#and i'd do it again‚ beginning to end -- sixty-billion.

[wolfwoocl]

"That's not your usual order." Vash sniffs, peering at the undertaker's choice of victuals with open curiosity. Here he thought he had a handle on his traveling companion's tastes.

Wolfwood shoves his palm into Vash’s nose and away from the imitation worm meat, tofu cakes, and reconstituted vegetables mixed into a nest of saucy noodles. He does not generally mind proximity (typical only in the sense that Vash is already an exception), but he doesn’t need the Humanoid Typhoon blowing all over a perfectly good meal either. Moreover, he prickles at Vash’s observation of usual order, because it has been a long time past since anyone ever worried about what he was sticking down his gullet on a given day and he does not need Vash of all people analyzing his diet.

“Well, don’t go stickin’ your whole damn face in it,” he complains, protectively hovering over his plate in case Vash makes a second attempt at poking his nose where it doesn’t belong. 

“Figured I’d try somethin’ new is all.” 

If Vash carried on with a life of nonviolence (or at least attempted to) for God knows how long, and continues to do so under the most baffling conditions, it would stand to reason that practicing that tenet in other areas might reveal some grain of insight that Wolfwood could not see before. 

The theory is…admittedly not his best, and that New Wave Ahimsa pamphlet sure is burning a damn hole in his pocket at this very moment. 

“Tastes fine, so don’t worry your spikey head about it, Tongari.”

[thewidowsghost]

The Temple - Pt. 2 (Skye x Coulson!Reader)

Main Masterlist

Part 1: The Temple (Skye x Avenger!Coulson!Reader)

Previously on The Temple:

The elder Coulson reaches up, brushing a piece of hair behind Skye's ear in a fatherly fashion.

"I'm so sorry. I'm gonna make it right. I'm gonna find the Obelisk."

"No," Coulson murmurs hoarsely.

"I'm gonna stop the drill. I'm gonna make it right," Skye continues, bolting from the room before (Y/n) can even think.

"Skye, no," Coulson calls. "Don't go down there."

"Dad, I have -" (Y/n) begins.

"Go! Go after her!" the elder Coulson says and (Y/n) jumps to her feet, glancing between the doorway Skye had gone through, and her father lying on the ground. "Go!" he yells again, and (Y/n) wipes away her tears, sprinting after Skye.

. . .

There's a metallic grinding nose, and Skye, Trip, (Y/n), and Raina focus on the Obelisk on the pedestal. It opens, revealing crystals and (Y/n) tenses.

"How do we stop it?" Trip asks.

"I don't think we can," (Y/n) says. She turns to Skye, tears welling in her eyes.

Skye grabs the front of (Y/n)'s shirt, pulling (Y/n) closer and kissing her.

"I love you," both young women whisper at the same time; the two focus back on the Obelisk.

Skye exhales heavily as the chamber trembles.

. . .

"And Skye and (Y/n) barely made it out alive! (Y/n) hasn't even woken up yet!" Mack shouts.

"Thanks to Trip! He sacrificed his life, Mack!" May counters.

"No, he traded his life for theirs!" Mack yells. "And then he was shattered into a thousand pieces!"

"That's enough!" the Elder Coulson yells. "If Trip was here, he wouldn't be arguing. He would't be bitching. He would be gearing up to do what needs to be done." Skye looks horrified at the can that had been trembling, and looking around, she sees her girlfriend curled up in the floor in a corner, her hands pressed over her ears. Skye crosses the containment module and sits down next to where is sitting on the other side of the glass. "Yes, we're dealing with forces we don't understand, but HYDRA I do understand. I want everyone ready when the sun comes up - end of discussion."

Everyone else leaves the room and Skye murmurs, loud enough for (Y/n) to hear. "(Y/n), what's happening to us?"

. . .

"The Avengers wouldn't have been necessary if we hadn't unleashed alien horrors," Simmons cuts Skye off again.

(Y/n)'s eyes had gone cold. "Go," she says bitterly, turning away from the scientist.

"But -" Simmons tries but (Y/n) turns back to her.

"There's always danger, Simmons," (Y/n) snaps, the stirring feeling rising up in her again. "Not everything is something that has to be destroyed or -" (Y/n) stops, turning her head away. "Go."

. . .

There are metallic crashes as pots and pan fall onto the ground and into the sink.

"Skye, (Y/n)? You want to talk to us?" May asks, and the two lover exchange horrified glances.

"Skye, what's doing this?" Coulson asks, his eyes widening.

"I am," Skye admits shakily.

Lady Sif goes to grab Skye's arm, and Skye flinches away, "No." Skye pulls (Y/n) along slightly, removing her hand from (Y/n)'s as she claps them to her forehead.

Skye's fist clenches and the glass behind (Y/n) and Skye explodes.

