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“This is absolute bullshit.” Wolfwood says for what seems like the hundredth time.
Despite it, Vash can’t help but agree with him. They’d been walking for hours now, after they’d had to leave Angelina behind because she’d broken down. Wolfwood had been cursing wildly, like kicking at the sand and ripping at his hair would will Angelina back into motion. Unfortunately for the both of them, it didn’t.
So, they’d ended up walking into the nearest town, motorcycleless and a few pounds lighter from having to leave some of their rations behind. So much for splurging on their last supply run.
“Bullshit!” Wolfwood shouts again as they make their way into the settlement. He lugs the Punisher behind him while carrying a large black duffle under his other arm. Bristling like an angry cat, and grinding the unlit cigarette between his teeth into dust.
Vash figures he should feel a bit more empathetic towards Wolfwood, after all, they’re in the same situation. But he can’t help but groan in annoyance at all the noise he seems to be making. (Which is rich coming from him, he knows.)
But as he drags his feet through the sand and carries his own unfairly heavy bags, he can’t help it. He’s beyond tired, and even the sound of the sands shifting is starting to grate at his nerves. It leaves him with a dull headache, and a vague feeling of wrongness all over.
He shifts one of the straps that’s digging into his shoulder and lifts his head. The town isn’t much to look at. He can spot the bar quite easily, and there’s a small grocery store, but besides that there’s only about a couple dozen other buildings, and most of them look residential.
Regardless, Vash feels like he could cry tears of joy. They get to sleep in a bed, a real one, not just a sandy bedroll tossed over a rock. Fresh food too, instead of the dry, prepacked junk that was best for travelling. He’ll even devote his life to the Lord if this place has a bakery, he swears.
He thinks Wolfwood says something, but he can’t find it in himself to care.
With renewed energy he prances forward, but startles with a yelp when he’s pulled back by the collar of his jacket. He stumbles, nearly dropping his bags in the process, and shoots a glare over his shoulder.
“Watch it, would you—“
“Shut up a second!” Wolfwood’s voice has changed, and all the venom he’d been aiming at Angelina and the general unfairness of the universe drops out of it. Vash follows his gaze back to the bar, where he can see what Wolfwood is locked in on.
There’s a myriad of wanted posters pinned to the board out front, most of them being his own. Truly, there didn’t have to be that many posters. It was a bit overkill..
But Vash can already feel his body tensing up and a pit forming in the base of his stomach. How unlucky could they possibly be? His head feels like it’s being swarmed, and he almost doesn’t realize that Wolfwood is shaking him. There’s men clambering out of the bar now, loud and boisterous as they laugh and shove at each other.
And, of course, one of them looks up. Right at Vash.
Whatever joke the man had been laughing at dies out, and his face does something delighted and ugly all at once. His mouth splits into a nasty grin, and Vash can feel himself taking a step back without meaning to.
The man smacks his friend beside him hard on the chest without looking away from Vash, and it’s all it takes for the rest of the group to start eyeing him too. “The Humanoid Typhoon!” One of them shouts almost gleefully, and it instantly has all of them scrambling for their guns.
“God fuckin’ dammit!” Wolfwood is cursing again, grabbing Vash roughly by the arm, and dragging him towards a cluster of buildings. “Drop yer shit!” He says, fighting to pull Vash’s bags away from him as they run.
He’d already left his own duffle in the sand, probably deciding it wasn’t worth having one less hand while they’re actively getting shot at. But Vash still clings to his luggage out of pure stubborn reflex, not wanting to let it go. They’d already had to leave so much of their stuff back with Angelina, and even if they planned to go back out and fix her up later, there was no guarantee their stuff wouldn’t be ransacked by the time they got there.
Wolfwood is still fighting against him, the both of them tugging wildly at the bags. But Vash finally lets them go when a shot cracks out somewhere behind them and buries itself in the sand right by his foot. His hands open on their own accord before he can make up his mind.
He doesn’t get a chance to mourn before more shots are fired and Wolfwood is pushing him between the cover of two buildings. He stumbles along with it, almost feeling dizzy as the world seems to tilt. He feels a bit like he’s underwater, and it takes Wolfwood shouting “move!” for him to get going again.
They manage to cut through a gap beside the grocery store, and he tries not to focus too hard on the shouting and gunshots coming from behind him. There aren’t too many men, and quite frankly, they seem far too drunk to get in many good shots. But the town’s small, and there aren’t a lot of places for them to hide. It makes Vash’s skin crawl to think they might just have to defend themselves.
