Chapter Text
When Vash’s eyes open, all he can see is white. He blinks blearily at first, trying to comprehend what he’s even seeing, and the blurry lines slowly form into something coherent. He shoots up, blankets pooling at his hips as he shifts in bed, nearly panting as memories flood his head.
The Sand Steamer, the Plant, Hopeland, Wolfwood—
He catches sight of a picture frame.
This is his childhood room. He’s on ship number 3 again.
He breathes out a long sigh, his racing heart calming. He’s safe, here, he knows that. He’s home for the first time in a long time. His hands smooth over the soft blankets, fingers pressing into plush pillows. He hardly remembers the feeling of such comforts, of touching something so clean and well-made.
He reaches beneath one of the pillows, hand closing around a plush toy, tugging it into his lap. It was right where he last left it all those years ago. Like he had never even left. His finger pads run over its pointed synthetic ears, black fur soft, large green eyes staring up at him. He can’t help but smile down at it.
And then the door hisses opens and Wolfwood is standing there, freezing as their eyes meet.
His hair is tousled, washed and soft looking as it curls around his cheeks, his weathered face looking gentle in the artificial light. He’s wearing an oversized sweater that exposes his collarbones, sweatpants that are slung low on his hips, and his feet are clad only in a dark pair of socks. He has a tray of food in his hands, and Vash watches as his fingers clench around the metal so hard that it shakes under the pressure.
“Hey.” Vash breathes, fingers twisting nervously in his lap, digging into a plush toy body, because Wolfwood won’t stop staring.
“Hey, Spikey.” He croaks, and it’s like the spell has been broken as he abruptly looks away, stiltedly walking forward. The door slides closed behind him as he takes a seat next to Vash’s bed, placing the tray down on the bedside table.
“Eat or I’m not letting you up.” He says simply, but his dark eyes still won’t meet his.
Vash huffs quietly but obeys, placing the tray in his lap. He puts the stuffed black cat against his headboard and obediently begins to lift the fresh sandwich to his mouth. Wolfwood looks at him only when Vash turns away, but he can feel those dark eyes on him, like a searing brand of heat. He doesn’t mind the feeling.
His stomach twinges just slightly as he eats, tight with hunger but so used to going long periods of time without food that filling it is a discomfort. Since Wolfwood has started traveling with them, he’s been eating even less to ensure that everyone else ate first, that they all had a large enough share. He can go the longest without eating, after all. The most detrimental side effect for him is often pain and fatigue, but he won’t die easily from skipped meals. He knows that he’ll live, but they can’t starve, Vash won’t allow it.
But it’s nice to eat, to feel full, something like contentment spreading inside of him. It’s a reward oftentimes—food is—allowing himself to eat is a luxury. A gift to himself when he feels like he deserves it. He doesn’t ponder on how often that is exactly.
“How are you feeling?” Wolfwood asks when his sandwich is halfway finished. Vash had carefully placed it down a few minutes before, chewing on his tongue and fighting waves of nausea. He wants to eat the rest because Wolfwood had asked, but he’s not sure if he can. It makes him feel sick for another reason, something like shame, or a fear of being disappointing.
“I’m okay.” He smiles, a pull to his lips that doesn’t come as easily as he wants it to. His head is pounding, his skin buzzing with energy, like a hiss over his flesh. He hasn’t bonded with a plant in so long that his body feels like it’s been pricked with a needle over its entirety, an ache behind his eyes that makes his bones feel as if they’ve been scraped through with metal.
“Don’t bullshit me.” Wolfwood says roughly, and that dark gaze finally meets his again, sharp and angry and—concerned. Pinched and creased around the corners, and Vash can see the entirety of his face without his glasses in the way. It makes him look even younger, almost gentle.
“I’ll get over it.” He amends with a small laugh, “I’m fine, Wolfwood, I promise.”
