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After several months of nonstop travel at Vash’s side, Wolfwood gets pretty used to the way that he operates—more specifically, to the way that he moves. His gait changes when he’s tired, slows a little, becomes more mechanical, intentional, as if to disguise the strain. It changes, too, when he’s sore, more in the placement of his feet, the way he shifts his arms so they won’t brush against his sides. He’s all tells, Vash, and not a very good liar at that. Wolfwood learns to pick up on all of his cues the way you learn with anyone you’re in close proximity with all the time; thus, he has enough context to know that the way Vash is walking right now is just… odd.
Odd is the only word for it. It doesn’t seem like he’s in pain, exactly, moving without care for the twist of his usual problem areas, his joints, the place where his prosthetic arm connects. Nor is Vash moving particularly sluggishly, his expression still full of the same pep that it always is. Granted, he’s been somewhat more subdued lately in light of recent occurrences, but that’s less of a physical inhibition and more of an emotional one. Furthermore, Vash has more or less managed to kick the drinking habit, so Wolfwood would like to say he’s doing a little bit better now, at least on that front.
It’s just that he keeps… twitching? Wolfwood thinks it’s twitching. He takes a step and he pauses, opens and closes his mouth. Rolls his shoulders back. Hunches forward, clenches his jaw, curls and uncurls his fists. Like he’s—uncomfortable, maybe? But every time he catches Wolfwood looking, typical Vash behaviour, he forcefully relaxes, shoots a smile Wolfwood’s way, and keeps walking. He’s an annoying person, Vash. In general, but particularly because he lacks self awareness at times—as if that’s going to stop Wolfwood from noticing what he’s been up to.
Still, Wolfwood keeps any verbal observations to himself, at least until they’ve reached their hotel room. Feels discourteous to call Vash on what might be a pain issue while they’re still on the road. If it is an ache of some sort, Wolfwood can try to accommodate by offering a massage, drawing a bath if they have access to one, but realistically… There’s only so much that can be done. They’re coming so close to meeting Vash’s brother, after all. At a certain point, he’s just going to have to deal with the aches and pains, swallow it back for the greater good of humanity.
Which… Wolfwood is struggling to articulate his feelings about. Not that he’s being asked to, just that he has so many feelings about it, he wants to think it would be helpful if he was able to put them into words, at least for himself. He’s never liked the idea of shepherding Vash to his brother, but he’d at least been able to make his peace with it as a means for survival—at least, he’d thought that he had been able to do that. But more and more recently he’s finding it difficult to sleep, and it’s not even guilt or horror over the lengths that he’s been willing to stoop to, but just… sheer, nauseous horror and dread about whatever it is that Vash is going to be facing, once they reach the end of the line.
Not even to mention what he’s been going through just leading up to it. There’s only so much that Wolfwood can even do for him right now, and Vash’s life isn’t going to get better. That’s objective reality. Hell, if Wolfwood ditched him right now, Vash would probably still find his way to his brother, and then… That’s it. That’s as much as Wolfwood can interfere. No matter what, this journey ends with Vash taking the burden onto his own shoulders yet again, and in the days leading up to it, Wolfwood can… run baths? Nag him a little? Fuck. He can’t remember the last time he felt so useless.
All that is to say, he does wait until they’ve reached their hotel room, but he doesn’t wait very long after stepping into the room. Shutting and locking the door, Wolfwood sets his cross by the nightstand, then whirls on Vash with a finger out.
“Okay, what gives.”
Vash shoots him a surly look, which is how Wolfwood knows it really is a big deal. “Do you always start conversations so abruptly? I know not everyone likes small talk, but it does serve a purpose, Wolfwood.”
Wolfwood ignores his gripe. “You’ve been moving weird all day. What happened? Are you hiding an injury? Spill it,” he adds, when Vash starts to speak. Vash shuts his mouth with a telltale click, then lets out a huff, giving Wolfwood a particularly grumpy look as he turns around and begins the tedious process of unbuttoning his duster. Rather than continue to push, Wolfwood folds his arms across his chest and waits. Taps his foot, even. He’s fine with being obnoxious about this, so long as he gets results. Vash very rarely gives unless you needle him a little. Lucky that Wolfwood’s so good at needling.
Finally, Vash drops his arms and allows his jacket to slide to the floor. The cause of his discomfort is immediate evident. White feathers have sprung over his exposed back, the length of his non-prosthetic arm, peeking out from the neck of his shirt. They bulge from his pants, his long, strappy boots. As Vash turns to face him again, Wolfwood sees that quills are even peeking out on his cheeks, unfurling before his very eyes as Vash gives him this incredibly miserable wet cat look, folding his arms across his stomach.
“...Not hiding an injury,” Vash grits out. “I can’t make them go away.”
“Tongari,” Wolfwood exhales. “Why didn’t you—?”