And, as if in slow motion, (Y/n)'s frame grows larger, towering over Skye.

The grizzly bear wraps it's arms around Skye, protecting the brunette from the shattered glass.

"Hand them over," Lady Sif orders and the elder Coulson and May pull out their hand guns, moving in front of the two younger women. "It will be safer for all of you."

. . .

A sword tip is stabbed through the wall.

"Agent May, release the girls!" Lady Sif orders.

"May, she'll get through," Skye whispers.

"Ignore it. Remember - focus," May says.

"I can't," Skye breathes as Lady Sif breaks the barrier.

May steps back and Skye grabs the agent's ICER, shooting herself with the gun. The rumbling stops and (Y/n) turns to her unconscious girlfriend.

"Skye," (Y/n) whispers, fear spiking through her. "Skye!"

"She harmed herself," Lady Sif says, staring at (Y/n) and Skye, her eyes wide.

(Y/n) pulls her unconscious girlfriend closer to her, her eyes wide.

. . .

"A right to know," Fitz echoes. "What - is that the same way that Sif and the Kree had a right to know?"

"I think this situation's a little bit different, mate," Hunter responds.

"No, you would have done to them exactly what Sif and the Kree wanted to," Fitz argues.

"You don't know that," Simmons says.

"Yes, I do know that!" Fitz yells. "They would - You would - You'd 'handle them'! Mack just said it! Like, uh - Skye and (Y/n) are something to be locked away in a cage somewhere. We should be protecting them."

"No, Fitz," Mack interupts. "We're the ones that need protection from them." Then Mack goes silent, looking over Simmons's shoulder.

Fitz and Simmons turns around, and five SHIELD agents catch sight of (Y/n) and Skye - (Y/n) supporting Skye's weight.

Skye looks into the room, looks away, and then she and (Y/n) start back down the hallway, a disgusted look on (Y/n)'s face, and a large dufflebag thrown over (Y/n)'s other shoulder.

Fitz looks between the other for SHIELD agents, and then follows (Y/n) and Skye.

"Skye. (Y/n)," Fitz calls down the hall, but the two women keep making their way down the hallway.

The two make their way into the BUS, entering the containment module.

"You don't have to stay," Skye tells (Y/n).

"You know I'm not going anywhere, love," (Y/n) murmurs, sitting down beside Skye on the small bed. "Please, rest," (Y/n) says softly lying down on her side and lifting an arm so Skye can cuddle up to her. "We'll figure out something," (Y/n) murmurs. I hope . . .

3rd Person POV

Skye leans over a bowl, dipping a piece of her grilled cheese into her tomato soup.

"I got to say, Director, no doubt, this is the best grilled cheese I've ever had," Skye says, humming in contentment.

"Other times, I'd be offended, but I agree," (Y/n) says, looking appreciatively at her father as she stuffs another mouthful of grilled cheese in her mouth. "Isth really gud," (Y/n) says, her mouth full and Skye looks slightly disgusted.

"Secret ingredient," the Elder Coulson asks.

"Ooh, what is it?" (Y/n) asks, having swallowed her mouthful.

"I will not disclose," (Y/n)'s dad replies, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Skye laughs and her spoon lets out a little chime against her bowl, setting it aside before nestling herself into (Y/n)'s side.

(Y/n) hums contentedly, shoving more grilled cheese in her mouth.

"How are you doing with all the monitoring?" Coulson asks gently.

"I barely notice it," Skye lies.

"We wouldn't subject you to it if it wasn't absolutely necessary," Coulson tells her.

"I assume you're putting us on the gifted index," (Y/n) guesses.

"We are," Coulson the Elder nods.

Skye sighs, looking slightly regretful. "I've been doing some monitoring of my own," she says. "Check this out," she shows the older Coulson her bio-meter watch which shows her heart rate at sixty-five beats per minute. "My entire life, I've been searching for my parents and my search ended with answers that are so much worse than I could've imagined," Skye admits and (Y/n)'s gaze softens and she sets down her grilled cheese, wrapping her arms around her girlfriend. "Sad, twitchy, not-all-there Dad, a dead Mom, alien mist that turned me into a walking natural disaster, a friend dead -"

(Y/n)'s eyes cloud with pain. The Avenger had always been close to Trip, and his death made that so, so much worse.

"Hey," the Elder Coulson says softly, coming over to sit beside (Y/n) and Skye on the small bed. "Trip was not your fault."

"My point is, I'm steady. Nothing is shaking," Skye tells Coulson, looking slightly proud of herself. "I'm stopping them before they start."

"That's good," Coulson replies, looking happier than he just had.

"If I keep working on this, I can be back in the field in no time," Skye says excitedly.

(Y/n) squeezes Skye, happy for her girlfriend's excitement.

. . .

"She's acting like everything will go back to normal," Coulson tells May a little later, pulling Skye's and (Y/n)'s files to add them to the SHIELD Gifted Index.