Besides that, he feels extremely sluggish, and not just because of the heat. He can’t even fully make out what the men are shouting, it just sounds like noise stacked on noise. He’s been feeling off all day, and now, with all the adrenaline pumping through his system along with the gunfire, he feels like he could cry.
Just ahead of them, a bullet chews into a fence pole next to one of the buildings. It startles Vash enough that he flinches hard enough to lose his footing, his boot catching the raised edge of a rock, and he pitches forward, just barely able to keep himself up by catching himself on a barrel.
He’s up again a second later, but now his body won’t stop shaking.
He wishes that things had just turned out fine for once, and he finds himself helplessly thinking again about a clean bed. From the looks of it, he doesn’t even have a bedroll anymore. They’d have to buy everything all over again, and money couldn’t even replace any of his personal items.
He sees Wolfwood manages to get a few strides ahead of him, and Vash has to push his legs harder to close the gap. When he does, he notices there’s a low fence ahead, but an alleyway to the side of it. Without needing to think too much about it, the two of them b-line for the alleyway.
He stumbles slightly, and Wolfwood’s hand closes around his arm without warning, hauling him forward and half dragging him the next several steps until his feet manage to catch up with the rest of him.
As they cut through the alleyway, and out behind the back of a house with boarded up windows, Vash gasps for breath. His legs are trembling, and his lungs are burning, but not from the actual running. There’s a tight feeling settled behind his ribs, and the headache from before has only gotten worse. It causes a solid pressure behind his eyes that pulses with the beat of his heart. All of it makes it feel like he’s been chewed up and spit out, and it only keeps worsening.
He’s too caught up in his own thoughts to mind his footing, and he’s tripping again for the fourth time. This time it’s a genuine obstacle. A coiled up rope is covered up partially in sand and left out behind the house to bleach in the sun, something he overlooked and he’s paying for now.
His ankle twists awkwardly, and he’s being thrown to the ground with a wheeze. It feels like the air's been punched out of him, and he manages to catch himself with his hands right before he faceplants.
Wolfwood rounds on him before he’s even fully upright.
“Get up,” Wolfwood snarls, “get yer feet under you, what is the problem with you today—“
“I don’t know,” Vash says, and it comes out smaller than he intends, almost akin to a whine.
Something flickers across Wolfwood’s face briefly before it becomes unreadable. He looks around quickly, seeming like he’s trying to determine how far out the hunters are. Then, he helps Vash up with a hand under his arm and pushes him bodily towards the door behind the house, shouldering it the rest of the way open and shoving Vash in before him.
He closes it quickly behind them, and wedges the punisher against it when he finds that the lock is too rusted to latch.
Vash’s legs feel like jelly the second they’re not needed to run anymore. He goes to the nearest wall and slides down it, collapsing into a tired heap. He sits there with his heart pounding and his chest heaving, trying his hardest to get his bearings again. It’s difficult, however, and he quickly finds himself feeling overwhelmed.
The house is small, and mostly empty, apart from a few chairs that are left stacked in the corner. Through the boarded windows there’s thin streaks of daylight slipping through, and dust particles hang in the air, kicked up by their impromptu entrance.
Wolfwood doesn’t sit, instead, he paces towards one of the windows, easing a board to the side so he can keep an eye on the street. He stands there, breathing harshly, with one of his hands braced up against the wall.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Lost the bags, lost the food, unless they magically walk their way back to us.” He curses and drags a hand roughly down his face, still chasing the last of his adrenaline. “Should’ve camped out in the desert, could’ve saved ourselves this whole mess.”
Vash doesn’t answer, he hardly even hears him. Instead, he stares at the floor between his own boots. He notices distantly that his shoulders have started to shudder, and he pulls at his fingers anxiously. Without the immediate danger of getting shot, he feels himself start to break apart, and he wishes he could hole himself away.
Outside, the shouting keeps on going, but it seems like it’s more distant now.
Wolfwood glances back at him, “you hear me?” His tone still sharp with irritation.
Vash goes to open his mouth to respond, but quickly finds he just can’t do it. Nothing comes out that resembles actual words, just a short exhale of air that makes him drop his head down onto his knees.
“Spikey.” Wolfwood turns away from the window properly now, his brows furrowing.
The headache behind his eyes has turned into something enormous. An unbearable pressure that makes it hard to separate his thoughts from the ringing in his ears. His hands have moved to grip the leather of his pants, his fingers twisting at his belts.
Something in Wolfwood’s demeanor shifts, and his frustration gives way to confusion. “What’s going on with you?”
Vash shakes his head.