“Say something? Say what? Hold on Wolfwood, stop walking, I need to be a freak for a second.” Vash’s fingers twist in the white strands of his feathers and yank; they come free with a handful of plumage, but the feathers only regrow in the place of the ones he tugged free. Visibly frustrated, Vash tosses the handfuls to the side and spins on his heels. “I’m going to towel down in the bathroom. Probably clog the drain if I try and take a shower like this…”
“H—Hold on, Needle—” No, that’s a terrible thing to call him right now, what is he doing, “er—Spi—fuck— Vash, wait.”
Vash does wait, potentially because of the use of his given name. Wolfwood is grateful, because he’d moved forward on instinct, a hand outstretched, and he’s not so sure about reaching out and getting handsy with those feathers. Least, not without an indication that Vash would be okay with that. He knows they’re—emotive. That there’s some kind of connection that happens when you (as in a human) are in contact with them, and that’s what fucked the little woman’s brain up so badly. Wolfwood was struggling with that, a couple weeks back. Scared shitless, more aptly. He still kind of is.
But it is hard to fear Vash in his current state. Standing, shoulders curled in, head ducked with visible shame. His hands have clenched again. His shoulders keep twitching the way they did before, and now Wolfwood’s close enough he can see movement over his shoulderblades, beneath the surface of his armour. Wings struggling to—threatening to—escape.
He looks… miserable, more than anything. Uncomfortable. Wolfwood has never, more than anything else, feared that Vash would hurt him—least of all on purpose. Perhaps as collateral, in a July-level explosion, but the times that have happened have always been through third-party intervention. That his feathers are out now, well, that’s probably just because his emotions have been so out of wack lately, and his non-prosthetic hand is still… normal, at least, as normal as any part of Vash is ever normal.
More pressingly, Wolfwood doesn’t want him to feel like a freak. Or if he is one, then they both are; Wolfwood certainly isn’t the authority on what’s normal.
“Don’t rush off,” Wolfwood insists—beseeches, more like, which is damn embarrassing, but it’s enough to get Vash to turn around and look at him, at least. “All the—fidgeting. Were you itchy?”
“I—well, maybe a little,” Vash mumbles, and his gaze drops right to the floor. His hair has deflated, a natural consequence of being out all day, but right now it falls into his eyes and makes him look, if anything, even sadder. His eyes are half-lidded, his lashes all droopy. It’s not his brightest moment, that’s for sure. “It’s, I’ve never had to deal with it. I mean, usually they just come out when I need them and then disappear after, haha. Guess I got spoiled.”
“Dunno if spoiled’s a word that should even be in your vocabulary,” grumbles Wolfwood, and takes a step forward. He extends his hand, watches Vash’s face to make sure he’s not uncomfortable with it, then gently rests his palm against Vash’s upper arm, where much of the feathers are forming. “Itchy here?”
“Wolfwood, you don’t have to…”
Whatever sort of protest Vash is planning on making, he doesn’t get all the way into saying. His mouth clicks shut again and he swallows, his lower lip drawing between his teeth. Wolfwood trails his fingers over his feathers, trying to find the right direction to stroke so they lie flat, like petting a cat. They’re soft, downy, like toma feathers, except there are these thin, hard quills, almost like spikes. When Wolfwood feels over them with his fingertips, Vash twitches, then hisses through his teeth.
“Hurts?”
“No, just—” Vash tips his head both ways, furrowing his brow. “I don’t…”
Looking again for any indication that Vash is uncomfortable, Wolfwood shifts closer, brings his other hand now and carefully isolates one of the quills. His nails aren’t—super long, but he’s got enough allowance to dig his thumbnail into one of the thick casings, slipping underneath to where the indulgently soft feather is still furled. Carefully, Wolfwood uses his thumb and index finger to pick away the casing, threading his fingers through the newly unfurled feather, and watches Vash’s arm tense before dramatically relaxing.
“That help?” Wolfwood asks, softly; he lifts his gaze back to Vash’s face and finds that Vash’s jaw has slacked, a little, his eyes gone glossy, like he’s—spaced out, or perhaps too emotional for words. Wolfwood pulls his hand back with a hiss. “Shit. Vash, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”
“Wait,” Vash chokes out. His hand twitches at his side, but he grabs his own wrist in his prosthetic hand before he can lift it all the way. They’re standing close enough that Wolfwood can hear the sharp breath he draws in, can see the tears that bead on his lashline when he shuts his eyes. “I mean, I don’t—you don’t—don’t say sorry, I just—you shouldn’t have to—”
“Vash, this is—” Wolfwood’s bad enough with emotional words in his own head, forget saying them out loud! But Vash has begun to tremble and this is clearly—untrodden territory for him, despite his years and years of experience, so Wolfwood struggles for the right answer and then forces his tongue to move despite the lack of one. “It’s—this isn’t—something you know how to do. Is it? ‘Cause you don’t, the feathers aren’t,” he flounders, clears his throat, tries again, “I mean, it’s not your normal. Even—even more than it’s not my normal.”
