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It wasn’t like Vash was unfamiliar with anger. You couldn’t live as long as he did, the way he did, and not feel angry. He had anger from before this planet was even colonized, before the first generation of humans ever crashed onto No Man’s Land— that was a hundred fifty years of rage and counting. It simmered underneath every mask and facade and face he put up, playing tinder and coal, fire and flame to everything he held dear and all that he didn’t. Anger greeted him like an old lover, burning hot against his chest and digging its claws into his bone marrow.
Of course Vash wasn’t unfamiliar with anger. But he was unfamiliar with it erupting like this in such quick succession. Wolfwood had a way of goading it out.
The first time was understandable, if a knee jerk reaction that left a sour taste in Vash’s mouth and forced him to consciously acknowledge his companion— it was so easy, usually, realizing his presence. They were both twitchy from an ambush, and a too-drunk man stumbled into the alley, yelling for them to give him their money. He brandished a gun.
Usually, Vash would get to him first and either try to deescalate the situation or, as a drunkard needed sometimes, disarm him by force. Usually, his companion would let him handle it or he would just knock out their assailant. Usually, it was a good system, one that let Wolfwood feel comfortable in the skin of a protector and let Vash twist the situation to be in their favor.
But the man was behind Wolfwood, and Wolfwood was wound up tight, and—
Damned be them both.
The metallic stench of blood and brains drowned out the smell of piss and booze, and Vash could retch. At least Wolfwood had the decency to look disgruntled by what he did, pushing Vash towards the inn and saying that I’ll get this cleaned up, Spikey. Make sure that no one’ll miss him.
Vash still wasn’t quite sure what that meant. It couldn’t have been a pretty scene either way.
And though he hated that Wolfwood’s first instinct was to play executioner, he understood it. Humans didn’t have the luxury of being more bone than blood, of healing that took half the time and energy, of surviving like he–like they –did. He wasn’t naive enough to not understand that, more often than not, humans responded with violence when threatened. It had allowed them to survive this long, after all. But he knew Wolfwood, as much as he fashioned himself into an irredeemable killer, abhorred the blood on his hands more than Vash did— and he didn’t even forgive himself, not how Vash did.
So then, the question stood as why? Why reach for the gun immediately? Why not take a moment to listen, to try and make things better? Why, why, why? It wasn’t like Wolfwood was as fragile as other humans, anyway. So why?
He had swallowed down that first bout of anger, letting it settle in the pit of his stomach. He told himself that others would have done the same, that others were that trigger happy, too.
The second time Wolfwood had reached for the gun before Vash could step in still hung like a black cloud over them. He could still hear the dying crackle-and-fizz of Rollo’s machinery falling apart, trying desperately to keep a little boy alive. He’d been doing so good trying to keep it together, kneeling next to Rollo’s body and trying, trying, trying . That’s all he was doing, all he could do, and then Wolfwood spoke .
His voice, rumbling and what was once comforting, snapped the anger held taut in his chest and— red. All he saw was red. Blood, crimson, scarlet red. And even then, even through his anger, he couldn’t miss the way Wolfwood forced his expression to be impassive as he scanned Vash’s body, frowning slightly at the ring of bruising around his neck.
Vash couldn’t forgive Wolfwood for killing Rollo to save him of all people, not yet, but he forgave Wolfwood for his character as soon as he caught his gaze lingering on Vash’s neck. It was near impossible to stop a protector from doing what they felt they had to do. Looking east that night, even with Wolfwood stewing in anger at his back, he named the stars of Bethlehem.
He rode on that high of forgiveness as long as he could, but then it happened again and this time— this time, there was no defense of surprise or an excuse of mercy. This time, it was just gunmetal against flesh, a finger against the trigger.
Vash felt like he was choking, gently laying down the body slumped against him. “You didn’t have to kill him, Wolfwood. I had it handled just fine. ” He brushed the guy’s hair out of his face, swallowing down bitter curses. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.
Wolfwood’s chest heaved, hands steady as he lowered his gun. In the darkness of the alley, his eyes were obscured, and for a moment, Vash could see the coldhearted killer Wolfwood believed himself to be. He crushed that thought immediately; being familiar with constant anger was a benefit in that way. He knew when he was just too angry.
