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Wolfwood has never talked so much bullshit in his life.
"No no no no... You don't understand," Vash slurs, the effort of forming his thoughts apparently too much for his alcohol-numb lips to handle. He and Wolfwood are sitting in the corner of a rowdy saloon, surrounded by empty bottles and ashtrays; suffice to say, it's been a long night. "It's not about... 'bout her gettin' her legs, y'see. She only needed the legs in the first place so she could talk to him -"
"He's lit'rally prince of an... an... an ocean kingdom," Wolfwood argues back, the word 'sea-faring' far beyond his vocabulary right now. "He's gotta get in the water at some point, right? Juss talk to the stupid bastard then!"
"Wolfwooood, you're not listening to me!" he whines. "She couldn't talk to 'im in the water 'cos she was, like, half fish and kinda insecure about it -"
"But that's stupid," he says stubbornly. Vash lets out a groan and plonks his head against the table. "So she's half fish, who gi's a shit? She saved the stupid bastard from drownin', he shouldn't care 'bout a few scales -"
"That's the point. She cares, so she thinks she 'as to change to make 'im happy." Vash's voice is muffled as he speaks into the solid wood. He shifts until his head rests on his surprisingly pointy chin. "'S really sweet what you're sayin', though. You really wouldn't care if you fell in love with a fish?"
"Thought you said she was half fish?"
"Mermaid, technically. But you wouldn't mind?"
Wolfwood suddenly feels like he's been led into a trap. Vash's big blue eyes are staring up at him, blinking slowly, sparkling like the oceans Wolfwood will never see, like the ocean in that stupid mermaid story Vash just finished describing. God only knows how they got on the topic of old Earth stories anyway - Wolfwood feels like he's losing his mind half the time he talks to Vash, jumping so easily from conversation to conversation, he's always left a little windswept by the end.
"If she's a fish, she wouldn't last two seconds on this fucken planet anyway. We've got no water."
Predictably, Vash's ocean-blue eyes fill with tears. "Wolfwooood! Why would you say that?"
"It's true, ain't it?!"
They bicker and they drink until they get kicked out at closing time, the landlady looking particularly harried as she slams the door behind them. Wolfwood can't even blame her. Judging by the slur to his voice and the way Vash's upturned nose is particularly funny right now, they've drank her out of house and home.
The night air does nothing to sober them up, and Wolfwood has to wrap an arm around Vash's waist as they stumble back to the hotel. Neither of them can walk in a straight line, and to avoid disturbing the other guests, they make a game of shushing each other as they climb upstairs, probably making more noise than if they just walked up normally. Wolfwood's wheezing with laughter by the time he deposits Vash by the door and fiddles with the key, and it's a long while before he realises Vash is talking.
"Whassat, Blondie?"
"I said," Vash repeats dramatically, cheek smushed against the wall as he tries to look Wolfwood in the eye, "I meant what I said b'fore. 'Bout the whole mermaid thing. You're really sweet, Wolfwood."
"Aw, shucks."
"'M being serious!"
"You're bein' drunk, dipshit. Now come on - get in before we wake the girls up and they realise what a fuckin' disgrace we are."
Finally, Wolfwood gets the door open. He doesn't trust Vash to cross the threshold by himself, so he bundles him under one arm and practically throws him at one of the twin beds. He lands surprisingly gracefully, albeit ass up, with the tails of his coat splayed out behind him. Wolfwood hears a faint, slightly delayed (and all too endearing) oof.
"Wish I could find someone as sweet as you," Vash is still complaining, voice a little dreamy, eyes half-lidded. Wolfwood, too busy shucking off his own coat and throwing it at the other bed, doesn't pay him any mind until he says, "Someone who doesn't care 'm a Plant."
And then he freezes.
Now. Vash doesn't throw the 'P' word around lightly. Wolfwood knows that Vash is a Plant, and Vash knows that Wolfwood knows, and Wolfwood knows that Vash knows he knows, but that ever-expanding circle is as far as they've got. They've never actually talked about it. Like so many parts of their friendship, it exists in a curious state of half-trust: trusting the other person to know, trusting them not to acknowledge it, but not trusting them enough to discuss it in any way.
And yet, here Vash is. Voice small, incredibly drunk, ass still in the air. Discussing it.
"Yeah?" he says, forcing his voice to stay even. Don't scare him away, now. "Do people usually care 'bout stuff like that?"
Vash has his face buried in the blanket. In the half-light of the moons, Wolfwood can just about see him nod.