Vash’s eyes shut tighter, a persistent crease between his brows. He shakes his head. Wolfwood’s not sure if that’s an agreement— no, it’s not normal— or a dissent— no, stop talking— but he keeps going anyway, because he never met a mouth he didn’t cram his foot into.
“Let me help you,” Wolfwood says, and he’s begging again, practically whining. “While I still—this is something I can do for you. We can—figure it out together, or, you can just lemme do a little. Just—”
I want to be useful to you is the feeling that Wolfwood has been grappling with for weeks, the one he’d put into words if he didn’t think it would shake them both apart. I want to help you, even if it means that it hurts more for me later. I want to do what I can to make this easier on you, because I’m loyal to you. I have your back. I love—
Wolfwood bites down on the inside of his cheek before he can finish the thought. Breathes in, too. Vash doesn’t seem entirely cognisant of the fact that Wolfwood’s mind had gone in that direction; rather, he’s opened his eyes again and is studying the wall intently, like there’s a bug or a rodent, and not like, well, he’s avoiding meeting Wolfwood’s gaze in the wake of an emotional appeal.
He does, eventually, meet Wolfwood’s eyes though. Vash can always be counted on to meet him where he’s at.
“Please,” is what Vash finally says, and the tears in his eyes spill over onto his cheeks. “I’m so tired of being a monster, Wolfwood.”
You’re not a monster, Wolfwood wants to tell him. But is it true? Maybe the hole in the fifth moon would beg to differ. Maybe Wolfwood doesn’t care if he is in the first place. Not like Vash is the one who has slaughtered hundreds for nothing more than his own survival. Perhaps monstrous is something you are down to the core, not something you are on the outside—meaning that the feathers don’t make him monstrous at all. But perhaps it would be disingenuous for Wolfwood to say as much, considering that it wasn’t so long ago that he was aiming a gun at the back of Vash’s head.
Fuck. Wolfwood will collapse to his knees and kiss Vash’s feet if it would make up for doing that—right now he just reels him in by the arm and runs his hands along the exposed feathers on his stomach, his shoulder, anywhere he can reach with the shirt still on. They part, briefly, so Vash can remove the top piece of his armour, tossing it aside. Wolfwood is entirely unconcerned with where the halves end up, namely because of the pair of massive wings that stretch out from between his shoulder blades, extending past Wolfwood and into the bathroom, filling a solid chunk of the room.
They’re not quite like bird wings. Vash’s feathers are more—fluid, than a toma’s. They remind Wolfwood of the old illustrations he’s seen of aquatic plants, stuff like seaweed, rippling around underwater. They’re powerful enough to stop bullets, Wolfwood knows, but when he trails his fingers over them, they’re soft as a dream.
Vash shudders, also, at the touch. He croaks “Don’t stop” before Wolfwood can ask if it’s alright, though, so Wolfwood takes him by the shoulders and guides him towards the bed, hastily kicks off his shoes as he goes. His blazer ends up discarded too, and he rolls up his sleeves, slotting himself in against the headboard with Vash leaned into his chest to get to work.
This position provides him with nice access, both to Vash’s back and to his upper body. With a method in mind, Wolfwood busies himself first with familiarising the both of them with the practice; passes his fingers through Vash’s wings, one after the other and then back again, top to bottom, base to tip. He goes slow, but keeps his touch firm enough that it shouldn’t be ticklish, watching Vash’s feathers for how they move seemingly autonomously, curling around Wolfwood’s fingers as they withdraw, just the barest hint of clinginess.
It makes Wolfwood’s chest hurt a little. He’s probably reading too much into it. But Vash has been alive for so long and been able to keep so little; it only makes sense that his feathers would hold on so loosely.
“Think it’s called grooming?” Wolfwood mutters.
“Mm?” Vash’s head tips back so their eyes can meet. He’s hazy again, although now that Wolfwood’s not in his own head so much he can see that Vash looks more relaxed than dissociative or panicked. His blue eyes are all soft, sleepy. It’s a relief to see on his face. “What is?”
“When you—y’know, with the feathers.” To demonstrate, Wolfwood breaks through another one of those hard casings and sprinkles the pieces off the edge of the bed, carefully unfurling the feather underneath. “‘S probably why you’re so itchy. There’re all these poky bits in there.”