Wolfwood huffs, “did you get hit?” He crosses the room in a few short strides and crouches down, his hands already moving over Vash’s arms and shoulders to check for wounds.
Vash tenses up and shakes his head again.
“Then what.” Wolfwood keeps his hands planted on Vash’s shoulders, his thumbs pressing in lightly. It’s grounding, but it’s also a bit overwhelming, and Vash can’t decide if he wants Wolfwood to keep touching him or to tell him to stop. He presses his thumbs into his shoulders a bit more, dipping his head down to try to get Vash to look at him. “C’mon, look at me.” He says.
Vash tries, he really does, but when he finally lifts his head he can’t get himself to look Wolfwood in the eyes. His gaze slips off to the side, and he looks off behind Wolfwood instead of meeting him in the middle.
His mouth opens to say something. Maybe some kind of answer or apology, but nothing survives the trip out. He tries again and gets the same result, throat working uselessly, until he stops trying altogether and lets his hands drop back into his lap. A sound crawls out of him instead, a thin crackly sob that shakes his body with the force of it.
“Dammit, Tongari.” Wolfwood sighs, searching Vash’s face for a moment before his grip loosens and he rubs soothing circles into the fabric of Vash’s jacket. “Ok, I’ve got you.”
Wolfwood doesn’t ask him to explain again. He's stripped of all the bite and frustration from before, but it’s clear he’s still stressed. They’re not out of the water yet, and they can’t just stay here waiting to be found. But Vash can’t just pull himself together either, and the distant shouts that carry through the walls only makes it worse.
He whines, and fingers fly to his hair before he can stop them, burying themselves in the blond and black mess at his temples and tugging hard enough to sting as another sob breaks past his lips and his body folds in on itself. His head is back between his knees and he starts to rock himself.
It feels like the dust in the air is scratching at his throat, the ringing in his ears is swelling into an uproar, and even like the fabric of his jacket is unbearable against his skin. He pulls again, harder this time as he tries to find an escape from the sensory overload.
“Stop that,” Wolfwood catches one of his wrists before Vash can yank at his hair again. He waits for a bit, until Vash stops fighting against him, and hauls him closer. He wraps his arms around Vash and brings a hand up to cradle the back of his head gently. His fingers scratch at the baby hairs on Vash’s neck absentmindedly as he begins to rock the other. “If you’ve gotta squeeze somethin’, squeeze me.”
Vash’s breath comes hot and uneven against Wolfwood’s neck, catching on quiet hiccups as he all but folds into him. The sobs that leave him are thin and high, and his fingers twist tightly into the fabric of Wolfwood’s jacket, wrinkling it beneath his desperate grip.
Wolfwood only hushes him softly in return. His hand still stationed at the hair at the nape of Vash’s neck, combing careful fingers through the tangled strands. “You’re alright,” he murmurs, then presses a lingering kiss against his temple.
Vash hates this. He hates all of it.
He hates how it always seems to come out of nowhere, and how he can never seem to control it. It’s like his body is betraying him every time. So many small little things like the shouting, the running, the heat, the gunfire, all things that leave him coming apart at the seams.
Embarrassment burns beneath his skin almost as fiercely as the panic does. He tries to pull himself together, swallowing hard as he forces one shaking breath after another, but all it earns him is another hiccupy sob.
“You’re doin’ fine. Just breathe.” Wolfwood murmurs into his hair.
He tries, sucks in air like he’s drowning, and it rattles out of him, stuttering against Wolfwood’s collarbone. His fingers are still twisted into the fabric of Wolfwood’s blazer, and he can’t seem to will himself to let go. Even when he notices how tightly he’s holding on.
“There you go,” Wolfwood says, low and even. Vash imagines it’s the kind of voice he probably uses on the kids at the orphanage when they’ve skinned a knee or had a bad nightmare. It almost sounds foreign when coming out of him in this context. All with it being pointed at Vash instead of some kid a million times younger than him.
It doesn’t make the panic and the feeling of being completely overwhelmed ease all at once. That would’ve been impossible. It ebbs in these horrible little waves that recede enough for him to get a breath in but never long enough for him to pull himself together. Each time it recedes he thinks maybe that’s the worst of it, and each time it comes back he feels a fresh spike of humiliation for having believed that.
Outside, the shouting has quieted somewhat, though he can still hear the occasional holler drifting through the boarded windows. However, it’s tinged with frustration now instead of excitement.
Vash doesn’t know how long they stay like this, holed up here in this little room. But Wolfwood doesn’t rush him, nor does he get up to check the window again. He doesn’t do anything except hold him and murmur soft nonsense into his hair.