“He had a gun to your head, Needles,” Wolfwood growled, taking a step back as Vash turned on him. “Safety off, finger on the trigger, the whole deal. The fuck you mean you ‘had it handled?’”
He scoffed. “It was unloaded. He was bluffing, and I could’ve flipped him or headbutted him or—”
“You’re fucking stupid if you think I’m letting you bet your life on the off chance that it was unloaded!” Wolfwood snapped. “And why didn’t you just do your deescalation shit? Why wait until he held a goddamn gun to your head, huh?”
“Check his gun, Wolfwood,” Vash muttered, sliding it across the floor. He couldn’t look at him anymore. Not like this, not when all he wanted to do was— “I know I was right.”
He heard shuffling behind him, followed by the click of a barrel opening and soft cursing. He crossed the body’s arms, pulled his eyelids down the best he could and wiped at the blood around the bullet hole with the corner of his coat. His hands shook, and he cursed them for it.
“What was I supposed to do , Needle Noggin?” Wolfwood finally asked, voice low and, if Vash didn’t know better, almost shaky.
“Listen to me when I say it’s okay, maybe?” he snapped, still focusing on tidying up the body. “Let me do the talking and the fighting, since I know what to do?”
“He had a goddamn gun to your head!” Wolfwood repeated, finally stepping forward again. Vash scowled at the blood and viscera spattered on the brick walls.
“It was unloaded, Wolfwood! He was bluffing!”
“And how the hell was I supposed to know, huh?” he yelled. Vash whipped around, and— there, another step back. And then another, and then one more. The Punisher bumped into the wall, and Wolfwood cursed under his breath, shoving a cigarette into his mouth.
“All you had to do was trust me,” Vash growled. “That’s all I asked for.”
“What if you were wrong, you dumb fuck? How— how can you just gamble with your life like that, huh?” He was chewing on the cigarette, and Vash could see the shake in his hands now.
Vash raised a brow. “So you’d rather I gamble with your life, or Meryl’s or Roberto’s?”
Wolfwood blew out a breath, nostrils flaring. Even through the darkness of his sunglasses and the dim lighting of the alley, Vash could feel the heat of his glare. “That’s not what I meant, and you damn well know it.”
“Do I?” Vash retorted, taking another step towards him. Wolfwood backed up against the wall, mouth quirking down in a frown. “Because to me, it looks like it’s either me or you guys.”
Wolfwood nodded at the body, opening his mouth, but Vash cut him off. “No. That’s a coward’s option. It’s either me or you, Wolfwood.”
He knew immediately that that was the wrong thing to say. Wolfwood’s jaw snapped shut, flexing as his shoulders tensed. His breathing turned shallow and ragged, and some of Vash’s anger dissipated. He was about to apologize when Wolfwood spoke again, voice just above a whisper.
“The hell kinda travel buddy would it make me if I let you get your brains blown out, Needles?” he asked, voice rough. “Fuck.”
And really, that’s what it came down to, wasn’t it? The fact that Wolfwood was a protector, a shepherd, and Vash was his charge. Of course he had some sort of misplaced sense of duty about Vash, of course he felt compelled to protect him. He looked out for him as if Vash wouldn’t willingly walk into JuLai, back into his brother’s hands, if it meant seeing the tension bleed out of Wolfwood’s shoulders. He wasn’t sure what Nai held over him, but Wolfwood was clearly desperate to protect it. Vash didn’t need to make it harder for him; their nights together made it hard enough, and he knew it. He was selfish.
Oh, but he was still angry. It simmered low in his stomach, sharpened his expressions and soured his voice. He couldn’t face Wolfwood, not like this. He blew out a breath, turning away from him. “It’s— fine. It’s fine. I’m going to go take a breather. No need to follow me.”
He just got a mute nod in response as Wolfwood slunk towards the body. Vash’s eye twitched, but he started walking towards the mouth of the alley, mulling everything over. He couldn’t blame Wolfwood for it, not really, because, loath as Vash was to admit it, humans had been raised with violence. Still , though, he really ought to trust Vash more. It wasn’t like he was easy to kill. He tried to block out the shuffling behind him; they could decide on what to do with the body later, once he had calmed down and Wolfwood had had a smoke. He nodded to himself, dead set on that plan until he heard sniffling behind him.