"That's what Skye does," May says. "Do they know they're being put on the Index?" May asks.

"They do," Coulson replies. "They both do seem to be getting control of their powers."

"That's good," May admits. "But we barely understand them - other than they're strong."

"Catastrophically so," Coulson agrees, referring to Skye's powers.

"Protocol is, anyone on the Index undergoes a full psych eval and a treat assessment," May reminds Coulson.

"We'd need to bring in someone from outside," Coulson remarks.

"Someone we can trust," May agrees.

. . .

"I think it's so cool," Skye remarks, looking at (Y/n) the Husky admiringly, "that you can turn into animals."

"Are you kidding me?" (Y/n) asks, shifting back into herself, her eyes gleaming lovingly. "What about your powers?"

Skye smiles at her girlfriend, cuddling into her side, listening to the radio. (Y/n) wraps her arms around Skye's waist.

"Hey, look what a hello from a stranger turned into / Caught up in a moment like it's just us in this room / All the right words at the right time and you know 'em 'cause you know me / Better than anyone else, we don't need anyone else / There's a couple billion people in the word / And a million other places we could be, but you're here with me / Take a moment just to take it in / 'Cause every high and every low led to this / I'm just so glad you exist / Don't you ever go, don't you ever go, don't you ever go changin' / Never let me go, never let me go, never let me go, baby / Don't you ever to, don't you ever go, don't you ever go changin' / Never let me go, never leg me go, never let me go, baby," (Y/n) sings softly along to the song, swaying her and Skye slightly. "I'm just so glad you exist," (Y/n) murmurs in Skye's ear.

Skye looks up into (Y/n)'s gentle (E/c) eyes.

"I love you," Skye murmurs, pressing her cheek against (Y/n)'s.

"I love you too," (Y/n) replies, her eyes closing in contentment.

"You remember our first mission together?" Skye asks and (Y/n) fixes her gaze on Skye's chocolate brown eyes.

"I do," (Y/n) answers, her eye sparkling

"Yep, you were kicking ass and looking hot while doing it." Skye asks and (Y/n) throws back her head with a laugh. "You were so sweet, too."

Skye is sitting in her bunk on the bus, typing on her laptop.

"Mission brief in five," Coulson says, knocking on the door.

"Okay," Skye mumbles.

"Katherine Shane?" Coulson asks, reading the file off of Skye's laptop.

"Do you know her?" Skye asks, looking interested.

"We ran a few OPs together in the '90s," Coulson tells Skye. "Smart, resourceful. Had a soft spot for Truffaut movies."

"Easy there, charm school," Skye says, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "According to these files, Agent Shane could be my mom," Skye suddenly looks excited.

"Even if Shane was the Agent who dropped you off at the orphanage, it doesn't mean she's your mother."

"I started looking into all the female agents active when I was born," Skye says and Coulson hums. "Needle, haystack, I know. But then I factored in age and marital status, and then I built a program to narrow down the field."

"You're still looking at a long road," Coulson tells Skye gently.

"Well, it would be a lot shorter if I could access more files," Skye tells the agent. "Maybe you could remove my internet nanny?" she then asks. "I'm talking about my tracking bracelet," she clarifies, shaking her wrist.

"I got that," Coulson says, looking down at the brunette.

"So you'll take it off?" Skye asks.

"No, but I asked May to look into SHIELD's more restricted files," Coulson replies.

"Uh, I was kind of hoping to keep this private," Skye murmurs.

"Agent May specializes in private," Coulson tells her gently. "Let's go," Coulson says, walking out of the little room.

. . .

"At 0800 hours, three men infiltrated the Havenworth Federal Penitentiary," Coulson tells the others - Fitz, Simmons, Ward, May, and Skye.

"Infultrated? More like cannon-balled," Skye says softly.

"They were in and out in less than two minutes," Coulson goes on. "Left no prints at the scene, but we do have one lead."

Coulson swipes up, and the computer beeps, and there is an image projected on the screen.

"Centipede," Ward says, a hint of surprise in his voice.

"Seems they salvaged some of their research from Hong Kong," Coulson tells the group.

"So we were right," Simmons says, and Fitz turns to look at his friend. "Chan's platelets solved their combustion problem. Now they can create super soldiers with no fear of explosion."

"Maybe don't get so excited about it," Fitz murmurs to Simmons.

"Two of Centipede's labs have been destroyed, but they keep popping back up," Coulson says. "Now they have at least three of these guys, maybe more."

"Who did they break out?" May asks, her brow furrowing.

"Edison Po, former Marine," Coulson replies. "Expert in tactics and rapid response. He fell off the grid in '08, reappeared eighteen months ago at a diner in Boston."

"Where he stabbed a friend's eyes out," Ward grumbles.

