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It's after they've escaped whatever no-name town they stumbled into and the equally forgettable criminals (forgettable solely because they were amateurs. It's hard to forget them when they were trying to kill them and Vash was going to let them) along with it, that Wolfwood realizes something is wrong.
Vash is quiet.
That's not what’s worrying him. He knows Vash is prone to long bouts of silence, likely to be found brooding on top of the truck during breaks from their drive to nowhere, watching the dunes in the distance rather than staying inside with the rest of them and talking over the radio reports. He spends more time staring out the window or sleeping than talking, it seems like. More often than not, the ridiculous situations they end up in only happen because Vash has a habit of wandering off on a self-appointed rescue mission without explaining anything to the group and they have to follow him.
But right now, Vash is quiet and still and that’s not normal.
It’s insane, that’s what it is, how Vash can never seem to keep still. This new stillness is just about as unnerving. Usually, he’s either tapping his feet to some rhythm that no one else can hear or twisting his fingers in his lap or rocking from side to side in his seat, fidgeting in a way that makes something old and practiced in Wolfwood want to snap at him to knock it off and behave.
“Hey, what the hell is wrong with you?” Wolfwood says instead, which might not actually be any better. He amends, “You’re bein’ awful quiet, Needle-head. Double-dollar for your thoughts?”
Vash starts to turn towards him, but his body stiffens and jerks and he only manages to turn his head. His gaze is bleary, drifting to a point somewhere to the left of Wolfwood’s face. Wolfwood spits his cigarette out and straightens from his sprawl.
“Are you okay?” He reaches out and then falters. Curls his hand into a fist, heart rate picking up. “Hey. Answer me.”
Vash’s mouth moves but no noise comes out. When something finally does, it takes a few tries and his voice is oddly wet sounding.
“One double-dollar isn't enough, Wolfwood,” he tells him with a woozy grin. “Remember? My bounty is six billion.”
Two things happen in quick succession.
A horrible, gurgling coughing fit racks Vash’s entire frame so it looks like he's seizing while a decent amount of blood sprays from his mouth and then his eyes roll back in his skull, a dull thud echoing through the truck when he collapses and knocks his head against the window.
"Dammit," Wolfwood spits.
His entire front is covered in Vash’s blood, but he pays no mind to that as he hauls Vash into his side and tries to support his neck. He can’t assess the full extent of whatever is wrong with Vash until they stop, but he can at least try to prevent a concussion.
“Everything okay back there?” Roberto asks, peering into the rear-view mirror.
“He passed out,” Wolfwood calls back, wincing as Meryl slams on the brakes. He holds Vash’s head to his chest a little tighter. “And he’s, like, bleeding a fuck-ton. Internally.”
“Oh. Well, shit,” Roberto says and takes a swig from his flask, which pretty accurately sums up how Wolfwood’s life has been going lately.
Here are the facts:
Vash is unconscious, but breathing. They have him stretched out across the backseat, head pillowed on Wolfwood’s jacket, and the truck’s door propped open so his feet fit.
Wolfwood is covered in blood and has a thundercloud of concern and irritation hovering over his head as he paces outside of the door, stealing glances at Vash every few seconds. He's prickly on a good day, but he's more than ready to bite someone’s head off if they use the wrong tone with him right now. His cross stands vigil next to Vash.
Meryl is a step away from being an anxious wreck, fretting in turns over the state of her truck’s upholstery and how Vash won't wake up, no matter how loudly she calls out to him. She has her hat in her hands, wringing it to death.
Roberto looks between the mess in front of him and the blinking vacancy sign of the deserted rest stop they pulled into.
“Don't go anywhere,” he sighs, because there's no telling with this group. “I’ll…go book us a few rooms.”
When Vash comes to, he is naked in a bathtub.
He doesn't seem especially alarmed that he is naked or that he is in a bathtub or that Wolfwood is kneeling on the floor next to him, fully-clothed and armed with a bar of soap and a washcloth.
Wolfwood stares hard as Vash eases back onto consciousness. There's some small ripples in the water as his fingers twitch, his knees jerk, his toes curl. His eyelids flutter and then shut and then open again, pupils contracting into mere pinpoints in an ocean even though none of the lights are on. They dilate immediately, blown-out, when they land on Wolfwood.