Vash’s heart dropped. He whipped around to see Wolfwood crouching by the body, sunglasses shoved into his hair as he scrubbed furiously at his eyes, muttering to himself.
His brain blanked, and in a blink he was next to Wolfwood, pulling him into a crushing hug. Wolfwood yelped, trying–weakly–to push him away. Vash held him tight, and eventually he relented, letting himself be held awkwardly. Vash swallowed thickly, threading his fingers into Wolfwood’s hair, swaying gently.
“Uh, Spikey—” Wolfwood started, voice muffled from how Vash had tucked his face into the crook of his neck.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I’m so, so, so sorry, Wolfwood. You don’t— I— oh god, I’m sorry. Please, please, please, I’m sorry!”
How long had he been holding back his tears? How did Vash not notice anything? Why was he crying over Vash and his reaction? Oh, he was horrible. How could he blame Wolfwood when—
“All you were trying to do was keep us safe,” Vash muttered, voice shaking. “‘M sorry, I shouldn’t’ve gotten mad. God, Wolfwood…”
“Spikey, I’m gonna need you to let go. I need’ta breathe.”
Vash really couldn’t do anything right, could he? He immediately loosened his grip, pulling Wolfwood up to his feet before dropping his hands to hang uselessly at his side.
“Sorry—”
“If I hear one more apology out of your damn mouth, I’m gonna shut you up myself, you hear me?” Wolfwood growled, glaring at him. Normally, Vash would be a little amused by the display of aggression. But right now, his eyes were red rimmed and his cheeks had drying tear tracks on them and his lips looked bitten and raw.
Vash shot him a watery smile, which only darkened his glare. “Sor—”
Wolfwood rolled his eyes, grabbing the front of his jacket and smashing their lips together. Vash squeaked, stumbling back and accidentally breaking the kiss. Wolfwood huffed, chasing his lips. He tasted like nicotine and tears and sand— it was heady, and if Vash didn’t feel like throwing up, he’d have been more than a little into it. As it was, it took him entirely too long to start kissing him back. He brought a hand to the back of Wolfwood’s head, cradling it as he tilted to meet him more comfortably. The other hand rested on the small of his back, tugging him in closer.
Wolfwood sighed into the kiss, breaking away just enough to speak. “I shouldn’t have killed him.”
Vash could feel his heart shattering, the last vestiges of anger slipping back behind his ribs. “Nick—”
“Mmn, wait,” Wolfwood murmured, cutting off his protests with a quick kiss. “I’m not going to apologize for doing what I need to do to protect your stupid ass. But… I could’ve shot his hand instead. Would’ve been able to avoid hitting you, too. Now you’re covered in blood, ‘nd it’s my fault. I could’ve shot somewhere non-lethal.”
Vash closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against Wolfwood’s. “Let’s just get the body to the coroner’s. Please.”
“Sure thing, Needles.”
The moment Wolfwood stepped out of the bathroom, skin flushed and hair damp from the shower, Vash was all over him. His hands fondled every inch of exposed skin–and unexposed–as his mouth peppered kisses all over Wolfwood’s face and neck. Vash thanked whatever higher power there was that his lover wasn’t wearing a shirt; this would be all the more doable, then. The man yelped, but his shock just as quickly turned into laughter. How he could still laugh around Vash was a mystery, but he didn’t really care to find out— the fact that he was laughing at all was enough for Vash. He kissed him again, drinking in every giggle and gasp.
Wolfwood broke away, lips spit-slick, grinning dazedly. “Eager, are we?”
Oh, his voice, all rough and low, was a wonderful thing to listen to. He wasn’t sure how that sound could have ever set him off, how it could ever keep setting him off— that was a lie, though. Both of them were well aware that Vash was a ticking time bomb painted with blood and gun smoke. He pushed that thought aside; this, right here and now, was not about how Vash would inevitably mess everything up. This was about Wolfwood and apologies and Wolfwood with his tear stained cheeks and choked out admissions and—
Instead of answering, he smashed their lips together again; this time, he was the one moaning into the kiss as Wolfwood fell back on the bed, strong hands coming to rest so gently on the waistband of his sleep pants.