"With a steak knife, then finished his meal," Coulson finishes, glancing at Ward.

"That's funny. Po doesn't look crazy," Skye remarks and everyone looks at her.

"I'm kidding," Skye says, looking exasperated. "The guy is a walking mug shot."

"Which means he shouldn't be too hard to track down," Coulson agrees. "Finding Po and these Centipede soldiers is a top priority for SHIELD. We'll be running point, but we won't be working alone," Coulson tells the others.

"What team did HQ send for backup?" Ward asks, looking suspicious.

"Not a team -" Coulson says, his lips twitching. "Two people. One who is skilled in combat - trained by SHIELD's finest. And one who can help us fight fire with fire -" Coulson begins.

"Somebody we worked with before?" Skye asks.

"Not exactly," Coulson says.

. . .

Mike Peterson exits the SHIELD vehicle, another figure who looks like she's being harassed by a blond archer and a redhead nearby.

"Don't make me flatten you, Clinty," the younger of the three says, pointing at the man and the archer backs off, looking slightly horrified.

"Bye, you," the redhead grumbles, pulling her former apprentice into a hug.

"Nat!" the younger woman complains. "You're squishing my head!"

"This was a bad idea," May comments, looking between the two figures - the young woman and Mike Peterson.

Natasha Romanoff hands the younger woman a backpack and the women softens, hugging her former mentor one more time before hurrying off to join Mike.

The young woman turns, grinning at Mike, and the older man just shakes his head, amusement evident in his gaze.

"Agent Coulson, Agent May," Mike says, nodding respectfully to the older agents, but the woman just grins.

"Agent Coulson, at your service," the younger Agent Coulson says, faking a serious tone and her father shakes his head.

May just walks away and the elder Coulson turns to Mike.

"Last time you saw here, you threw her into a brick wall," Coulson reminds the super-soldier.

"Right," Mike says, looking uncomfortable. "First time around, I wasn't who I wanted to be," Mike tells the elder Coulson, "but now I get it. Having all this - it's a privilege. And training to be an agent, working with SHIELD, it's me trying to do better, trying to be better," he pauses. "I just need you to give me a shot."

"Everyone deserves a second chance," Coulson says, stepping forward. "But let me be clear - there will not be a third."

Mike dips his head, "Understood, sir."

"Good," Coulson says, glancing at the younger Coulson and turning around; Agent Coulson gets the feeling like she should follow.

. . .

"It's not good. At all," Ward says grimly to the three younger people in the room - Simmons, Fitz, and Skye. "The guy was literally a ticking time bomb - literally."

"HQ wouldn't have sent him if he was still combustible," Fitz reasons. "They must've found a way to stabilize him somehow."

"What about this other person they're sending in. Coulson said he was trained by SHIELD's finest, and yet none of us know who it is?" he questions. "Just saying, this could easily go sideways. Seriously, the last time we saw Peterson, he was a raging homicidal maniac -" Ward pauses, the other three looking behind him. "He's standing right behind me, isn't he?" Ward asks.

"Mr. Peterson, this is Agent Grant Ward," Coulson says, and the others wonder why Coulson hadn't introduced the pretty young woman standing behind him. "He's the man who shot you at Union Station." Ward looks uncomfortable and an amused expression flashes across the new woman's face. "Fitz-Simmons," the two scientists wave at the super-soldier, "designed the weapon he used, and I think you remember -" Coulson gestures to Skye.

"Kidnap victim," Skye says, looking happy and the unknown woman is slightly confused.

Mike chuckles. "You joined SHIELD?" he asks.

"Yeah. Turns out, guys in suits - not so bad," Skye says with a grin.

"Look, I know Union Station could have gone another way," Mike says, looking uncomfortable again. "Another team might not have let me out of there alive. I owe you - all of you."

"That's bygones and water under a distant bridge far away," Skye says and unknown woman fixes her gaze on the brunette, studying her, and Skye looks back, her lips twitching in a smile. "How's your son?" Skye asks, turning back to Mike.

"Still with my sister. He thinks I'm working construction, but he's good, happy," Mike answers, smiling.

"So, what do we have?" Coulson asks.

"An unintroduced agent," the new woman says and there is a laugh from everyone in the room.

"Right," Coulson says, glaring at the younger woman. "This is (Y/n) Coulson, my daughter."

The other agents cast their gazes onto the tall young woman and (Y/n) looks unenthuiastically at her father.

"So, what do we have?" Coulson asks again.

"Not much on Po," Sky replies, tearing her eyes off (Y/n). "I checked his previously known addresses and old military contacts - came up empty."

"We've been looking for where Po might be on the outside," Coulson tells them, (Y/n) leaning against the doorway. "Let's look at his life on the inside - at the prison. See if that gets us any leads. Anything on the Centipede soldiers?"

"We found a facial recog match on one of them," Simmons says and (Y/n) fixes her gaze on the British woman.