“There was a bullet in your gut,” Wolfwood says in greeting. “Must’ve gotten nicked by one of those assholes earlier. It wasn't a clean shot, so it tore through your insides and then got stuck somewhere by your stomach. That’s why you were coughing up blood, I think. I’m not a fuckin’ doctor.” He puts the toiletries down and rummages in his pocket. He brings out a bullet and holds it in his palm.
“I got it out of you. Cleaned one of your knives with Roberto’s booze and then had to cut from right ‘bout here,”—he reaches into the water and puts his thumb beneath Vash's breastbone, traces his index finger to just above his navel—“to here.”
“Ah.” Vash blinks. He tilts his head at Wolfwood’s hand but doesn't push it away. “Thanks.”
“I ain't done yet,” Wolfwood says sharply. Tries not to dig his nails in. “I went to go stitch you up but the skin was already all nice ‘n smooth by the time I got the needle threaded.” He arches a single brow. “Funny that, huh.”
Vash laughs weakly, sinking down into the bath until only his nose and eyes are exposed. Wolfwood finally takes his hand off of Vash’s bare stomach.
The only sound for a while is the tap leaking, the water level of the tub raising the smallest amount with every drop.
For some reason, Vash doesn't make any noise when he breathes even though his chest rises and falls steadily. Wolfwood spent long enough staring, making sure the steady riseandholdandfallandrise stayed that way, to know that Vash breathes faster than a normal person does. His breaths are a little too short, his heart beats a little too fast.
What does his heart need to work so hard for, Wolfwood wonders. How’s it doin’ in there, when it must be run ragged to the fuckin’ ground by now.
“We,” Wolfwood gestures at the space between him and Vash, flicking water while he does, “will not be doing this again because this is the last time you go runnin’ off on your own like that, you understand me?”
A single hazy-eyed, slow blink is Vash’s wordless reply. Wolfwood nods once and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, moving to grab the soap and cloth again.
Panicked splashing ensues as Vash tries to sit up and then doubles over in pain, metallic fingers scrabbling for a hold only to slip against the wet porcelain. He eventually finds his balance, slumped over with his knees pulled to his chest.
“What are you–I can do this myself,” Vash stammers. “I’ve been hurt worse before! Er, that is, I’m not even in that much pain anymore. Really, you don't have to bother.”
All of that splashing soaked Wolfwood’s shirt and pants, but it's just water. It'll dry.
His gaze drifts from Vash’s wet bangs clinging to his forehead, to the little golden hoop in his left ear, to the slim expanse of his chest. There's maybe a few fingers’ worth of space that’s smooth, but the rest of it. The rest of it is mostly scar tissue and odd bits of metal here and there.
“It’s no bother,” Wolfwood says, biting the soft inside of his cheek, stopping himself from telling Vash that they're past that point now. “Tell me to leave if you want me to go. Otherwise, sit back and shut it.”
Vash opens his mouth, once, and then closes it. Wolfwood dips the washcloth into the tub and starts scrubbing.
He tries to be careful about it at first but when Vash doesn't flinch at the first pass, he goes about his task with a brisk efficiency. There’s a lot of blood and it’s impossible to avoid touching Vash’s scars when he’s covered in them. From the neck down, alternating patches of pink and silver take up the expanse of his chest and abdomen, stretching around to his back and hips.
There’s a criss-crossing metal grid right over where his heart is, and it seems to be fused into his skin in a way that's different from his arm or his legs. Like it's not a prosthetic he can remove or stitches meant to come off, like it's permanent.
Wolfwood doesn’t think about it too hard.
Instead, he sets the rust-colored washcloth down and reaches for the cup he’d left on the ledge. He shuffles toward the head of the tub, knees aching.
“Tilt your head back and keep your eyes shut,” Wolfwood says gruffly, filling the cup with fresh water from the tap.
Vash leans his head back but keeps his eyes open, looking at him upside-down. “You're gonna wash my hair too?”
Wolfwood turns the water off and grabs the soap, works up a lather between his hands. Blinks perspiration from his eyes. “Got a problem with that?”
Vash shakes his head.