He tilted his head, licking into Wolfwood’s mouth as his hands began to work at his shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension from them. Wolfwood groaned, leaning into his hands. It was a miracle he was letting Vash do this in the first place after what happened, and even more of a miracle that it was working . Wolfwood held grudges all too well, and Vash was sure that making him cry was going to be the end of… whatever this was.
He wouldn’t blame him, of course. No matter how angry Vash was, taking it out on someone undeserving was unacceptable. And add to that the fact that it was Wolfwood , the man who could never put himself first and choked on emotions like a vice, and… well, it really was horrible. He wouldn’t blame him one bit. Really, he would encourage it. It only served him right.
He bit back a frown as he noticed that, actually, Wolfwood hadn’t untensed. He usually did. Worry coiled tighter in the pit of his stomach, and he deepened the kiss, pushing Wolfwood onto the bed. Vash tucked a thigh between his legs, and though Wolfwood gasped at the contact, he still didn’t relax . Vash wasn’t sure what he was doing wrong. Or maybe he was.
Maybe this was the end of the line for them.
He pulled back a bit, just enough to breathe, and began running through his mental checklist. His clothes were packed, his duffel bag was right by the window, he had enough ammo for his gun, he had cash— actually, scratch that. He could go a while without eating, but Wolfwood couldn’t. He’d leave the cash with him. The biggest issue was Wolfwood himself, dogged and unceasing. And a notoriously bad sleeper.
That would be no issue, though, if Vash managed to just get the guy relaxed and undressed. They both slept better after sex, and it was his best bet for making sure Wolfwood didn’t follow him tonight. He would tomorrow, no doubt, but Vash would make damn sure he was far, far away. And, if he let himself be selfish and horrifyingly honest, he wanted this one last time, too.
One last time . Oh, he wanted to remember this— the taste of Wolfwood on his tongue, the feel of him under his hands, the strong planes and gentle curves of his body. He wanted to remember Wolfwood , and wanted it like nothing else.
He leaned in with a new fervor, but this time, Wolfwood grabbed his face and pulled him away. Vash gasped, stumbling back like his hands burned him. Maybe they did: he could still feel their searing warmth through the thin fabric of his sleep clothes and on his face.
Wolfwood’s face was marred with a scowl. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Wha— loving on you?” Vash squeaked. He couldn’t do anything right tonight; Wolfwood really was better off without him. “Are— I’m—“
“What you’re doing, Vash,” Wolfwood murmured, pulling out a cigarette from his never ending supply, “is thinking.”
It was Vash’s turn to frown. “What, am I not allowed to think?”
“Not while you’re tryin’ to get in my pants,” Wolfwood snorted, biting down on the filter. “C’mon, out with it, Blondie. What’s eatin’ at you?”
He opened and closed his hands a few times, chewing on the words. Curse Wolfwood and his perceptiveness; it was getting harder and harder to hide his thoughts from him, and that wasn’t good .
Wolfwood narrowed his eyes. “Is this about earlier?”
“Wh— no!” Vash said, laughing nervously. “Maybe I just want to fuck you?”
Wolfwood looked thoroughly unconvinced. “Uh huh. And that’s why your bag is right by the window and you look like you ate something rotten. Be honest, Spikey. You’re insulting me by lying.”
And they couldn’t have that, could they? Vash sighed, sitting down on the floor by Wolfwood’s feet. He rested his head on his leg, shivering as Wolfwood began carding through his hair.
“I made you cry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you’re sorry.” Wolfwood’s voice was just as quiet, but much harder. “But I don’t want fuckin’ pity sex or apology sex or any of that shit.”
“Sorry—“
“ Needle Noggin , I swear to the good Lord above,” Wolfwood groaned, yanking lightly on his hair. “One more apology and I’m goin’ to take it out of your ass, you hear me?”
Vash gulped. “Yessir.”