"Then fuck 'em. Fuck anyone who cares 'bout that shit, Blondie," he declares, landing heavily on the other bed. Still slumped over the mattress, Vash turns his head until he can face him, eyes shining through the dishevelled mess of his hair. "I mean - it's not even like that fish girl, is it? Ya ain't got any scales. Ya ain't got a tail. Hell, no-one can even tell yer a Plant just by lookin' at ya. They'll just see a cute blonde."
Fuck. Wolfwood must be even drunker than he thought, because that last part was not meant to come out. A faint pink starts to spread across Vash's face, starting at the tip of his nose and going all the way to the backs of his ears, but he still makes a point of shaking his head.
"No. No, you - you don't understand. I can be pretty... Plant-y. Sometimes."
"Oh yeah? 'S that the official term?"
"Yes. As the only Plant in this room, I say it is. And I can be, like... suuuuper Plant-y. It's weird. You wouldn't like it."
Well, consider Wolfwood's curiosity piqued. He leans forward, planting his elbows against his knees to get a better look at Vash's flushed, drunken face, making a show of examining him. He leers. Vash blushes even harder. This is a dangerous game.
"Try me, Blondie."
Vash stares back at him. He seems to be thinking hard - either that, or Wolfwood's locked into the longest, drunkest staring contest of his life.
But eventually, he makes up his mind. He rolls over, practically tumbling off the bed, and before Wolfwood can reach down to help him up, he's already crawling the short distance between their beds to sit at Wolfwood's feet. Wolfwood's about to ask what the hell he's doing when Vash rests his head against his knee, looking up at him with those glassy eyes. The question sticks in his throat. Wolfwood can't resist putting a hand in his hair, making Vash smile and rub his cheek slightly into his leg.
Suddenly, his eyes flash - reflective, like a cat's. It's gone so quickly, Wolfwood can't even be sure it happened.
"I can see in the dark," Vash says, nuzzling Wolfwood's leg almost absent-mindedly. His voice is still slurred, but it's gone quiet, like he's telling a secret. Wolfwood wonders if he's ever said any of this out loud before. "Something 'bout a reflective layer in my eyes. Called a tapetum. Rem used t' say it's 'cos Plants are usually cocooned in their petals, in the dark, so they can't see much."
Rem. It's not the first time Vash has said her name in front of Wolfwood, but again, he's never trusted him enough to explain who she is. Wolfwood gets the feeling now's not the time to ask. He keeps stroking Vash's hair instead, letting out a hum, "Yeah? That doesn't seem that weird to me, Blondie."
"There's more," he insists. "'M starting light. Trying not to freak you out."
"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say."
Vash lets out an adorable little huff, strong enough to make his nostrils flare. Then, he keeps going.
"I've got a... a good sense of smell, too. Better than any human. It's how I know when you've been holdin' out on me, when you go to the bakery. And how I know you're buying the cheap cigarettes again. You smell different."
With his nose pressed against his pant leg, Vash takes a deep breath in; by the time he lifts his head again, his eyes are distinctly hazy. Wolfwood feels a strange shock run through his system. Oh.
"Is that so?" he manages to get out, kinda proud of how calm he sounds. Fuck, what does it say about him that he's craving a cigarette right now? He's never gonna be able to smoke the cheap brands again without thinking of this. "So, you're a bloodhound for doughnuts. Still not impressed, Blondie - c'mon, tell me somethin' I don't know."
He doesn't know why he's goading Vash. By all accounts, this night should've ended with Vash sitting at his feet and sniffing his leg like a dog. They could dismiss it as things getting a little weird after too much booze, and not talk about it in the morning.
Wolfwood has never learned how to quit while he's ahead.
Instead, Vash's eyes flash in challenge. He shifts on the floor, resting a hand on Wolfwood's thigh to hold himself steady as he rises onto his knees. He doesn't move the hand afterwards. Wolfwood can feel the heat of his palm burning through his slacks as Vash looks at him, resting just slightly between his legs, somehow both too close and too far away at the same time.
Vash worries his lip between his teeth. For as bold as he's been so far, he still seems nervous. Wolfwood's about to tell him to spit it out already when he says, all in one breath -
"I grow feathers sometimes."
And then he does - a smattering of pinfeathers across his cheekbones, like flowers bursting into spontaneous bloom.
Wolfwood feels the air leave his lungs. The feathers appear only for a moment before being drawn back into his skin, hiding, almost like they're shy. Cute. Before he can stop himself, he's reaching out a surprisingly steady finger to trace where they've disappeared. The skin feels smooth, unblemished. If you didn't know the feathers were there, you'd never be able to guess.
Wolfwood knows.
"Hey, c'mon, Blondie," he murmurs in encouragement, Vash's blush darkening under the pad of his finger. "Doesn't count if I don't get to see 'em properly. Don't be chicken, now."