Eventually, Vash’s sobs begin to even out, and the tremors that rattle his frame start to become imperceptible. His fingers loosen fractionally on Wolfwood’s jacket too, though he still doesn’t let go entirely.
“There he is,” Wolfwood says quietly when Vash finally manages a full shuddering breath without breaking out into another sob. He eases back just enough get a look at Vash, “there’s my Angel.” He says, so gently that it makes Vash’s face burn along with it.
He brings a hand up to wipe at the stray tears rolling over his cheeks, and keeps his thumb there to gently brush it over his cheekbone. His expression is soft, and he’s backlit by one of the streaks of light coming in through the windows. If anything, Vash thinks he’s the angel.
“Let’s get you into a better position, yeah? Can’t imagine this is doin’ yer ankle any favors.” Wolfwood says, brushing a stray hair out of Vash’s face.
Vash blinks at him, uncomprehending for a second before he remembers his ankle. He’d twisted it running, hadn’t he? He hadn’t even noticed the pain until now with everything else going on. Now, he can feel the dull ache that throbs along with his pulse.
“’M fine,” he mutters, voice thick and tacky.
“Sure you are.” And Wolfwood doesn’t sound convinced in the slightest, but he doesn’t push it immediately either. Vash figures he knows he’ll have to wait for him to calm down a bit more if he wants to help with his ankle.
So, Wolfwood shifts, moving to sit properly beside Vash rather than crouched in front of him. The change in position brings their shoulders flush together, and Vash finds himself leaning into the contact without really meaning to.
They sit there in silence for a while, and Vash focuses on breathing, counting the seconds between each breath. The pounding in his head has gotten more manageable too, becoming a lot easier to drift with.
“You wanna talk about it?” Wolfwood asks eventually.
Instead of answering, Vash picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. He avoids the question by focusing entirely on it as if it’s the most important task in the world.
Eventually, though, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.” He murmurs, and his hands twitch uselessly in his lap.
Wolfwood hums low in his throat. Vash can imagine he’s feeling pretty tired as well.
“Reckon a hundred-mile walk then nearly gettin’ shot would push just about anybody over the edge,” Wolfwood says, not unkindly. “Don’t go beatin’ yourself up over it.”
Vash huffs something that might have been a laugh, though it comes out too weak to really qualify.
Wolfwood perks up at the sound, and leans forward to get a look at him again. “How’s the ankle?” He asks after a beat of silence, glancing down at where Vash has drawn his leg up slightly.
“Wolfwood, it’s fine—“
“Let me see.”
Vash puffs out a breath, but doesn’t stop him when he’s already shifting and reaching for Vash’s boot before he can protest further. Frankly, he’s too drained to put up much of a fight.
Wolfwood’s fingers are careful as they probe at his ankle, testing for any swelling in the joint. Vash hisses when he presses at a particular spot, and Wolfwood eases off immediately. “You probably sprained it,” he says, “needle-noggined idiot.”
Wolfwood settles back against the wall, and his arm brushes Vash’s again. “I’ve met unlucky bastards in my life, but you take the cake.” He mutters, glancing off to the side at the sound of another distant shout.
They have to get going soon, or else they’ll be found.
Vash is surprised Wolfwood isn’t putting up more of a fight by ushering him out of the small house with an angry vengeance. At least, that’s what he usually does when Vash is wasting time in important moments such as these. They only ever stopped to catch their breath once they were well clear of any bounty hunters, not while they were still trapped in the middle of it.
When he looks up, he notices the light through the boarded window has shifted and gone thinner and more orange. He realizes distantly that a good chunk of the afternoon must have slipped by without him noticing.
Wolfwood pushes himself up and away from the wall with a grunt, joints popping audibly. Then he offers a hand down. “Let’s see if we can get you upright.” He says.
Vash eyes the hand for a moment, then looks back down at his ankle. He feels a bit like he’s condemned them, there’s no way they’re getting out of town without some sort of altercation now. If he hadn’t fallen, maybe they’d already be out of town limits. He inwardly curses himself for the slip up from before, wishing he hadn’t twisted his ankle.
Despite it, he reaches out and grabs hold of Wolfwood’s hand.
He pulls Vash up carefully, and Vash takes care not to put too much weight on his ankle immediately. It’s far from the worst injury he’s ever sustained, but he still feels residual tremors as he comes down from everything. Exhaustion hangs from his limbs like lead.
It’ll be chaotic in a moment, when they go back out of the house and have to face the bounty hunters again.
But as Wolfwood pulls him close and wraps an arm around him, somehow he feels like he doesn’t mind it.