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They’re slow to wake today. The curtains are fluttering in a warm breeze drawn in from the open window, and through them, the late morning light filters in, casting sunrays into the little room. He can count each speck of dust they illuminate, thick sheets drifting through the air, glittering in the sunlight. Birds are chirping outside and the soft chatter of passersby fades through into the morning calm, vivid conversations about brunch, about plans, about children and work light on the tongues of the townspeople. He can hear kids playing around somewhere outside the window, can faintly watch their silhouettes through the billowing sheer curtains, and he thinks that he should really get up now and join them, but Wolfwood smells like breakfast and each puff of smoke he blows out curls like cinnamon and nutmeg under his nose, lulling him deeper into the purchase of the queen mattress.
He’s got his back to him from where Vash is laying, light framing the broad, dark slouch of his shoulders, his elbows laxed on his thighs, and though his backside is cast in shadow he can map all of Wolfwood’s thick muscles flexing under the flesh. If he were to inch forward and sink his teeth into his skin, he was certain he’d find and taste the sweet, viscous lure of molasses on his tongue. Vash doesn’t do it, but only because Wolfwood is smoking- which is a funny thing in itself to him. He usually takes this particular vice of his outside when they share a room, but today it seemed even Wolfwood had given into the laziness the morning had bestowed on them, and settled to smoking half dressed on the edge of the bed. Normally Vash might complain, but these days he isn’t so diametrically opposed to the smell, especially not when it feels so pleasant, a cozy reminder of Wolfwood’s presence.
The rumbling from his stomach is what stirs him from his trance and a little whimper draws up from his throat from the twinge of pain it brought with it. Wolfwood disturbs from the noise- as if on instinct- and the peacefully still pose he had formerly adapted slowly shifted with the unhurried movement of his body. He dragged his thick fingers to the cigarette saddled between his lips and drew out the smoke from his lungs and Vash watched, from his place curled in the linen, as his chest bloomed with a deep breath of fresher air. His fingers held the stick out to the side, tapped a few ashes into the ashtray, then his nose peaked out from behind his shoulders as he turned to ask in his honey-glazed, baritone drawl,
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
Vash preens and his chest opens with a warm intake of air, cheeks flushing pink. He’s a little too lazy to move, but finds enough strength to inchworm over to Wolfwood’s side. The priest sighs as the gunman’s head lays by his thigh, but he switches the cigarette to his other hand to bury his fingers through Vash’s blonde mop. A purr passes his lips as Wolfwood tangles his calluses between the thin strands of his hair and he leans up into the touch.
“Hungry,” He mumbles with a soft sigh. Wolfwood drags his fingers from his hair down to his forehead and runs a thumb across his brow, offering a gentle hum as a response, reverberating deep from his throat. Vash soaks it up with a smile.
“Well whaddya’ want me to do about that?” The cigarette is in his lips again and smoke is back to filling Wolfwood’s lungs. Vash whines again and his lips pull into a pout, and while Wolfwood thinks he’s doing a good job at ignoring him, one more strong whine is about all it takes for him to sigh with another release of his lungs, “You’ve gotta’ get up then, angel. S’not like we have room service.”
Vash, seemingly displeased with the response, flips over and buries his head face-first into Wolfwood’s thigh with a grumble, “Can’t you go and get something for me? I don’t wanna get up.”
There’s a disapproving click of the tongue from Wolfwood, who instead of letting Vash laze on his leg, brings a hand to push him off. Vash groans and tries to chase back with a little growl, but Wolfwood has taken to standing now, the loss of his weight sending a little creak through the mattress and leaving a Wolfwood shaped indent on the surface. Defeated, Vash flops face-down into the messy sheets, grumbling all the while, “Wolfwoooood. . .”
“Not a chance, Needle-noggin- I’ve been generous enough as is lettin’ you sleep in like this.”
The floorboards creak as Wolfwood makes away from the bed, and Vash grumbles, raising his head with a frown, “Aw c’mon, you were bein’ so nice to me a moment ago!” The priest had taken to standing by the window in-between the curtains, still shirtless, still smoking away. Vash might’ve taken a moment to ogle at the thickness of his arms or the tone of muscle rippling in his back if he hadn’t grown so suddenly irritated, “And hey! It’s not like you’ve been doing anything, either! You’re not even dressed!”
Though Wolfwood’s back is to him, he can tell the man is rolling his eyes as he drags out another puff, “S’not like I can do anything, y’know, since the second I leave ya’ unattended ya’ somehow find yerself in some kind of trouble,” Playfully sharp, he turned his gaze back to the still pouting Vash, “And we didn’t stay an extra day in town to get mixed up into some mess you dragged us into,” He paused then and placed the cigarette back between his lips, “Or for ya’ to sit around and sleep all day, for that matter.”
“Heeyy, that’s not fair! It’s your fault I overslept anyways!” His body aches for a stretch as he slowly pulls himself up from his misery on the mattress, and as he arches his back up, reaching his arms over his head, Wolfwood turns to face him, glancing over the displeasure plastered on Vash’s expression, “You could’ve gotten me up whenever, but instead you chose to sit and smoke! You can’t blame me for that. . .”
