrows his brow, and then a look of realization passes across his face and he curses under his breath. “Shit, I can’t—light it, hang on.” He digs around in his pockets and comes up with nothing. He sighs. “Vyn, can you pass me my bag—”

Vyncent lifts his free hand, still holding onto Will with his other. It takes a moment of focus—he’s still not really used to doing this—but he flicks his finger and a small flame blazes to life upon its tip.

William is deathly still as Vyncent lifts his finger to the end of his cigarette. The paper crackles as the flame catches, and the embers glow as William takes a deep breath in.

Vyncent dismisses the flame, watching as William blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Uh... thanks,” Will says, voice quiet.

“No problem.” Vyncent wrinkles his nose a bit at the smell of the smoke. Ram used to smoke sometimes, and he half expects his own consciousness to slip back so Ram can step forward and light up with William, because the smell of Will’s smoke always brought him out and they would talk sometimes over a couple of cigarettes, but then it hits him again that Ram is gone, and so are Min and Alphonz and all the rest, and he just... sighs.

He wonders what Ram liked about smoking. It smells bad, and it apparently does a lot of damage to a person’s lungs, and he just doesn’t get what the appeal is. Is it some kind of drug that makes them feel good? He’s never felt high after Ram smokes.

William glances at Vyncent from the corner of his eye, and evidently he notices Vyncent staring at the cigarette between his fingers. He looks down at it, then back up at Vyncent, still not meeting his eyes. “Um, did you... want to try?”

Vyncent finds himself nodding, against his common sense. “Yeah, sure.”

Will nods slowly. “Cool, cool, yeah.” His voice is a touch higher than usual. Vyncent wonders why. The smoke maybe?

He turns the cigarette in his hand so it’s facing the other way, and he holds the unlit end up to Vyncent’s mouth, leaving a good few inches of space, allowing Vyncent the room to back away if he changes his mind.

Vyncent bridges the gap, leaning in and closing his lips around the end of the cigarette. He glances at Will’s face to check if he’s doing this right, and Will’s gaze is fixated on his mouth, eyes a little wide, and his face is red too, why is that? Another side effect of the smoke?

Vyncent breathes in and immediately jerks back, coughing at the acrid taste. “Fuck,” he chokes, raising his arm to cough into it. “Oh, man, that sucks. What the hell, man.”

“You’ve—you’ve got to do it slower,” Will says, a smile creeping across his face as he watches Vyncent choke. “Did Ram teach you nothing?”

“I was never the one smoking, dumbass.” Vyncent coughs into his arm one more time, and the taste of it still lingers on his tongue, but he doesn’t feel like he’s dying anymore, so he takes a deep breath and leans in again.

He takes the end of the cigarette in his mouth again and takes a very small breath. It still tastes bad, and smells even worse, but he manages to keep himself from choking as he slowly breathes in.

“There you go,” Will mutters, his gaze fixed on Vyncent’s mouth. “You got it.”

Maybe it’s a bad thing to learn how to smoke, and maybe it’s even worse that it’s one of his best and closest friends teaching him how to do it, and it’s probably a terrible habit to get into, but. At least he’s doing this right. Out of everything he’s done wrong over the past twenty-four hours, he’s got the tiniest of victories under his belt. He knows how to smoke now. Cool.

“You can let it out, you don’t have to hold it in,” Will says, and then he jerks back when Vyncent lets the lungful of smoke out in a sharp cough.

“Sorry,” Vyncent says, raising a hand to hack into it.

“No, it’s okay.” Will raises the cigarette to his own mouth and takes in a lungful. Vyncent watches the smoke dance as he breathes it out, wisping out of his lips and into the air in little grey curls that disappear into nothing. “There are other ways to smoke if you can’t handle it, like, right from the cigarette.”

“Like what?”

William’s face turns beet red out of nowhere, suddenly flushed all the way from his forehead to his neck. “Ah, never mind, forget it, it’s nothing don’t worry about it it was stupid.” He tries to take another drag and immediately chokes on it, hacking up smoke.

“No, tell me.” Vyncent doesn’t know why he’s being so weird. “Show me, man.”

“It’s, uh, it’s weird.”

“William, I have a dead movie star in my head. Nothing is weirder than the shit I’ve already been through.”