"Name's Brian Hayward," Ward says, pressing a button on the debriefing table. "Stationed in Afghanistan for three years, then fell off the radar when he got back."

"Only living relative - sister, Laura -" Skye begins and (Y/n) pipes up.

"I know a Laura," (Y/n) says and Coulson glares at his daughter as the others laugh.

Skye shakes her head, looking amused, before continuing, "Sophomore at the University of Ohio."

"She's our best shot at finding Hayward," the Elder Coulson says, glancing at the board. "You and I will go talk to her," he nods to Ward. "Have May set a course for Cleveland."

Coulson points at (Y/n) and Mike. "Follow," he says.

"Bye friends," (Y/n) says with a wave, her gaze resting on Skye.

. . .

"Hey," Skye says, scrolling through her laptop, Agent May walking up to the brunette, her normal scowl on her face. "Coulson told me you were helping to, you know, find my long-lost folks, so thanks," Skye says, and (Y/n) remains in the shadows, not wanting to intrude. "I'm glad you're in on this with me. It means a lot."

May scowls even more and Skye swallows thickly.

(Y/n) winces as May says some harsh things to Skye. May leaves Skye alone and (Y/n) steps out of the shadows.

"Hey," (Y/n) says gently and Skye looks up. "Don't take what May said to heart, okay?"

Skye meets (Y/n)'s eyes, and then nods.

"So what did you find?" (Y/n) asks.

. . .

Skye leads (Y/n) and May into the debriefing room.

"Po only had one visitor during his prison stint - her," Skye says and (Y/n) narrows her eyes at the screen.

"Recognize the outfit?" Skye asks. "Miles said a girl in a flowered dress asked him to hack SHIELD. This could be the same girl."

"Can we hear the conversation?" (Y/n) asks Skye.

"That's the bummer," Skye replies. "There was no audio, but it's not a total loss. I was able to use SHIELD's lip-reading program, because we have one of those," Skye chuckles.

"It's so cool, right?" (Y/n) asks.

Skye catches May's scowl and continues, "It didn't work on the girl because she never looks up at the camera, but Po did - once - and it caught this."

Skye presses a button and, "The Clairvoyant doesn't not like to be touched," comes from the screen.

"I wrote that down, so we don't have to hear that again - ever," Skye says and (Y/n) looks disgusted.

"The Clairvoyant," May says thoughtfully.

"Yeah," Skye says, furrowing her brow. "Does that mean anything to you?"

(Y/n) shakes her head, "But it means something to them - to Po and whoever that woman is."

"Her name's Raina," says a voice and Mike Peterson walks into the room.

"You know her?" Skye asks Mike.

"Yeah, she recruited me for Centipede, came up to me at the hospital where I did my back therapy out of the blue," Mike pauses. "Told me she could change my life."

. . .

An hour or so later, Skye finds (Y/n) by the loading doors of the BUS, the young woman attacking a punching bag.

"Time to suit up," Skye says and (Y/n) looks up, wiping the sweat off her forehead.

"Cool," (Y/n) says, jogging up the stairs. She passes Skye, shooting the brunette a grin, and Skye's cheeks flush.

. . .

(Y/n) suits up in her SHIELD uniform before meeting the others in the loading dock. Her SHIELD uniform was a Royal blue, but was almost exactly like her old mentor - Natasha's - SHIELD uniform, with light blue highlights running down the arms and legs.

"I think it's rather smart," Simmons remarks, looking at Mike's combat suit.

"How does it feel?" Fitz asks.

"Feels good. Comfortable," Mike replies.

"Having powers is cheating, but the suit's pretty cool," Ward remarks.

(Y/n) steps off the last stair, her combat boots making a thunking sound as she steps onto the floor, and Skye turns to look at her.

"Right, now that everyone's here," Coulson glares bemusedly at his daughter. "Hayward's cellphone has been traced to an abandoned factory about eight miles from here."

"We'll go in quiet. Do minimal damage to the facility and the people inside," May tells the others as (Y/n) pulls out her electric batons from her backpack, sliding them up the sleeves of her suit into the little sheaths against her wrists.

Ward, May, you'll go in through the west entrance. Mr. Peterson and I will enter through the loading dock," Coulson tells the group.

"So I guess you're my partner?" (Y/n) says, looking at Skye.

Coulson nods. "You and Skye will go through the main entrance."

(Y/n) dips her head.

"We're doing this just us?" Skye asks. "We've been playing whack-a-mole with these guys since Ward first picked me out of my van. Shouldn't big SHIELD be sending in backup?" she asks.

"Trust me, they already did," Coulson says, looking pointedly at his Avenger daughter. "They sent a super-soldier and an Avenger."

"An Avenger who has to pop an Ibuprofen after every fight," (Y/n) grumbles.