A disregarding hum comes from Wolfwood, who has sat himself on the lip of the window. Vash can see he hasn’t so much as paid enough mind to button up his trousers, exposing the thick line of hair pulling down to his pelvis and the muscled softness of his belly. His frown deepens when those things disappear in the next moment as Wolfwood brings his fingers to clasp his pants shut, as if knowing Vash’s stare had idled there, “I never said I didn’t want ya’ to relax,” and that loosens the downwards curve of his lips a little, “Just that I don’t want ya’ on yer ass all day. I’ve got things to do, Spikey, and those don’t include bein’ yer errand boy.”
Resignation crosses his face and he grumbles once more, lowering his arms back to his side and falling back on his haunches, “Fine, fine! I’ll get up,” He mumbles. Gingerly, he rubs his palm over the stub of his left arm absentmindedly, rummaging his eyes around the room in an attempt to remember where he had put his prosthetic the night prior. There’s movement from his side as Wolfwood snorts and soon the man has parted from the window.
“Don’t you worry your spikey little head, Needles, I’ll get it.”
A soft little smile sprawls onto his face at Wolfwood’s reassurance, following the priest’s footsteps to the table in the far corner. He’s usually large and imposing, donned in that black suit of his, frightful and intimidating, but here Wolfwood looks soft and vulnerable. The dark sweep of his hair is peaceful and his expression moves gently, beautifully, molding to Vash’s eyes and words. It’s more than what someone like him deserves- it’s not something he should be allowed the pleasure of having at all- but that makes him all the more grateful for it, in between those thick periods of doubt.
“Thank you,” Vash says feather-like as Wolfwood returns to him, prosthetic in hand. He reaches out for it, but the priest shakes his head.
“C’mere,” Wolfwood says lightly, patting the edge of the bed where he had taken to stand. Vash raises an eyebrow, and a bit of a smirk pokes out as he inches over to Wolfwood, who in turn, rolls his eyes and pats the sheets again.
He settles his legs over the mattress, hanging them off, toes hovering slightly above the ground. Wordlessly, he offers his stub to Wolfwood while his other arm folds and rests lightly on his bare thigh- a piece of him riddled with scars that he’s found he doesn’t so much as think about anymore when exposed to the priest. Another hum rumbles from Wolfwood, who takes the stub of his arm with as much care as he might give a child, and begins to work on trying to piece the prosthetic to Vash’s limb.
Vash watches him carefully, and in reward for his vigilance, catches Wolfwood about to make a grave mistake, “Woah, hey- if you put it on like that I won’t be able to grab anything!” He drags his relaxed arm up near immediately, attempting to serve as a pointer for direction, “It’s like this, and if you just connect it like that. . .”
Wolfwood frowns and makes a disgruntled noise, but allows Vash to guide him without much complaint. With his aid, the satisfying and relief granting click of the prosthetic pops into both of their ears, and with delight, Vash flexes the fingers on the end, taking the opportunity to stretch out his right hand.
“Y’know, we’ve done that enough times I would’ve thought you’d have it down already,” he remarks absentmindedly, a comment taken not so kindly by Wolfwood, who grunts and already begins pacing away to his own belongings.
“Shut yer’ mouth, Spikey. Not my fault it looks a million different shades of confusin’ everytime I see it.”
In typical fashion, Vash ignores most of Wolfwood’s grievances and dolls up his eyes in pursuit of his brazen request, “But if I don’t shut my mouth, would you shut it for me?” He bats the length of his eyelashes at Wolfwood’s back, expression kittenish.
Wolfwood, unfazed and standing near the bulk of Vash’s things, does little else besides fling the gunman’s red coat at his face, “Nice try, sugar, but I’m goin’ to need ya’ to get dressed now since you’re ripe and able.”
Unrelenting, Vash folds his arms over his chest, “Dress me,” He tries to demand, but Wolfwood is already pulling his comfy turtleneck over his head on his way to the door. Vash’s face falls and he tries to scramble off the bed comedically, shouting, “Wh- Hey, wait! Where’re you going’?!”
“Just givin’ you some privacy, is all!” The priest snickers, hand on the handle, “Ya’ can meet me downstairs for breakfast, but if yer not down in fifteen minutes,” He adds threateningly, “I’ll kick yer ass to kingdom come and drag ya’ down myself.”
Vash doesn’t get the time of day to respond before Wolfwood has vanished with a thud from the door. He’s left with himself, his coat crumpled in his lap, and the cheers of the children from outside.
“Jerk,” He grumbles, “Who does he think he is?”
His bare back flops against the crinkled sheets. In all honesty, the idea of Wolfwood having to come back up and drag him down is appealing- it would mean he wouldn’t have to do any work and that Wolfwood would probably end up carrying him down the stairs- like a princess. Or- his mind provokes- swinging him by the scruff like a kitten. Head knocking against the stairs. Nails clawing at the wood to get back into bed. . .
A frown settles on his lips. No, actually, he’d rather not spend the rest of his day nursing an aching skull. . . And Wolfwood had already been nice enough for being Wolfwood. His luck streak was definitely running dry.
“Why’d he even give me this?” He groans, sitting back up to observe the crimson coat wrestled on his lap, “This isn’t the kinda day to wear it. . . Too stuffy!”
But the promise of breakfast is enticing, as anytime with food and Wolfwood always is. On the cusp of a long sigh, Vash heaves himself from the bed and dresses himself in record time. Though he exchanges his tattered cloak for jeans and a t-shirt, he still throws on his clunky boots. With an all too grand smile, he trots through the door with a rumbling in his belly.
The scent of smoke and bacon under his nose tells him that today will be a peaceful day.