There's a joke there, about chickens and feathers, he's pretty sure. But Vash must be feeling real shy right now, because he doesn't even try to set up the punchline. Instead, he releases an unsteady breath - and Wolfwood feels the feathers sprout from right under his fingertips.
They're delicate, adorable little things. Almost blindingly white, smaller than Wolfwood's pinkie finger and softer than spun cotton. He takes one between his finger and his thumb, stroking the length of it, and Vash lets out a full-body shiver, leaning into Wolfwood's touch in a way that has little to do with alcohol. Actually, Wolfwood has leaned in too, just to get a better look at them. He doesn't realise how close they've gotten until he feels Vash's breath against his cheek.
"Is that all?" he says, still trying to sound unaffected. Vash lets out a breathless laugh, like he knows Wolfwood's full of shit.
"No. They - they can spread, if I let them. Get bigger."
Still stroking a feather between two fingers, Wolfwood makes a sweeping gesture with his other hand: go ahead. Vash, caught between shyness and the liquid courage flowing in his veins, has another moment of hesitation. But soon enough, the feathers start growing in Wolfwood's fingers, curling back from his face, undulating like sea grass caught in a current.
They're beautiful. Like this, they're more than white, they're iridescent, shot through with threads of gold like a vein of ore. Wolfwood is reminded viscerally of church windows, angelic figures caught in pearly sheets of glass - except this is even better because he can actually touch them, the feathers winding through his wingers like living things. There's a faint electric current there, like static, undercutting the softness. He's never felt anything like it.
"Shit, Blondie," he breathes, too entranced to sound anything less than wondrous. Vash's teeth sink into his bottom lip again, bashful. Is it just me, or do they look even sharper than usual?
"Not too weird?"
"Not too weird," he agrees. He can't stop touching them, and the feathers seem to agree, clinging to his fingers like they like him. "Sorry to tell ya, but the mermaid's beatin' ya, Feathers."
"Please don't start calling me Feathers."
"Hm? Whassat, Feathers?"
Vash lets out a groan, rolling his eyes, and - oh. Something's definitely different there too, the irises turned luminous, the pupils slitted. Wolfwood uses his grip on Vash's face to tilt his head and get a better look, ignoring the way he squawks and the feathers flap indignantly.
"Your eyes've gone weird. Are you still holdin' out on me?"
"...Maybe?" Vash gives a charming grin, before jerking his head out of Wolfwood's grip. "That - happens, sometimes. When I let the feathers loose, the rest of my body starts... changing. Don't ask me what it means, I don't actually know -"
"How much d'ya change, exactly?"
He only realises it might be a rude question after it's already left his mouth. It certainly makes Vash pause, mouth hanging open - and Wolfwood realises with a jolt that his teeth are definitely longer than they should be, inching towards the delicate skin of his bottom lip, and he wonders what it would be like to have them buried in his neck -
"...I've never really figured out where it ends," Vash admits. Those luminous eyes are like blue lanterns in the dark, pinning Wolfwood in place. Neither of them sound particularly drunk any more. "Every time I try, I - I freak myself out."
There's an unspoken question there, one Wolfwood doesn't want to look at too closely: why aren't YOU freaking out? Honestly? He doesn't know the answer. The concept of Vash's non-humanity used to freak him out, back when they first met. This man, this bumbling buffoon, is something beyond human, capable of wiping out an entire city and putting a hole in the fucking MOON? Yeah, rest assured - he was freaking out.
But now... The feathers wind through his fingers so gently. He knows that, however sharp Vash's teeth get, he won't ever use them. And the way those terrifying, dazzling eyes are looking at him - so sweet, so tender, so fundamentally Vash - Wolfwood feels absolutely no desire to run.
"Then yer as much of an idiot as anyone else who freaked out on ya," he grunts. His hand shifts to cup Vash's cheek, still stroking in firm little circles. "It's you, ain't it? Doesn't matter how weird ya get. It's still you."
Vash's breath hitches. He looks at Wolfwood like he just said something wonderful, like it isn't the most basic thing you can tell another person - you deserve human decency - and something about it breaks Wolfwood's heart, even as he revels in knowing that Vash is looking like that at him.
But he's been travelling with Vash for a long time now, and he knows the warning signs that he's about to argue. So, he does the first thing he can think of to prove himself right.
He kisses him.
Their first kiss is a mess in so many ways. Wolfwood might not be falling down drunk anymore, but he's certainly not sober, so the kiss ends up being more on the corner of Vash's mouth than his actual lips. The feathers have crept down here, deliciously soft against his stubble. Wolfwood's mouth probably tastes of whiskey and smoke. And yet, Vash makes a sound like he's been gutted, a distinctly inhuman whine - and he kisses back.