"Let's move," May says, leading Ward from the BUS.

"Take this," Coulson tosses (Y/n) a gun.

"Is the famous Fitz-Simmons ICER?" (Y/n) asks, studying the craftsmanship of the gun. "I'm impressed. It's just the right weight." (Y/n) glances appreciatively at the two scientists. "It's been a while since I've seen a gun this nice. I might be stealing it."

Fitz-Simmons glance at each other then grin at the Avenger.

"Enough fangirling," Coulson says and (Y/n) rolls her eyes.

"All right. All right," (Y/n) replies. "Come on, Skye."

. . .

"Are we alone here?" Coulson asks the group.

"It seems so," (Y/n) answers. "Fitz, dial Hayward's number."

There is a moment's pause, then the sound of a phone dialing.

(Y/n) freezes in front of one of the storage containers.

(Y/n) hears a cellphone ringing and she holds a finger to her mouth so Skye would be quiet.

Flicking her wrists, the batons slide out of their sheaths.

(Y/n) takes the two separate pieces, locking them together.

(Y/n) readies her batons, as the doors to the storage container fly off the hinges.

"Uh, (Y/n), Skye, you've got company," Fitz tells the two women.

"I'd noticed," (Y/n) replies, advancing on Hayward.

The soldier places his hands on the storage container and flings it towards (Y/n) and Skye.

Skye flinches but (Y/n) tackles Skye, pushing her out of the way. (Y/n) rolls, landing on her feet, and Skye, on the ground, levels her own ICER, firing at the soldier.

The soldier falls to the ground and (Y/n) pulls Skye to her feet. Looking down at the soldier, the two women see the dendrotoxin veins leaving his face. Hayward blinks, his eyes refocusing.

"That usually packs a bigger punch," Skye comments, her and (Y/n) stepping back as Hayward rises to his feet.

(Y/n) runs towards the soldier, smacking him across the forehead, and then in the stomach with the other end of the now staff, flooring the soldier with her mentor's favorite move.

"We're heading your way," Coulson tells his daughter.

"Who's doing this?" (Y/n) asks the fallen soldier.

"I don't tell anyone. I promise," the soldier says through gritted teeth.

There is a tiny spark, and the light behind the soldier's eyes goes out.

. . .

"I'm so glad you're here," Simmons greets Dr. Garner. "Especially since it's been well documented that powers can lead to psychological volatility. Not that Skye or (Y/n) are showing any signs. Their vitals currently are steady."

"May I?" Garner asks, looking at the iMac on the desk.

"So, it might be wise to do pharmacological evaluations," Simmons advises. "Dulling Skye's emotions could lessen the destructiveness of her powers - a-a stopgap measure."

"I should probably meet both of them before writing a prescription," Garner says sternly, looking at Simmons with a frown.

"I'll take you to them," May tells her ex-husband

"I appreciate the extensive and thorough debrief, Agent Simmons," Garner says, turning away from Simmons.

. . .

"Are you kidding me? A shrink?" Skye asks, (Y/n) sitting next to her on the cot as usual, a frown evident on the Avenger's face.

"It's not personal," May tells the brunette.

"Hell, it's not personal. It's a shrink," Skye argues and (Y/n) places a gentle hand on Skye's knee.

"It's standard procedure for anyo -" May begins.

Skye cuts her off, "No, I know, but we're not just on the Index. We're also SHIELD agents."

"Exactly. So you know it's non-negotiable," May argues right back.

Skye scoffs, shaking her head.

"Andrew is good, and he's done this before," May says, her tone softening.

"So have I. I grew up in the system," Skye replies. "I've been through enough of these to know that I hate them."

"You'll like this one," May tells Skye.

"Yeah, how do you know that?" Skye replies, focusing her gaze on (Y/n)'s hand resting on her knee.

"Because I was married to him," May answers and Skye looks up, her eyes wide with shock.

"I'm going to make us something to eat," (Y/n) tells Skye once May leaves. "I'm starving," (Y/n) leans over, pressing a soft kiss to Skye's cheek before standing up and walking over to the door. Opening the door, she steps aside to let Andrew into the house.

"Hello, (Y/n)," Andrew greet the young woman.

"Hey," (Y/n) replies with a short wave before leaving the room and making her way into the kitchen inside the Playground.

. . .

(Y/n) looks up from her pan as she notices the pots and pans rattling on the wall.

Skye! she thinks, throwing the hot pan into the sink and unknowingly shifting into a panther, and darting out of the room.

(Y/n)'s powerful shoulder muscles bunch and stretch as she speeds up, a black blur as she streaks past the labs.

(Y/n) charges up the loading doors and up to Skye's room, shifting back into herself.

"Skye! You need to wake up!" (Y/n) exclaims, gently shaking Skye's shoulder.