“Oh… yeah, I guess that makes sense.” Vash lets out a long sigh, his eyes closing once more. “Like a bird…”
“Like a Tongari,” Wolfwood corrects, with more fondness in his voice than he necessarily means to put there. It pulls a smile out of Vash though, so it’s worth the brief embarrassment. With Vash resettling, Wolfwood puts his focus back where it belongs, starting with Vash’s right wing. He works his way from the base, where it connects at his shoulder blade, out to the—well, all right. They’re far too long for him to reach the ends from here, so he goes for as far as he can reach then moves on to the other wing, then starts working on the other feathers, the ones on Vash’s arms, his stomach.
With each shift, Vash seems to relax incrementally further, his breathing evening out, the tension leaving his shoulders. By the time Wolfwood is working his way through the feathers on his cheeks, Vash is all but dozing, his eyelids only shifting minutely with every pass over his face.
Wolfwood ruffles his hair. It’s a little crunchy, but not entirely unpleasant, mostly because Wolfwood is infatuated with him enough to put up with anything. He mumbles, “Tongari, I gotta move to get the rest of your wings.”
“Mmmm… no,” comes Vash’s drowsy response. He shifts over onto his side, and his arm hooks around Wolfwood’s middle. With it comes the corresponding wing, and, as Wolfwood should have predicted, the long, tendril-like feathers, curling around Wolfwood’s shoulders and the back of his head and gently slipping around the nape of his neck.
An odd feeling. Kind of like being cradled like a baby? What’s weirder about it is Wolfwood can feel more than just—the softness of the feathers, the warmth of Vash’s body heat, but also… heat, comfort, pooling all in the bottom of his stomach. Borderline overwhelming. Affection, trust, all these things Wolfwood does feel towards Vash but hadn’t consciously been thinking about—and it’s odd—disorienting until Wolfwood remembers what had happened to Stryfe.
So they’re probably. Vash’s emotions. The gratitude and the safety and the— love, potent and all-consuming and enough to make a lump rise in Wolfwood’s throat just because it’s completely incongruent with any emotion he’d ever pictured being directed at him, even from, no, especially from Vash, and he… Ohhhhh. It would be really nice to have something to do with his hands, like say, keep grooming Vash’s feathers, but he’s fresh out of pinfeathers. All Wolfwood can do is run his palms over Vash’s wings, feeling the warmth building in his eyes and letting out a long, slow breath.
It does little to dislodge the knot forming in Wolfwood’s chest, but it’s better than nothing. Leaning forward, Wolfwood presses his forehead into Vash’s. There are feathers there, too. Makes it like pushing his face into the body of a toma.
Vash giggles. “I’m not a bird.”
“No way you heard that,” Wolfwood complains. “No—you’re not—everything I’m—”
“Not everything,” Vash corrects, before Wolfwood can have a damn panic attack. “More like—mm… stray things? I don’t know. I’m so sleepy right now I probably won’t remember later anyhow.”
Surefire way to jinx it and make sure he remembers every embarrassing thought that crosses Wolfwood’s mind right now! From the way that Vash laughs, it’s obvious he heard that one too—and hell, Wolfwood ought to pull off, ought to learn when to quit, it’d really do them both some good—but he refrains from doing this. Being close to Vash just feels so—so—indulgent, he’s not sure he’s strong enough to withdraw, even with the potent humiliation at war in his chest.
Whatever. He’ll hate himself for it in the morning, and it will still have been worth it to do this. Wolfwood tucks his arms tight around Vash, settles in despite the dubious back cramp he’s going to have when he wakes up again. Shuts his eyes.
“Thanks, Vash,” Wolfwood murmurs.
“For what? Getting pampered by you?” Vash laughs. “Sure, any time, Padre.”
He laughs, he jokes, but this isn’t an any time thing. Wolfwood can’t even think of a single time like this where Vash let him be useful. It’s… purely unique. It might be the only opportunity Wolfwood ever gets. So yeah, he’s grateful. He’s sure he’ll be grateful for this for the rest of his damn life.
Beneath him, Vash has stopped laughing.
Wolfwood groans. “You heard that too.”
“Um… something like it,” Vash admits, sounding bashful. But Wolfwood can feel it in a rush, exactly what Vash’s response is; the gratitude to match, the warmth, the affection. The guilt, but the guilt was inevitable, and Wolfwood isn’t sorry to be feeling it. He tucks himself in closer, trails his fingers back over Vash’s wings, feels them tremble beneath his touch. Repeats the motion until they’ve both relaxed, until Vash is easing again, starting to drift.
It’s possible they’re just going to keep—winding each other up, like this, over and over again, and they’re not going to get a lick of sleep tonight. Wolfwood wouldn’t complain about that. Or, well, he will, in the morning, when there are consequences. But right now there are no consequences. Right now there is only the affection he feels, the relief, the momentary peace—that makes the night of missed sleep worthwhile, really. Wolfwood never claimed to be the responsible one, between the two of them.
Or, well, he did. But even he has off moments. Who could blame him?