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Summary
They’d had plenty of sex, by now. And not all of it had been brought on by the heightened emotions of a near escape. Some of it had even been almost normal—a little tipsy, a little tired, uninventive and giggly. But never like this: in the liminal time between one day and the next, between the comfortable haze of drowsiness and haunted shadows of deep-sleep paralysis, in the abandoned shell of a well-loved home. Vash can only sleep hard when he’s drunk, and Wolfwood can only relax when he’s sixty miles south of nowhere. Neither of them are either of those things right now.