Skye starts, fixing her gaze on (Y/n)'s (E/c) eyes but then she looks at the door as Dr. Garner, May, Fitz, and Simmons burst into the room.

"Hey. Look at me," (Y/n) reaches out a hand, gently moving Skye's face to look her in the eye. "You need to stop this," (Y/n) kneels down and to her relief, Skye keeps her eyes on (Y/n)'s.

"If she needs a sedative . . ." Simmons begins, but May glares at the scientist.

"You can do it Skye. Just focus," (Y/n) whispers, gazing into Skye's brown eyes.

Skye exhales slowly and the shaking stops.

"No, no. It's good. It's good. It's stopping," Fitz tells Simmons.

Dr. Garner and May exchange a look before fixing their gazes on (Y/n), whose hand is resting on Skye's knee now.

"I'm going to stay," Garner says.

"Come on. Everybody out," May nods.

'Love you,' (Y/n) mouths as she leaves the room, looking back at Skye, and the brunette relaxes, smiling softly.

"May," comes a voice and May looks at her watch, a projection of Coulson appears in her hand. "We need backup."

. . .

Skye breathes deeply, looking at her bio-meter watch. "Under seventy," Skye says, taking another breath.

"How are you doing that?" Garner asks.

"May taught me," Skye replies. "You focus on a single point, let everything else become noise disappearing in the background."

"Except it doesn't disappear you're pushing it aside," Garner says, putting his hands on his hips. Which is why, when you were dreaming, the tremors started." Skye swallows thickly. "What were you dreaming about?" Garner asks.

"I don't remember," Skye replies, her cheeks darkening.

"You're seeming defensive," Garner says, frowning.

"Because you keep pushing," Skye argues.

"Because whatever you were feeling was strong enough to shake this entire plane," Garner replies, his brows furrowing.

"Well, I don't know, so let's move on," Skye says, her eyes watery. "How about you show me an inkblot, and I tell you about me and my girlfriend's first time?" Skye asks, leaning forward. The moment she says it though, she regrets it. Their first time had been magical, and Skye had never felt so loved that night.

Garner chuckles. "Humor. So that's your thing. Well, that's an effective way to avoid thinking about how monumentally painful your life is right now."

"Good pep talk," Skye says through gritted teeth. "Thanks," Skye frowns, her brows furrowing.

"Sarcasm. Same purpose - avoidance strategy," Garner says.

"What am I avoiding, exactly?" Skye asks, leaning forward and crossing her legs criss-cross-applesauce on her and (Y/n)'s shared bed.

"The truth," Garner says. "That - not just you, but your girlfriend too - are different now, that you have abilities, your abilities triggered by pain, and either you face that or you don't sleep again."

Skye swallows thickly, her gaze falling on the door, wishing that (Y/n) would walk through the door; wishing that (Y/n) would set her hand on her knee like she always did when Skye was feeling scared or nervous; wishing that (Y/n) would walk through with a carefully picked tub of salted caramel ice cream and two spoons.

Skye turns back to Dr. Garner. "I dreamed I was on a mission, looking through the scope of my rifle. The next thing I knew, I was on the other side. The rifle was trained on me.

"Pretty on point - going form being an agent to a -" Garner begins

"Yeah, to being on the Index," Skye interupts. "And I know SHIELD's policy for people on the Index."

There's a rumbling.

"I have executed that policy," Skye continues.

"Okay. Skye, I need you to stop," Garner says, looking around at the shaking walls. "Just calm down. Take a breath."

"Wait. The room is shaking," Skye realizes.

"Right," Garner replies, leaning forward in his chair. "Which is why I need you to breathe."

"No, this isn't me. I'm not doing this," Skye says, pursing her lips.

Garner looks around before moving out of the room.

(Y/n) enters the room a moment later holding two spoons and a tub of salted caramel ice cream.

Skye gazes softly at (Y/n) as (Y/n) comes over to sit beside her on their shared bed.

"Dad needed backup," (Y/n) tells Skye as she hands her girlfriend a spoon, then cracking open the tub of ice cream.

Skye leans affectionately against (Y/n), digging her spoon into the carton and making airplane noises like she would to a baby, poking (Y/n)'s lips with the spoon.

(Y/n)'s shoulder shake with silent laughter, and she opens her mouth, eating the spoonful off Skye's spoon.

(Y/n) takes her own spoon, scooping out another bite. She moves it towards Skye's lips. When Skye opens her mouth, (Y/n) steals the bite.

Skye giggles this time, her head falling on (Y/n)'s shoulder.

. . .

"That not-talking thing you do - not okay when we were married, but definitely not okay," Dr. Garner scolds his ex-wife.

"Not okay is Skye's lunatic father leading Coulson into a trap. Civilians could be hurt. I acted quickly," May says, her tone hardening.

"And me and Skye? We do what?" Garner asks, furrowing his brow.

