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Vash knows something’s wrong with Wolfwood for most of the day. Possibly before Wolfwood knows it himself. Just by his tone, his posture, the number of cigarettes he goes through and the way he holds them while he smokes. The tension around his eyes and mouth, the set of his shoulders.
Something’s eating at Wolfwood, and it’s not any of the usual things — or, at least, not in the usual amounts. It could be something old or something new, hard to say with someone like Wolfwood. But it’s buried deep in him, and it’s hurting, as obvious as a limp when Vash looks at him.
Not that Vash has any idea what to do about it.
His bedside manner is nothing to scoff at, but the most recent practice he’s had at being comforting — not just companionable or permissive, the way he usually is with Wolfwood, no matter what mood he’s in — was as Eriks, and…
Wolfwood didn’t seem to like Eriks all that much.
At least, he’d looked at him with the same sort of pinched, unhappy look he’s wearing today. Sour, or maybe bitter. He hadn’t been as easy for Vash to read, back then.
Regardless. Wolfwood isn’t likely to appreciate more of that.
It’s hard to say what he might appreciate instead. As far as Vash can tell, he’s trying his best to mask whatever he’s feeling, with even more effort than usual — or maybe it just seems that way, because Vash can see the effort, the sheer willpower keeping Wolfwood composed.
Maybe Wolfwood’s always holding himself together with brute force alone, and usually gets away with it better.
He’s probably still getting away with it now — anyone who hasn’t spent days on end with him wouldn’t see the tells.
But Vash does.
It itches at him the whole day, concern and frustration and a petulant sort of anger, impatiently waiting for Wolfwood to reach out, to say something, to give Vash anything he can work with.
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t — the rapport the two of them have developed, the camaraderie of traveling together, it doesn’t mean Wolfwood trusts Vash. He doesn’t, he shouldn’t…
Maybe being Eriks reminded him just how much he enjoys having not just company but companions, something he’s abstained from since July, and now he’s missing it even more harshly, in the light of…
Whatever it is he does have with Wolfwood, companionship or otherwise. Stilted by the circumstances, but… close, in the way two people have to be, traveling together with only the clothes — and crosses — on their backs. They’ve shared rooms, vehicles, bathrooms, tents. Seen each other in various states of undress.
Not intentionally. They give each other space when they can, pay or barter for separate rooms, just to have room to breathe. But sometimes there isn’t space to be had, so they share.
That doesn’t give Vash any right to…
“Quit staring at me, Needle-noggin,” Wolfwood says. “You’re burning holes in the back of my head.”
Vash startles, caught out. “And that’s the first time you’ve said more than two words to me all day,” he shoots back. “So I think we’re square.”
Wolfwood’s brow furrows for a long moment, like he’s wracking his brain for a counterargument and nothing’s coming up. “Didn’t know you were counting,” he says at last, something like a sneer on his face.
“Sometimes I just want to scruff you like a kitten and shake you,” Vash’s mouth says, before his brain has a chance to stop it.
Oops.
Wolfwood’s expression twitches through an attempt at ire, then stalls out into confusion. “What?”
Vash crosses his arms, tipping back in his chair. “You heard me.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Wolfwood snaps, outright petulant. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
In for a double dollar, in for the whole bounty, Vash supposes. “You first.”
Wolfwood splutters. “Excuse me?”
“What’s wrong, Wolfwood?”
It’s a gamble, Vash knows that. Knows it might get him punched in the mouth, but he’s risked more for less.
Wolfwood ashes his cigarette, then brings it back to his mouth and takes a long, slow drag, fingers splayed across his face.
Vash waits patiently.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” Wolfwood says. “It’s my problem, not yours.”
Leave it, that means.
But Vash has never been good at that.
“That’s not what people mean when they say what’s wrong, Wolfwood.”
Wolfwood pins him with a flat, unimpressed glare. “Can’t you pick a fight like a normal person?”
Vash raises his hands innocently. “I’m not picking a fight! Can’t I worry about you?”
“I told you,” Wolfwood says, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray he’s been steadily filling the whole evening. “It’s not your problem.”
God, he’s irritating.
“I don’t care about your problems, Wolfwood,” Vash tells him, patiently. So patiently. “I’m worried about you. ”
Wolfwood stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “That would be a first.”
It’s Vash’s turn to stall out. “What does that mean?”
“Needle-noggin,” Wolfwood says, mimicking Vash’s even tone. “You have only ever taken note of someone if you thought you could solve a problem for them.”
It’s far from the cruelest thing Vash has been told to his face, much less the things he’s heard about himself. But it stings all the more coming from Wolfwood, with such certainty, such familiarity.
Vash puts on a smile. “People you can help are the easiest to make friends with, you know.”