Wolfwood tsks, shifting in his seat, feet kicking at the ground in irritation and not looking satisfied at all with Vash’s placating. His arms cross over his chest, and there’s something like grief that flickers over his face, mouth twitching. It blinks away just as quickly, but Vash had caught it.
“What’s wrong?” Vash asks softly, and there’s already something constricting in his chest as he considers the worst. Has something happened to the orphanage? Meryl or Roberto? He doesn't know what he’d do if something bad had happened, if they were hurt because they came after him, or if he failed to save Wolfwood’s precious people—
“Your heart stopped.” Wolfwood croaks and Vash freezes, blinking over at him dumbly.
Wolfwood holds his gaze and his hands are shaking, clenched over his own biceps, “Your heart stopped and I—I didn’t—you were so fucking cold and there was that look in your eyes before you—” Wolfwood releases a harsh breath, teeth gritted together as he hunches in on himself.
“You were dead.” He whispers, voice a broken rasp, and Vash feels frozen to the spot.
His mouth parts, but he’s not sure what he should even say, and his lips quickly press closed again. Wolfwood looks up at him, dark eyes lined with stubborn tears that refuse to fall, and the sight of them makes Vash’s breath hitch. He leans slightly forward, inching closer to the edge of the bed.
“Nicholas.” He says softly and he can hear Wolfwood’s breath catch, throat clicking around a swallow. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs, and his hand tentatively brushes over the back of one of Wolfwood’s clenched hands, finger pads careful over trembling knuckles.
He sees Wolfwood tense, his eyes focused on the point where they’re touching, mouth a tense line. It makes Vash’s chest go painfully tight, and of course Wolfwood wouldn’t want him to touch him, not after he saw what he was. He’s not human, and now everyone knows. Vash jerks away, something closing around his neck, but Wolfwood’s hand darts out and grabs it in a desperate, vice-like grip. Vash startles, a small noise pitched in his throat, but he allows his fingers to curl around Wolfwood’s as best as he can, eyes wide.
“Shut up.” Wolfwood rasps and Vash can’t help but smile, thumb smoothing over tan skin as he obediently quiets.
He finds himself wishing that he didn’t have his glove on, wishes that he was capable of feeling warm skin against his own unimpeded. Wolfwood cradles his hand between his palms, and the bare parts of Vash’s flesh can feel the rough patches of calluses, hands that have known what it means to live. It scrapes against the silk of Vash’s own, makes him twitch with the need to feel more.
He can feel the delicate tremble of Wolfwood’s long fingers, pressing over the smooth material of his glove, digging into the give of his flesh and over bone, as if he were affirming the warmth of him, the fact that he was even alive at all. Guilt twists in Vash’s gut, his face pinching as he watches Wolfwood swallow, head ducked as he holds Vash’s hand between them, as if he can’t look at him, can’t bear to touch him anywhere else.
“I’m sorry.”
Wolfwood jerks, dark eyes flickering up to him, freshly-washed hair curled around his face. Vash wants to reach out and touch the clean strands, wants to brush his finger over his jaw, the point of his cheekbone. It’s been so long since he’s ached to touch someone quite like this, nearly overcome with the selfish need to hold him against himself. Like something precious, because he is, no matter what the man would claim otherwise.
“Fuck, Spikey.” Wolfwood whispers, and when he breathes out it shakes. It makes that growing guilt only writhe, ripping through him for doing this. Upsetting Wolfwood, making him worry, forcing him to have to help him. “You already said that.”
“I know.” He whispers, “But I’m sorry, Nick. You already have enough to worry about.”
Wolfwood scoffs, narrow eyes flashing as he looks up at him. “You think I give a shit about that? I thought I had just let you go get yourself fucking killed because you asked me all pretty. You’re well fucking past not worrying me.”
Vash’s mouth feels dry, tongue sticky against the roof of his mouth, “I didn’t have any other choice.”
“But there’s always another choice when it’s someone else’s life, isn’t there?”
“It’s not—”
“Could you have died?” Wolfwood interrupts him, leaning closer, “Whatever—whatever it is that you did—could you have died?”