William slips his hand out of Vyncent’s grip to put his head in his hands. He just kind of. Sits there, for a second. Vyncent has no idea what the hell could have him acting like this, but now he’s curious. “Dude, what is it?” he presses.

William runs a hand down his face, smoke idly trailing from the tip of the cigarette. “It’s, uh. It’s called shotgunning.”

Vyncent blinks. He leans down and picks up the shotgun. “I’m ready,” he says.

William barks out a laugh. “No, no, not—not like that. It’s—it’s just weird, okay, you don’t want to.”

“Will, the more you say I don’t want to do something, the more I want to do it. It can’t be weirder than literally anything else that has happened to us. Just show me.”

Will lowers his hand from his eyes, finally finally making eye contact with Vyncent, still covering the lower half of his face as if to hide the flush on his cheeks—and just seeing that reminds Vyncent that he’s alive, that he’s here, and despite everything that’s happened, he looks happier right now in this moment just existing with Vyncent than he ever did when he was dead.

Something in Vyncent’s heart skips at the sparkle in Will’s eyes. Maybe he’s got an irregular heartbeat or something. An arrhythmia. That’s what it’s called, right? He’s probably got that.

“I don’t want to make it weird,” Will mutters into his hand.

“Stop worrying about things being weird. Whatever shotgunning is, I’m not going to judge you or whatever.”

William sighs. “Okay. Fuck, okay. Just—try not to be really weird about it.” He drags a hand down his face. “Why did I even fucking say anything,” he mumbles to himself, and then he lifts the cigarette to his mouth and takes a long, deep drag.

He takes the cigarette from his mouth and turns to face Vyncent, holding his breath. His face is still red. Probably from holding his breath, or something. That makes sense.

He scoots closer to Vyncent, leaning in, and Vyncent isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do, he wasn’t given any direction, so he just—he sits there like a fucking idiot as Will leans closer, reaching one hand up to very lightly touch the back of Vyncent’s neck as if to keep him in place, and Vyncent takes that small unspoken direction and latches onto it, staying as still as a statue because literally what else is he supposed to do when William is leaning in like this—

Will’s other hand comes up to touch his face and he nearly jumps out of his own skin. William’s thumb touches his chin, light as a feather, and when Vyncent doesn’t react he moves his thumb to Vyncent’s bottom lip, okay, he gets it now, he thinks, maybe, letting his mouth fall open, parting his lips, hoping he’s doing this right—would have fucking helped to explain exactly what shotgunning is before William inhaled a bunch of smoke and rendered himself unable to speak, god dammit Will—and William leans closer—

For a moment Vyncent almost thinks William is going to kiss him. But that’s stupid, and also impossible, because William—he likes Summer still, most definitely, that’s still a thing, and Vyncent is Will’s friend and there is nothing else to it and there never will be and why is Vyncent even considering that because Vyncent is just some guy, he’s not special, and William is, this is not—this is not a fucking thing and he’s just going to shove this in the back of his mind to never be thought about again as soon as he can because William is just showing him a weird smoking thing and that stupid intrusive thought about being kissed should just go away and never come back—

Their faces are less than an inch apart.

William opens his mouth and exhales, wisps of smoke ghosting from his lips. Up this close, Vyncent can see that they’re very chapped, little bitten pieces of dry skin flaking off, as pale white as the teeth that tend to bite at them whenever William’s deep in thought.

It takes Vyncent half a second longer than it should to realize that he should probably be breathing in, that’s probably the whole point here, William taking the brunt of the smoke and passing what’s leftover to Vyncent. He inhales, the stench of the smoke just as bad as it is taking it straight from the cigarette, but this time it’s mixed with the scent of the spearmint toothpaste William likes, and it’s a weird mix but somehow that makes it more tolerable. He breathes it in like it’s pure oxygen.

The fingers pressed to the back of Vyncent’s neck turns into a full hand, a warm palm cupping the back of Vyncent’s head, fingers tangling themselves in his hair.

It’s. Nice. Really nice.

He’s really trying not to make this weird.