“Right.” Wolfwood nods. “It’s always about what you can get out of them. So what do you want?”
That’s not a question Vash can answer.
It might not have an answer at all.
He takes a deep breath. Clears his throat. “I want you to relax.”
Wolfwood frowns. He spreads his hands. “Is this not good enough?”
Vash drums his fingers on the table in agitation. He doesn’t know how to explain it, much less in a way Wolfwood will understand.
“Sometimes you relax,” he says. “Really let the tension out of your shoulders and your jaw and your calves, and that spot in the middle of your back, and other times… you stay tense even when you’re sitting down, like you’ll have to run any second.”
Wolfwood meets Vash’s gaze, his expression flat, but contemplative. “You can tell the difference just by looking at me?”
Vash nods.
“And, what, I’m stressing you out by proxy?” Wolfwood asks, a little smirk on his face. Like it’s funny to him, how much Vash cares, how much he’s affected by the moods of the people of whatever room he’s in.
Like he isn’t the same exact way.
“Sure, let’s go with that,” Vash sighs. It’s not really the point he was going for, but it’s something Wolfwood understands, at least.
Wolfwood gets out his lighter, but doesn’t reach for another cigarette, just flicks the cap off and on, off and on, fussy and self-soothing. “And what do you want me to do about that?”
Vash hesitates for a moment. “Stop sitting there sulking and let me give you a hug?”
That seems to take Wolfwood completely by surprise. “Huh?”
“I want to give you a hug,” Vash repeats.
Wolfwood flips his lighter shut and pockets it, letting out his breath in a slow sigh. He stares out the window in silence for a long moment.
Then he starts to chuckle softly, low and wry, and runs a hand through his hair.
“What’s funny?” Vash asks, not sure if he should feel slighted or not.
Wolfwood shakes his head thoughtfully, laughter trailing off into a sigh. “I’m just trying to remember the last time someone hugged me. It’s been a while.”
Vash tries not to make a face to let on how damn sad that is. Just gets up from his side of the table. “Is that a yes?”
“Sure,” Wolfwood says, in a familiar tone of voice — trying to sound like he doesn’t have a care in the world, but with anxiety bleeding through so heavily it makes Vash’s stomach cramp sympathetically.
He stands up and gingerly closes the space between them, stops right within arm’s length.
Vash hugs him.
Wolfwood draws in a sharp breath as Vash’s arms wrap around him. He’s still for a moment, frozen in place, then hugs back, clinging to the back of Vash’s coat.
“Got what you wanted?” Wolfwood mumbles, his voice slightly muffled against Vash’s shoulder, but not enough to hide the way it trembles. “This good enough?”
Vash keeps one arm wrapped around Wolfwood’s middle, and slides the other up the length of his spine to cradle the back of his head. “Thank you.”
Wolfwood shivers, pushing his head back against Vash’s hand, like he’s testing the give of his embrace. Like he needs to know he could bolt if he wanted to.
Of course Vash would let him.
“What’re you thanking me for?” Wolfwood asks, his voice even shakier now.
Vash holds him steady. “You’re the one who was saying I only do things like this to make myself feel better?”
Wolfwood swallows audibly. “Yeah, but I’m not — I don’t…” he swallows again, makes a tiny, pained noise. “I’m not someone you can help?”
It comes out like a question. Like he’s asking for Vash to agree, to confirm that this isn’t what he wanted, doesn’t do anything for him.
“Is this not helping?” Vash asks.
Wolfwood doesn’t answer. He makes another strained noise into Vash’s coat, sniffles quietly. “Hurts,” he says, eventually.
“I know,” Vash murmurs. “I know it hurts.”
Another shudder goes through Wolfwood’s whole body, and then he finally relaxes. Finally lets go of that iron grip he’s had on himself for god knows how many years, and starts to cry.
Wolfwood cries quietly at first, just shaky breaths getting heavier against Vash’s shoulder, the fabric of his coat catching the tears that fall.
The first sob that doesn’t come out stifled is trailed by a stream of muffled cursing, the tension flooding back as Wolfwood tries to fight it.
Vash just holds him.
It takes minutes for Wolfwood to relax again, to stop fighting the hiccups rattling his chest enough to sob aloud, and this time he lets it happen, gives in to shaking himself apart in Vash’s arms. He’s still mostly quiet, sobbing in little strung-together bursts that leave him so out of breath he has to gasp and heave. Like he doesn’t really remember how to cry.
Whenever he lifts his head from the cradle of Vash’s shoulder, to scrub fitfully at his face with his sleeve, Vash gets a glimpse of his face. Eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming down and soaking his flushed cheeks, teeth clenched in a grimace that does nothing to keep the sobs back.
He cries for a long time.
All Vash can do is hold him.