It's clumsy, but enthusiastic. Still kneeling on the floor, Vash practically falls against his body in his eagerness to get closer, crawling between his legs and wrapping his arms around his neck to pull him down. Wolfwood himself can't resist tangling his fingers in Vash's hair, and he marvels that there are feathers here too, providing two different types of softness between his silky hair and the wispy down. Vash's mouth is warm and plush and he's objectively a terrible kisser, no technique beyond getting as close as physically possible, but that's exactly what Wolfwood wants so he's not complaining. Especially when he coaxes Vash into opening his mouth, letting him feed his tongue to the back of his sharpened teeth -
A strange, startled chirp sounds from Vash's throat. It's enough to make them both break the kiss, panting harshly, staring at each other wide-eyed.
"Erm -" Vash's voice breaks. His blush has darkened something awful, face glowing sunset red beneath all those feathers. He looks like a chicken with sunburn. "Sorry, I - I don't know why that happened."
"'S alright, Blondie," Wolfwood's own voice is husky. He can't help but smile at the sight Vash makes in front of him - the Humanoid Typhoon, reduced to feathers and a quavering voice. It's something that needs to be teased. "Glad to know you were enjoyin' yourself -"
It's amazing how quickly things can spin back around to normal. Vash smacks him on the shoulder - Wolfwood catches it easily. He tries with his other hand - Wolfwood catches that one, too. They end up rough-housing, the way they always do when they've drunk too much, but this time Wolfwood is viciously aware of all the places Vash is touching, the way their chests brush together by sheer virtue of how close they are. And when he finally gets a solid grip on Vash's wrist, he doesn't spin him into a headlock, the way Vash is doubtless expecting. Instead, he locks eyes with him - raises that hand to his mouth - and presses a soft, lingering kiss on the leather-clad knuckles.
All the fight goes out of Vash immediately. His jaw slackens, and there's that noise again - a chirp, like the coo of a curious bird. Needy. Adorable. Wolfwood's in deep, deep trouble.
"D'you fancy enjoyin' anything else tonight, or...?" he trails off suggestively, unfurling Vash's hand to press his mouth against each fingertip. For a moment, Vash looks like he wants to eat him alive - before hesitating one last time.
"I mean - with the feathers and everything - you sure?"
"If ya want," Wolfwood shrugs, though he's looking at Vash's elongated teeth with a very healthy interest and he thinks Vash knows it. But, God - he's thought about this for so long - he'll take whatever Vash will give him and beg for the scraps afterwards. "Told ya already, darlin'. It's still you. I like it."
Vash's eyes flash like mirrors again. Wolfwood doesn't know if it's the corny fucking sentiment or the darlin', but before he can even register what's happening, Vash is surging up, pushing him back onto the mattress with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. The sudden display of strength is dizzying, made even worse when Vash follows him up and straddles him.
"You're so..." he says helplessly before breaking off, apparently unable to finish that sentence. He rocks his weight forwards instead, grinding into the cradle of his lap; Wolfwood lets out a surprised moan, hands flying up to grip Vash's hips. Vash makes that purring chirp again. "Fine. I'm game if you are, Wolfwood. That is - if you can keep up."
Cocky bastard. Wolfwood barks out a laugh that's dangerously, irrevocably fond, before drawing him down into an open-mouthed kiss. He'll show Vash who can keep up.
Afterwards, in the morning, Wolfwood has three things on his mind.
One: whoever freaked out on Vash before he could do that to them is a fucking idiot, and couldn't be Wolfwood. Jesus Christ, his legs are still trembling.
Two: if he's going to start fucking an interdimensional Plant on the regular, they're gonna need to come up with a better cover story. When they woke up this morning, the hotel room was covered in feathers, looking like the inside of a hen house after a fox gets in. After another bout of rough-housing, Vash drew the short straw and had to go check them out, handing over a bunch of double dollars to cover the damage. His excuse was that they had a "particularly intense pillow fight" - which might've been easier to believe, if he wasn't so obviously fighting hysterical laughter the entire time.
Three: he wonders about the mermaid story that started all this. When they get a moment alone together over breakfast, he asks Vash how it ends. His face turns all sad and knowing over his plate of pancakes.
"Well, there are a few different versions, actually. But in the original story, the prince doesn't fall in love with the mermaid, and actually marries somebody else. The mermaid can't even go back to the ocean after. She throws herself into the sea, and she dies."
Nursing a pot of black coffee, a bad hangover and several hickeys, Wolfwood ponders this. By the time they've finished eating and headed back on the road, Vash sitting behind him on his bike, pressed warm and solid against his back, he's decided - he was right the first time. The prince is an idiot.