William said not to make it weird, and it’s not, okay? It’s not. It’s literally not weird at all. They’ve always been close, all four three of them, falling asleep on each other’s shoulders on the couch after a movie marathon and collapsing into the same bed to crash after a training session and brushing each other’s hair and painting each other’s nails, so this is totally fucking normal. Literally the most normal thing that has ever happened. He’s got William’s hand on the back of his head and William’s mouth half an inch from his and William’s breath in his lungs the same way Vyncent’s blood is in Will’s veins, and half of him wonders if Will is somehow messing with the smoke Vyncent is breathing in because his chest feels tight and his heart feels too fast and his entire body feels way too warm—he probably is messing with the smoke somehow just to fuck with Vyncent, the asshole, but he’s not gonna stop him because this is totally fucking normal.

William pulls away a little, just half an inch. His face is still red. Maybe he’s sick. Maybe Vyncent is also sick. Maybe they both accidentally somehow got nicked by a needle full of that heart attack causing memory serum and they’re both going to die a horrible death in like half a minute and then they will never have to ever think or speak about this again. That seems likely. And definitely plausible. For sure.

That was only like, five seconds. It felt like way too long and not long enough at the same time.

“Can you do that again?” Vyncent asks. As soon as the words are out of his mouth he wants to hit his head against a wall. Why did he say that? Is he making this weird? He’s totally making this weird. He should jump out of the Winnebago right now and let himself become a red splatter on the highway.

William takes a shaky breath. “Yeah, yeah.” He doesn’t move to take a drag from his cigarette yet, though. He just stays there, the hand with the cigarette between his fingers holding Vyncent’s chin at the same time, letting smoke waft into the air between them, thumb still pressing against Vyncent’s lip, the other hand cupping the back of Vyncent’s head.

His hands are warm.

He swallows and moves his hand off Vyncent’s face to lift the cigarette to his mouth. He takes a long breath in, and then he’s leaning in again and Vyncent’s heart is really doing it’s fucking damnedest to explode out of his rib cage right now. He’s definitely having a heart attack. He should turn around and yell at Dakota to take them to the nearest hospital, but instead he just inhales when William exhales so he can keep tasting the odd combination of smoke and toothpaste on his breath.

He supposes he can see the appeal of smoking if it’s like this.

Will pulls away a bit, but not a whole lot, just enough for them to look at each other without going cross-eyed. He’s shaking. Vyncent feels dizzy. Should he feel dizzy? Probably not. They’re both definitely sick. Most likely dying. Maybe they inhaled something they shouldn’t have back in Belltech and it’s only hitting them now. They should get medical attention. They should pull apart and never think about this again and ignore it forever and ever and go see a fucking doctor, god dammit, they’re dying!

But if he has to die like this, he guesses that’s not so bad.

Dakota’s voice yells at them from the front seat, making them both jump. “Will, are you smoking your cancer sticks back there?”

“No,” William calls back automatically, leaning back from Vyncent so he’s not yelling in his face, but his hand is still cupping Vyncent’s head and his fingers feel nice in his hair and he wants to lean forward and follow the smell of his smoke like he’ll die without it. That’s normal. Don’t worry about it.

“Don’t lie to me, I can smell it!”

Will grimaces. “Okay, yeah,” he says, a note of shame trembling in his voice.

Dakota’s silent for a second. “Okay,” he says a bit quieter. “Crack open a window. Bobo doesn’t like the smell.”

Vyncent reaches for the nearest window and opens it a bit. Wind rushes into the Winnebago, the scent of smoke and spearmint undertones wafting away into the outside air. He almost mourns the loss of it, despite how bad its smells.

He’s never going to be able to smell smoke or spearmint again without thinking about this.

Will’s hand stays in his hair. He lets it stay. He really doesn’t want it to leave.

A cloud of smoke blows directly in his face without warning and he jerks back, coughing. “Man, fuck you.”

William laughs a little. He takes another puff and blows it out the window. It doesn’t look like they’re going to keep doing that—that thing, what was it called? The shotgun thing. It looks like they’re done with that. Why does he feel disappointed about that?

It must show on his face, because Will says “Sorry, I shouldn’t be letting you smoke. It’s bad for you.”

“Ram smoked in my body,” Vyncent says, almost defensive. “I’ve already got, like, smoke damage in my lungs. It’s whatever, I can smoke. Gimme one. I know how to do it now.”

William presses his lips into a thin line, clearly disapproving of the notion, but he takes out his pack and slides a cigarette onto his lap. He hasn’t let go of Vyncent’s head, which is maybe kind of weird but he’s gently circling his fingers against the nape of his neck now and it feels really nice, so like hell he’d tell him to stop.

