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Wolfwood didn’t have nice days—not anymore, at least. The most fun he’d had in the last six years was finding new ways to piss Elendira off and even that lost its charm after the hundredth nail flung at him had to be pried out inches from his heart. He just wishes he’d been conscious to witness the legendary ass-whooping she’d gotten from Conrad—that would have been fun.
Tonight was different, for once. Their inn had running water (enough for both him and Vash to take full showers!) and the setting suns left the town in a pleasant chill. The bar they’re haunting for the night’s got live music, keeping his ragtag crew and all the patrons in high spirits. Vash’s penchant for trouble be damned, tonight will be peaceful. And peaceful it has been—Vash and the girls have been chattering about lord knows what for most of the night, so Wolfwood’s been kicked back, sipping the nice whiskey he splurged on. Enjoying the music, enjoying the ambient laughter, enjoying not being soaked in his own sweat with sand crusted in his... everywhere.
A new song begins, one led by the band’s saxophonist. Wolfwood tries to hold in his instinctive flinch, but his bones ache at the sound of the horn. Something about that time Midvalley the Fuckface had nearly turned him inside out stuck with him, he supposes. The song continues and there most definitely aren’t chills running up his spine and his knee is not anxiously bouncing. He closes his eyes, willing away the phantom sensation of being contorted, snapped in half, splintered from the inside, dissonant notes a blaring soundtrack to his agony.
He shakes his head. He’s fine and he’s having a nice night, god damn it.
Fuck, he needs a cigarette.
Slapping his hands on the table, he declares, “I’m havin’ a smoke if ya need me.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s already shuffling his way out of the bar.
“Okay, Mr. Wolfwood! Don’t fall in!” Milly chirps behind him. “I mean, don’t, um... bye!” She dissolves into giggles and he hears it spread to Meryl and Vash. He snorts, grateful they don’t have the same association with brass instruments.
Outside the bar is a long porch, crowded with drunk people trying to sing along to a song they don’t know. The railings and benches are covered in decades of scratched vandalism. This place must be a beloved fixture in the town. J+V surrounded by a heart, BOOBS!! surrounded by a heart, and a particularly crude penis among the ones he spots on a bench in passing. He forgoes the penis bench in favor of the cold brick wall of the neighboring building.
He reaches into his inside jacket pocket, taking care to not expose his shoulder holster. God forbid someone thinks he’s trying to start something. Fishing out his carton of cigarettes and lighter, he decides he’ll smoke an entire brand new cigarette, as a treat. And not because he wants the pure hit of nicotine to calm his itchy nerves. A relaxed, happy, peaceful man wouldn’t need to calm anything, after all.
He settles himself against the brick wall, the chill of the stone a welcome contrast to the hot anxiety in his veins. Gently clamping his pristine cigarette between his teeth, he lights it up, sighing out his first smoky breath.
Fuck him for trying to have a nice night, he thinks. He taught himself to be unshakeable early—if he’d let every horror story that led to a new kid at the orphanage get to him, he would have lost his mind before puberty. How serendipitous, then, that he never had a proper puberty.
Wolfwood always wore his heart on his sleeve, if the amount of times Miss Melanie told him to “wipe that pout off your face, Nicholas, and eat your vegetables!” was any indication. But being the Eye of Michael’s problem child prodigy taught him quick that his vulnerability was a weakness to be exploited. They chiseled into each crack he revealed, chipping away at him until the orphanage became collateral for his obedience. What he couldn’t conceal behind his sunglasses, he puffed away with the smoke of his cigarettes.
He sees the flash of red wriggling through the crowd before he hears Vash’s heavy boots approaching. “Pardon me, my lady,” Vash bows, like a fucking dweeb, towards a woman he bumped into, who has the audacity to giggle like Vash isn’t the biggest idiot this wasteland planet’s ever seen.
Wolfwood would be found dead before he admits to the relief Vash’s company brings.
“Spikey,” he greets the approaching Idiot Prince.
“Wolfwoooood, hiiii,” Vash twinkles back, his half a dozen beers and another half a dozen shots leaving a warm glow on his cheeks. Wolfwood thought his own metabolism was fucked, but Vash puts him to shame with how many drinks he can toss back. After all that, the guy’s only just past tipsy. He settles against the wall next to Wolfwood, shoulders barely brushing.
“What brings you away from the party, big guy?”
“I told the girls I wanted to bum a smoke off you.”
“Uh huh, I know smokin’ ain’t your vice. What’re you really doin’ out here?”
“Can’t a guy hang out with his handsome chaperone?” Vash teases with sparkling eyes, chin in his hands. Wolfwood scoffs. Chaperone. Like he’s not walking Vash straight into the hornet’s nest. He ignores the handsome part. For his sanity.