Vash’s fingers twitch in Wolfwood’s hold and it tightens, encased between rough, warm palms.
“Wolfwood.” Vash murmurs, and something in the other man’s face flickers, “I’m not human.” And his voice barely allows him to say it, to admit to it out loud, his throat clamping down viciously.
I’m not human, you shouldn’t care.
Wolfwood stares at him for a moment, mouth parting around a scoff as he shakes his head, accepting Vash’s non-answer for what it is because he knows just from that, doesn’t need to press for a confirmation when he already has it. “Yeah, yeah I know, Needles. I saw them.”
Wolfwood’s eyes flicker over his face, as if he were attempting to map them out across his skin now.
The thought of Wolfwood seeing those markings, that part of himself that he keeps so carefully hidden, makes his gut roil. He feels sick, something like shame, like disgust at himself.
Monster.
“Stop it.”
Vash startles, head jerking up as Wolfwood’s hands tighten over his. Vash nealry wants to pull away, nearly doesn't want to allow Wolfwood to hold him when he so very much does not deserve it. But even more than that, he wants. He aches for those hands to stay on him, to never stray from his skin, a constant point of contact that smoothes over the ridges of Vash’s battered heart.
“What?”
“Stop fucking thinking so loud. This doesn’t change much, you know that?”
Vash’s mouth opens, parting around a short breath. “I—how could it not? I—I’m not a person—”
He’s a monster. A useless plant, unable to do anything but take and drain on resources. A mockery of something pretending to be human—
A hand smacks against the back of his head and then he’s being jerked forward, his head meeting Wolfwood’s in a clumsy collision. His breath hitches, eyes going wide, vision obscured by Wolfwood’s dark bangs, pressed together with their hands still clasped between them. Fingers scratch at the bristles at the back of his head, gentle over his scalp.
“Shut the fuck up.” He grumbles, a quiet hiss as a tan thumb smooths carefully over his skin. He tilts just slightly forward, their noses brushing, and Vash feels like he can barely breath. He can only smell him this close, like cigarette smoke and something like wood ash, and there’s comfort in it. Familiarity, something that means safety.
“I’d never seen anything like that before. I was fucking terrified when you turned around and looked like that—” Wolfwood says quitely, breath hitching, and Vash’s braces for the worst. He imagines all the things he could say, how inhuman he had looked, how disgusting, how horrifying—
“Like an Angel.” He breathes and Vash’s chest feels like it’s concave, mouth parting as something burns in his eyes. He twitches, fingers spasming in Wolfwood’s hold before they tighten, a firm pressure that makes him shiver.
“What—”
“I know monsters, Vash.” He whispers, and Vash immediately quiets. “I know what it looks like to not even be a fucking person anymore. What—what it feels like.” He pulls away just slightly, and when his head lifts their noses brush together, his breath warm on Vash’s cheek as he desperately meets his eyes.
Wolfwood’s gaze flickers over his expression, soft and open, “And that’s not who you are.”
Vash swallows and a tear curls a hot streak down his cheek, Wolfwood’s fingers still petting through his hair.
“That’s not you.” He says again, and Vash can nearly taste the words, wisps of his breath over his skin, and he aches—
Baby blues meet glittering coal, and Wolfwood leans in just slightly, hesitant and slow and Vash is so near to pleading him to just do whatever he wants with him—
And then their lips are finally meeting, a warm press that makes Vash feel lightheaded. He gasps immediately, straining forward with an eager whine that he can’t stop, pitched in his throat. He breathes out and Wolfwood cups his jaw, tilting his head, pulling him closer as his tongue slips through the part of his mouth. Vash moans, his prosthetic hand clenching into the sheets, resisting the urge to reach out and hold on to him.