William holds out the already lit cigarette. “You finish this one.”

Vyncent doesn’t argue or insist that he can finish a full one on his own, because even though he probably could—seriously, Ram used to smoke a lot, he’s probably halfway on his way to lung cancer by now—William just doesn’t want him to tank the health risks of a full one, and there’s no arguing with William on shit like this. And who knows, maybe Will’s half dead lungs aren’t as effected anyway, so maybe it is better he take a full one and Vyncent only takes the half.

Vyncent takes the cigarette, and William picks up the new one. Vyncent puts the half-finished cig in his mouth, taking in a very slow, careful breath, and he feels like his entire stomach drops when Will leans in with his own cig in his mouth and gently presses the tip of it to the lit tip of Vyncent’s.

Will’s gaze is fixed on the cigarettes where they meet at the ends. Vyncent’s gaze is fixed on William.

The embers flare, and Will’s cigarette catches. He takes a breath in and blows it out the side of his mouth. He looks up at Vyncent’s face.

“I think you’re supposed to breathe the smoke out,” Will says. “Kinda how cigarettes work.”

Vyncent’s lungs are burning. Right, he should probably breathe out. Why was he holding his breath? He has no fucking idea.

He purses his lips and blows the smoke right at Will’s face. Will doesn’t even flinch at the smell, just gives Vyncent a small smile and a laugh and his brown eyes crinkle at the corners and smile is a little crooked because one side of his mouth lifts a little more than the other and he’s got a dimple in his cheek Vyncent’s never noticed before, and Vyncent’s stomach is doing fucking flips. That shit’s turning like a car that’s been thrown across a city by some angry demon possessed supervillain and it’s about to crash into a building or something.

He’s definitely sick. Is he gonna throw up? Maybe. He shouldn’t throw up on the couch. Or William. He takes another drag of the cigarette in the hopes that it’ll stop his stomach turning. It doesn’t.

Vyncent’s cigarette is reduced to just the little brown part in no time. He doesn’t want to risk burning his fingers, so he presses the end on the wall, where there are already a dozen more little black pockmarks left by William stubbing out his cigs. He places the stub on the back of the couch, unsure of where else to put it.

When he brings his hand back to rest in his lap, willing to just sit and watch Will smoke, Will’s eyes flicker down to look at his knuckles. He hums. “Dude, what’d you do to your hand?”

Vyncent furrows his brow and looks down. His knuckles are bruised, the skin split on some of them and scabbed over.

Oh, right. Punching David was a thing that happened. And so was punching the guards when he fought them for the samples, and now that he’s thinking about it, his head kind of hurts from headbutting people and knocking them out. His head is fine, whatever, he can deal with that, but he didn’t even notice he busted his knuckles.

“Punched a few people in Belltech,” he says. It’s weird, he’s never fought with his hands before. He hadn’t even thought of drawing his sword. He figured his hand would hurt a little, but he didn’t think he’d split skin.

He must have punched David Bell harder than he thought. He was pretty fucking angry at him, in his defence.

Will sticks his cig in his mouth and holds it loosely between his chapped lips, reaching around Vyncent to grab the first aid kit on the couch. His hand leaves Vyncent’s hair—he tries not to whine at the loss of it, it did feel nice and he wants Will to keep doing that, but he’s not gonna ask for it back because that would be weird and Will told him not to make it weird—and he grabs the roll of gauze. It’s a lot thinner than it was when Vyncent first pulled it out of the kit to wrap Dakota’s knuckles.

“Here.” Will takes Vyncent’s hand, gingerly holding it in both of his, turning it over to look for any other little cuts or wounds. He handles Vyncent’s fingers like they’re delicate, like they’ll break if he’s too rough with them.

He starts wrapping the gauze around Vyncent’s hand, over the palm, sliding it between his fingers to cover each and every knuckle. Vyncent watches him work. He feels... exposed? Sort of? He’ll never get over William and Dakota looking at his injuries and wounds and wanting to patch them up for him. He’s fine, he can do it himself, he always has. It’s strange, letting someone else see his injuries and fix them for him.

But. It does feel nice. So whatever.

William ties off the gauze and puts the rest of the roll away. He doesn’t let go of Vyncent’s hand, idly tracing the lines of gauze. His fingertips feel like fire on his palm.