Vash softens, his face so sympathetic it’d be condescending on anyone else. “You left looking like you saw a ghost. Wanted to make sure you’re okay.” It’s so earnest and heartfelt it nearly gives Wolfwood a cavity, the sweetness rotting him to the bone, roiling the guilt deep in his gut.
And that’s what it’s always like with Vash the Stampede. His relentless optimism, his compassion, his ability to see straight through all of Wolfwood’s shoddily constructed walls. There’s a part of Wolfwood that resents how perceptive Vash is—always noticing cracks in the facade before Wolfwood can wipe them away. It’d be easier if he could keep stuffing it all down under layers of gunpowder and cigarette ash. But there’s another quiet, shameful part of him that’s grateful someone can still see his humanity.
Wolfwood adjusts his shades. “Music got a lil too loud. Don’t worry about it.”
Vash hums in reply, for once seeming like he wouldn’t pry. “Really nice night, huh?” he muses.
“Sure is.”
“You like the whiskey I picked out for you?”
“Sure do.”
“And what about the—”
“This an interrogation, blondie?”
“Sorry! Sorry, I—” Vash cuts himself off, eyes wide, raising to his toes to peek through the bar window at the stage inside. Confused, Wolfwood leans to get a glimpse himself. “How do they know this song? I thought it was lost forever with the fall, I didn’t think I’d ever—this was Rem’s favorite song—I didn’t think I’d ever hear it again!” His feet and hips start swaying to the twangy guitar, his red jacket floating around him. The soulful buzzing bassline tickles Wolfwood’s chest.
“There’s a girl in town—dance with me, Wolfwood!—she’s just fine,” Vash sings along, wrapping his prosthetic arm around Wolfwood’s waist. He lets Wolfwood bite the cigarette before grabbing his hand and lurching them enthusiastically.
Wolfwood sputters at the manhandling, squirming under Vash’s metal grip around his core. “Jeez, blondie, I’ll fuckin’ dance with you!” he yelps. “You don’t gotta fling me into next week.”
Vash giggles out a small oops and rights them both before swaying a gentler rhythm. Wolfwood, unsure where to place his free hand, fumbles embarrassingly until he feels the chill of lost tech firmly placing his aimless hand on Vash’s shoulder. His cheeks burn hot and he hopes their distance from the light of the bar is enough to conceal it. Judging by the smug glint in Vash’s eye, it’s not. Keen bastard.
“Not much of a dancer, hm?” Vash goads.
“Hey, fuck off—”
“No, it’s okay!” Vash giggles again. Wolfwood squirms. Maybe the humiliation isn’t so bad if it means he gets to hear that little laugh, loosened by the booze. “Just relax, I’ve got you,” Vash murmurs, leading them into slow steps.
Vash hums the lyrics unintelligibly as they rock together, carefree as ever. His soft smile quirks into a pout for a moment. “I wanna—lemme just—” he grumbles, reaching to remove Wolfwood’s sunglasses. And Wolfwood just... lets him.
Vash hooks the glasses into Wolfwood’s shirt, pats his chest, and says, “There. I like seeing your eyes,” all soft and tender, pink cheeks and wispy eyelashes. The light from the bar reflects off of the Plant patterns in his eyes as he moves, his eyes actually twinkling.
Wolfwood is so fucked.
He clears his throat, swallows the words he wishes he could say if things were different. If he were different. “You do this a lot, then?” he asks instead.
“Not anymore. Never really in one place long enough to get a chance,” Vash chuckles. It’s hollow. “I’m glad you’re here, though.”
Wolfwood is so, so fucked.
He grunts in reply, turning his head to watch the crowd milling around the busy porch. Something churns in his gut and he swears he’ll be found dead before he puts a name to it.
Vash rests his chin on Wolfwood’s shoulder and sighs, breath tickling the hair on Wolfwood’s neck, raising goosebumps in its wake.
No, no they can’t do this, this is too close, too personal, too vulnerable, this is how they both end up dead, or worse, and Wolfwood’s good at his job and this isn’t his job, he has to pull away, he has to leave, he has to let go, just go—
“Mmm, while the world turns around, he holds me down for sure,” Vash sings against Wolfwood’s ear. His grip tightens and he tosses his upper half back as the chorus bubbles out of him, riant and giggling.
Wolfwood is helpless against the whirlwind—the typhoon, as it were—and lets out a shocked laugh. The ghost of Vash’s breath lingering on his neck, the warmth of Vash’s fingers intertwined with his, the strong, secure grasp around his middle—he’s completely powerless, disarmed in the face of Vash’s joy.
And that’s what it’s always like with Vash the Stampede, isn’t it?
Wolfwood lets the smile break out, lets the laugh ripple out of him, and vows he’ll blame this all on the alcohol in the morning—nevermind that the alcohol isn’t what he’s drunk on.