“Good.” He sighed, scratching lightly at Vash’s scalp, right where he pulled his hair. “‘Sides, you didn’t make me cry. I made myself cry. Dunno how, but it was on me.”
Vash frowned, twisting to look up at him. He looked dead serious, and Vash couldn’t believe it. “What are you talking about? You were crying over me!”
“And that’s your damn fault… how?”
“Because, Wolfwood! I’m not worth crying over!”
And he certainly wasn’t worth his tears. Wolfwood did not display vulnerability outside the bedroom–and even then, his tears were so few and far between–, so to cry over Vash in a grimy alleyway… it didn’t serve him right. It wasn’t fair . And now, with Wolfwood acting like it was fine— Vash wanted to rip his hair out.
Wolfwood scoffed, his glare darkening. “Like hell you’re not. Get up here. Come on.”
Silently, Vash pushed himself up onto the bed, staring at his hands in his lap. Wolfwood huffed, grabbing his face gently–always so gentle, those blood soaked hands of his–but insistently. Vash pressed his lips together, reluctantly allowing his head to be moved so that he was looking Wolfwood in the eye.
Wolfwood always joked about how Vash’s eyes were so blue and wide that it looked like he was staring into everyone’s soul. Vash laughed, but he knew there was truth in that; he knew that, when he wasn’t careful, his eyes weren’t just scary. They were angry, he was angry, and it was obvious.
Vash didn’t know why anyone, least of all his own lover, would want to look him in the eye.
Wolfwood clicked his tongue as Vash tried to look away, twisting to stay in his eyeline. “I’m serious, Vash. You are one of the few things I would cry for. And I’d do it gladly, you hear me?”
“You shouldn’t, Wolfwood,” he insisted. “You— you wouldn’t stop crying if you cried for me.”
“Throw me a pity party, then.”
He groaned, leaning forward to bury his face into the crook of Wolfwood’s neck. “This isn’t right. I made you cry, and I should be comforting you. Not the other way around.”
Wolfwood was silent for a moment, carefully shuffling them backward until they leaned against the rickety headboard. Always so caring, always so thoughtful. He was wasting his tears on Vash.
“Y’know, Needles, I thought for sure that I had the tears fucking beat out of me,” he finally said with a bitter laugh. Vash shifted, looking up at him. His eyes were closed, midnight black hair falling against his lashes and brushing his cheekbones. “You wanna know why I don’t mind crying over you?”
He dreaded the answer. It could be any human folly, and Vash would be to blame either way.
“It reminds me that I still have a soul.” With his eyes still closed, he cupped Vash’s cheek with a practiced motion, brushing the pad of his thumb against the mole under his eye. “That those bastards left something in there that could make me worth it. Make this all fucking worth it.”
And wasn’t that the worst thing Wolfwood could have said?
He was the kindest person Vash knew, and hearing him talk like this–demeaning himself, acting like Vash brought him anything but more anguish–hurt. Dare he say, it made him angry. Wolfwood had the prettiest eyes he had ever seen, and, oh , what he wouldn’t give to ensure that they remained bright and alive. That he recognized and realized and remembered his value, his beautiful existence. He’d give his body, heart, and soul— hell, he already had, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat. He’d do anything and everything, except for making him cry, no matter how Wolfwood begged.
He would never blame Wolfwood for finding relief in tearshed, of course, for being content with crying, for seeking catharsis by his own means, and if tears were what reminded him of the beauty of his soul, then so be it, but let Vash not be his muse. He would only sully the painting.
He swallowed roughly, speaking past the knot in his throat. “Please, Nick, there are better things to cry over. They’ll do you more good.” They’ll make you happier than I can.
“Gettin’ this shit into your stupid, spikey head is the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Wolfwood complained, moving to sit on Vash’s lap, thighs bracketing his hips. “Do I really need to fuck it into you? I’ll cry while doing it and be happy about it, Blondie. Just say the word.”
And I’m yours , Vash heard. And I’m yours , was left unsaid.
He sighed slightly, cupping Wolfwood’s face. His blatant, tooth-rotting adoration, hidden behind a heavy layer of lust, was almost too much to bear. Almost.
“You might have to.”
Wolfwood grinned, leaning down. “Gladly.”