Vyncent sighs. He leans against the side of the couch, and Will does too, still playing with Vyncent’s fingers. He knows they don’t really have the time to relax. They’re headed to Deadwood and they’re going to find Ashe and bring him back and it’ll probably be a long grueling fight and they’re going to have to pull the Trickster out of their friend kicking and screaming, so relaxing isn’t really an option.

But he’s fucking tired.

The Winnebago swerves, slowing down, and then it parks. Vyncent glances out the window, wondering if they’re already there, terrified that he’ll look out there and see a red faced Ashe laughing in a voice that’s not his—but no, he just sees a narrow gravel back road that Dakota’s pulled the Winnebago into to park on. He wonders why, and then Dakota’s standing up from the driver’s seat and making his way over to them.

He flops on the couch behind Vyncent like he’s boneless, letting out a heavy sigh. He’s probably tired too, Vyncent realizes, and he feels a bit bad wanting Dakota to drive. He could have done it himself. This is probably a sign for them to switch off actually, and Vyncent begins to stand.

William pulls him back by the hand, and Dakota reaches out and grabs him by the nearest thing which happens to be a beltloop on his pants and pulls him back onto the couch too, and he doesn’t have the strength to fight it. He melts into the couch, Will’s hand on his and Dakota’s fingers hooked in his beltloop keeping him rooted to the spot. He feels Dakota rest his head on Vyncent’s back. William blows a puff of smoke out at the window from the corner of his mouth.

They don’t have time for this. Ashe is counting on them. The whole world is counting on them.

That’s a lot.

... shit.

Maybe this is okay. Just for a bit.

He lets out a breath, resting his head against the back of the couch, letting William fidget with his fingers and Dakota run his thumb over the seams of his beltloops. Five minutes. The world can wait for five minutes.

William’s fingers trace along his knuckles, every point of contact feeling like a zip of static electricity. It makes him think of Ashe. He always accidentally shocked the rest of them whenever he touched them. He didn’t mean to, but it was funny when he’d go in for a hug and both him and the other person would yelp and jump back and there would be a little zap of static between them.

They’ll get Ashe back. Next time they sit on this couch, Ashe will be with them. Probably on the other side of William, leaning his head against Will’s shoulder and messing with his iPod, some music like—what does he listen to, Dakota knows this—Pierce The Veil or Ice Nine Kills or that other emo band, what is it—My Chemical Romance quietly playing from his headphones.

They’ll get him back. They’ll make sure of that.

Dakota shifts behind him. His fingers slip from Vyncent’s beltloops, leaning down to pick something up off the ground, and Vyncent’s eyes widen when he sees the fucking shotgun in Dakota’s hands.

“So like, how do you fire this?” Dakota asks, turning the gun and looking right down the barrel.

William lunges right across Vyncent with a panicked yell, still on the couch, squishing Vyncent against the back of it. “No, no, no, Dakota, that’s loaded, that’s loaded! Don’t point it at yourself, what are you doing!”

He goes to grab the gun but Dakota stands up on the couch and holds it out of his reach. “I just wanna know! You press this button, right?” He turns the gun so it’s pointing right past Will’s shoulder and rests his finger on the trigger.

William yells, scrambling of the couch to wrestle the thing from Dakota’s hands, shouting “no Kota you can’t fire the shotgun in the Winnebago!” and Dakota yelling “I just want to learn, it’s fine, I’m careful, I know how guns work William!”

Vyncent watches them argue, the once peaceful moment absolutely obliterated by his two dumbass fucking best friends.

He’s smiling, and he doesn’t have to look in a mirror to know it’s the stupidest, happiest grin possible.

He gets up from the couch, sliding along the wall to avoid Dakota flailing his arms with the shotgun still in his grip, and he sits down in the driver’s seat. Bobo’s sitting shotgun again, all buckled up in the passenger seat, and gnawing on—is that the hair straightener? When did he get that?

Vyncent buckles is own seatbelt, adjusts his mirrors, shoulder checks, shifts the Winnebago into reverse, and slams on the gas.

William and Dakota both yelp as they fall over from the momentum, and the shotgun goes off, blasting a hole in a window, and now Dakota and William shift to arguing over whose fault that was and how they’re going to get a replacement window. Vyncent shifts the Winnebago into drive and starts zooming down the highway.

Next stop, Deadwood.