“No one’s washed my hair since I was a kid,” he mumbles, sounding quietly awed in a way that makes Wolfwood’s chest ache.
Wolfwood doesn't know what to say to that, so he says nothing at all and gets to work untangling the matted knots in Vash’s hair, trying not to pull too hard.
That's real fuckin’ sad, he thinks to himself, as he starts scrubbing away the sand and other grime. I would've. Would've shelled out the cash for the good shit that smells nice and makes your hair soft, the stuff the girls back home like to use. Fuckin’ honey and milk or some shit.
Wolfwood cups his palm over Vash’s eyes and pours the warm water over his head, watching as Vash melts under his hands and into his touch.
In another life, I would wash your hair every damn day. I would, I would, I would.
The sight of Vash in one of his spare shirts–hanging down to his thighs–and a pair of his linen sleeping pants–cuffed at the ankles–makes Wolfwood want to find the nearest cliff and throw himself off of it.
Vash looks just as dazed as before, the steam and hot water gone straight to his head, and he lets Wolfwood towel him dry without protest. When he starts swaying on his feet, he curls one of his hands around Wolfwood's hip and holds tight.
The couple of inches that Wolfwood has on Vash seem monumental like this, when they're this close and the mark at the corner of Vash’s eye is just at the right height for him to—
Wolfwood tosses the towel aside and uncurls Vash’s hand from his body. It falls back to Vash’s side when he lets go.
“You should go to sleep now,” he says, voice stuck somewhere in his throat. “Rest.”
Wolfwood digs through the closet for the extra blanket and pillow that must be in there. He finds them and turns around to see Vash still standing where he left him, looking confused and slightly damp.
“But where will you sleep? The floor?” Vash tilts his head, the spitting image of a puppy kicked to the curb. “That's not right. You already did so much for me, you should take the bed for the night.”
Wolfwood has been trying so hard to be gentle.
Been trying so damn hard to be soft and kind when he’s not, to care how he wants, in the way he knows how to, but not too much because too much will scare Vash and he. He doesn't want to do that. But Vash isn't getting it, isn't seeing that Wolfwood needs this and now he's trying to make him stop, trying to take this away from him, and something in Wolfwood snaps.
“Get in the damn bed,” Wolfwood roars. “Get your ass under those damn sheets or so help me, Stampede, I won't fuckin’ hesitate to make you.”
He’s being too loud. They might get kicked out, at this rate. The neighbors might come knocking, might complain to the front desk, but he doesn't give a fuck about any of that.
His pulse thunders in his ears as his chest heaves, his back hurts from spending so long bent over the bathtub, he still has dried blood under his nails.
Wolfwood hasn't felt this out of control since– since a long while and that's something he prides himself on. He's always in control, has that ugly thing inside of him on a tight leash and under lock and key, but everything about Vash is threatening to change that. Taking all of the bruised and battered parts of Wolfwood and pressing into the hurt a little more.
He watches as Vash obediently pads over to the bed and lifts the blanket from the mattress, slides underneath it and leaves it pooled around his knees like he doesn't know what to do with it. Vash looks up at him once he's done, baring the smooth curve of his neck when he does.
There’s not even a hint of fear or surprise in his gaze after Wolfwood’s outburst. He just looks—lost. A little expectant. Soft. Vulnerable. What the hell is that look for?
“The hell is that look for,” Wolfwood grunts. “You need me to tuck in you like some brat too?”
“You would do that for me?” Vash asks, so wide-eyed and earnest, and the tension breaks.
Wolfwood unceremoniously drops the bedding to the floor and stalks over. Looms at the edge of the mattress, silent and still.
Apparently, there's not much I wouldn't do, he thinks to himself, honest like a fool.
“Lie down,” Wolfwood finally instructs, despairing as that ugly thing inside of him is immediately soothed when Vash lowers his head to the pillow and curls up on his side, hands loosely clasped into fists. Still looking up at him, lazurite turned liquid. Trusting. It’s too much.
He swallows, chews his tongue while wishing he had a sucker, a smoke, and says in a tone so hoarse he hardly recognizes his own voice, “Good. Now close your eyes.”