“Ah—Nick—”
Vash greedily meets the slick slide of his tongue, tasting of whiskey and smoke, like a warm day and heat. His gut tightens, like syrup pooling inside of him, thick and coursing through him like something molten. Their knees knock together as they invade each other’s space, a desperate push and pull that has their teeth clacking. Vash doesn’t register the sting, only sighs softly around the lave of Wolfwood’s tongue in his mouth. His hand is like a brand on his skin, thumb on the point of his jaw, holding him still as he kisses him like he was starving. And Vash wants it, wants to be used and held, wants Wolfwood to feel good.
More tears squeeze from his eyes, hot trails over his skin, catching on Wolfwood’s thumb. Wolfwood makes a soft, comforting noise, a soothing vibration against his lips.
“You’re alright, Spikey.”
He can feel the puff of Wolfwood’s breath against his skin, the wet press of his tongue as they meet again and again, something rushed turning languid. A core of heat as Vash sighs between breaths, head tilting with every gentle urging of a rough, tan hand. A thumb on his chin presses his mouth open wider, a moan reverberating in his throat as he allows it, drool curling down over his jaw.
“Ah—Nick. Nick, please—”
“Shh.” Wolfwood coos, “Mm, you’re so precious.”
Vash shakes at the words, hips straining as Wolfwood moves closer, nearly climbing out of his chair and onto the bed.
Teeth sink into his bottom lip when he pulls away and Vash sighs, a soft whimper that Wolfwood muffles with one last kiss. They just breathe for a few moments, so close that Vash can count the fan of Wolfwood’s lashes, can see the gloss of spit on his full lips. Wolfwood’s eyes brighten just slightly as they flicker over his face, something reflected like shining points in his irises.
Vash looks down and his markings are spreading across his fingers, still held in Wolfwood’s hand. He jumps, a stuttered apology already building in his chest as he tries to will them to retreat—
“Hey, hey, calm down.” Wolfwood rasps, eyes still steadily on him, open and bright and—awed, if Vash were to allow himself to think so. They trail over his face, glancing down at the markings on his hand.
“Can I see them again?” He asks quietly, and Vash blinks at him, brain stuttering to an abrupt halt.
“What?”
Wolfwood snorts, their heads brushing again for just a moment, fingernails scratching at the shorn hair on his nape. “Come on, Spikey, you heard me. Let me see your pretty face.”
A hysterical giggle builds in Vash’s chest and the markings spread uninhibited, glowing brighter and pulsing with the beat of his heart. Wolfwood stares, his fingers finding his cheek, tracing the lines of them. Vash shivers, hand twitching in his hold, leaning into the gentle caress. No one’s ever touched him like this before, no one has ever seen him and wanted to.
“There you go.” Wolfwood murmurs, thumb brushing over his bottom lip, moving up to follow the slope of his nose, the jut of his brow, and over the delicate flutter of his eyelid.
He watches Vash with rapt attention, and Vash burns under that dark gaze. Like a priest at worship, fingers slow and careful and reverent. They touch him like something precious and holy, fingers warm and callused. His mouth finds the point of his jaw, tonguing at one of the markings, tracing the lines of them. Then he presses a kiss to every spot he had previously touched, and Vash shakes, prosthetic firmly at his side as his breath hitches, chest nearly heaving. Lips press against the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth and chin, a tongue curling over the shell of his ear, teeth catching on his earring. He shivers, swallowing around a dry mouth.
“Ah—”
“So pretty, Angel.” He breathes, and Vash can feel the heat of it against his flesh, and his thighs press together, teeth caught between his lip.
“How far do these go?” Wolfwood smiles, crooked and sharp. His fingers slip beneath his turtleneck, nails on the delicate skin of his throat.
Vash swallows, “Do you want to see for yourself?” He whispers, and his voice wavers with the heat that’s already found its way inside of him, that tight pit of want.
Wolfwood breathes out slowly, “Yeah, yeah, fuck. I want to see—”
Vash surges up, meeting his mouth in an urgent kiss, and Vash easily falls back when Wolfwood plants a hand on his shoulder and pushes him down.
And right now, Wolfwood makes him feel like a person.