Vash listens to him, of course he does, and when his eyelids shut, it's like the light in the room turns down a few notches. It's quiet between the both of them but it feels right, feels safer than whatever was just happening.
Because he’s really doing this, Wolfwood reaches for the hem of the blanket and grips it in both hands. It's soft against his calluses and he wonders, wildly, if Vash likes things that are soft. If his prosthetics can feel fabric or is it just pressure, if his scars still tug the wrong way when he moves, if he's in any pain. If he's still hurting.
Wolfwood hurries and tucks the corner of the blanket under Vash’s chin before he does something stupid like open his mouth and actually ask about any of that. As he pulls away, turning to pick up his sad little pillow and sheet, his knuckles brush against the side of Vash’s face.
“You're not staying?” Vash asks. His eyes are still closed. “I, um. I thought we could share so you don't have to sleep on the floor.” His brow dips. “Unless you don't want to.”
Wolfwood is too tired to drag this out. Too tired to try and explain to Vash that if he knew the kind of man he really is, he would be trying to run him off and get rid of him for good.
He kicks his shoes off and gets into bed. Leaves the lamp on the dresser on. Doesn't say a word when after just a few moments, Vash shifts closer so that their sides are pressed together and then so his head is on Wolfwood's shoulder. Wolfwood's arms end up wrapped around Vash at some point. He doesn't know how.
“I don't like fighting, but I’m good at it,” Vash whispers, like it's a confession. Like he's ashamed of it. Like he's the sinner and Wolfwood is the priest.
Wolfwood stays silent, which Vash seems to take as his cue to continue.
“I’m better at it than most people are and I’m tougher. I can take a lot of damage and still be okay. But other people… if I don't help other people, then they'll get hurt and they won't be okay. And if that happens, that's my fault. It's on me because I could've helped them but I didn't and then they die. I get a little scraped up but they die. That's why I have to help them. And you know what? It’s worth it. I don't like fighting but I’ll do it for now so one day, no one will have to.”
Vash’s smile is watery, tears falling from sealed eyes when he says, “Is it so wrong to want love and peace? Does that make me a bad person?”
No, Wolfwood thinks. Fuck no, it doesn't, but I’m the last person you should be asking.
“You save all those lives and what do you get for it?” Wolfwood mutters spitefully. “You’re the one left broken and bloody afterwards.”
Vash whines at Wolfwood’s scornful tone, wriggling unhappily, and inadvertently rubs his cheek against the sliver of skin exposed by Wolfwood's open collar.
At least, Wolfwood thinks it's accidental. But considering how Vash does it again and stays right where he is, there's no doubt that it’s on purpose. He doesn't know what to do with that information.
Nothing, he tells himself firmly. You do nothing with it.
“Settle down,” he tells Vash sternly, who’s still nuzzling into his chest like he’s trying to climb inside.
Vash makes a sleepy noise, some cross between a yawn and a sniffle that sounds just a little bit pathetic, and nuzzles some more. Without any conscious effort on Wolfwood’s part, his arm tightens around Vash’s waist. He glares at it but it doesn't move, so.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Vash mumbles, finally going still. “Anyway, what you said. I’m not saying you're wrong, it's just. Some things are worth bleeding for, y’know?”
And then, because Vash the Stampede is a fuckin’ idiot with no instinct for survival, he falls asleep on Wolfwood.
The press of his body against his side is unexpectedly heavy, solid. Not quite matching the look of Vash’s lithe build. Maybe it's because half of his body is made of metal, wired cages and steel limbs. Wolfwood doesn't know. It’s not really on his mind right now.
What he's thinking about is, all that's really on his mind, every damn thought kicking around his skull—
Sugar on his breath. Lashes like cornsilk, fair and fine, sweeping the top of apricot-flushed cheeks. A rosebud mouth soft and relaxed, petals unfurled. In the warm lamplight, dew glistening on the plump peak of a cupid's bow.
Angelic.
“Yeah,” Wolfwood rasps, instead of just thinking it in his head, since Vash is asleep and this will have no consequences. “I’m starting to see that.”
And because there are no consequences, Wolfwood grazes his lips over Vash’s forehead in what is either a sorry excuse of a kiss or a poor imitation of one. Maybe he should try again. Get it right this time.
He does.