May scoffs. "Same as if we were were on base," May says. "Stay in the cage. Continue your evaluation."

"That's so not going to happen," Skye says, and the two exs turn to fix their gazes on the two young women.

May's eyes flick down to Skye and (Y/n)'s interlocked pinkies and Skye's slightly relaxed expression.

"This is not a negotiation, Skye," May fixes her gaze back on Skye's eyes, which had narrowed, her relaxed expression leaving her face. "You're staying on the BUS."

Skye walks over to the debriefing table, leaving (Y/n) standing in the doorway.

"If Coulson needs backup -" Skye begins.

May cuts her off. "He'll have it. We don't need you."

"Yes, you do. My father's involved," Skye argues, her eyes narrowing. "And for better or worse, I matter to him, and we can use that."

"May, we can help," (Y/n) says, moving over to stand beside Skye.

"Having contact with your father is a bad idea," Garner says, furrowing his eyebrows. "If you can't control your feelings -"

"I'll ice myself," Skye interupts.

Garner frowns.

"Look. You put me on the Index. You're doing my intake assessment. How about we let my Dad know?" Skye asks.

"Okay," May says after a moment, but then she fixes her gaze on (Y/n).

. . .

"We want everyone to know what you do to people like us," Cal says, his voice echoing through the silent stadium. "And we want you to stop before you do it to her."

"Talking about her?" (Y/n) says through gritted teeth, pushing Skye forward, her unloaded handgun pressed to the side of Skye's neck.

"You monster," Cal turns to (Y/n), his brow furrowing.

(Y/n)," Coulson breathes, looking at his daughter in disbelief.

"Daisy," Cal says, gazing at his daughter. "What have they done to you?"

"We put her on the Index," May says, coming up and pressing her unloaded handgun into the small of Skye's back. "Now we decide - contain her or put her down." May shoves the gun into Skye's back again. "Your call."

"Tell me they didn't hurt you," Cal says, stepping forward to gaze into his daughter's watery eyes.

"Talk to me, not her," (Y/n) presses the gun into Skye's neck, hating herself for being so harsh, but she knows she has to keep up the facade.

"Now, you let these people go, or your daughter dies," May says, shoving the gun into Skye's back for the third time.

"Oh, no, no, no, no. I can't lose you again," Cal whispers. "Don't you see what they do? You've been changed. And it scares the hell out of them. I think it's wonderful." Skye swallows thickly. "I can help. So, tell me. What's your thing?" he asks. "I mean, I was hoping it was wings."

"Talk to me, not her," May growls.

"You chose them," Cal glares at (Y/n), then Coulson, his eyes full of disdain. "You threatened to kill me, your own father. You didn't know any better. They raised you. They brainwashed you. You won't kill her," Cal says, turning away. "Though, the truth is, you're capable of such things. That's what I'm trying to teach this whole damn town. I don't even know if they're listening. Maybe they'll listen to you," Cal hands the microphone to a man beside him.

The man with the microphone exhales deeply, but a blue energy field surrounds Cal and takes him away.

"Skye," Garner says, running over to the brunette. "Come on. Come on."

"(Y/n), go with them," May gives (Y/n) a slight nudge. "You're the only one who can keep her calm."

(Y/n) takes Skye's hand in her own, pulling her along.

Skye's breathing stutters as she watches Coulson and May fight Cal's companions.

Skye breathes deeply and the stadium begins to rumble.

Everyone looks at her and (Y/n) drops Skye's hand, clutching her left wrist.

The rumbling stops and (Y/n) looks over at Skye's hands and lower arms which were darkening with bruises.

Skye's vision goes blurry and (Y/n) moves behind Skye to catch her as she fell.

(Y/n) hits the ground, her wrist searing with pain, but Skye lands safely in her lap.

. . .

"You're awake," Simmons says, sighing with relief.

Skye looks around, looking startled and slightly scared as she tries to sit up.

"You're probably feeling a little drowsy," Simmons says, her voice soft. "We gave you something to help you sleep." Skye sits up, looking at her bruised hands.

"Why do I have these bruises?" Skye asks, her gaze finding (Y/n) sitting in a chair, her left wrist resting on the table, Fitz gently running his fingers down (Y/n)'s wrist before he leaves the room.

"I ran some tests," Simmons says. "The bruising was caused by capillary ruptures in your arms. X-rays showed more than seventy-five hairline fractures from your clavicle to your fingers."

"I . . . I don't understand," Skye stutters, Fitz returning to the room with a black velcro cast. He tightly wraps (Y/n)'s wrist with the cast, (Y/n) gritting her teeth.

"You weren't stopping your powers, Skye," Garner tells her. "You were . . . directing them inward."

Skye lets out a shaky breath, blinking back her tears.

(Y/n) runs her own fingers down her fractured wrist.

A guilty looking Skye meets (Y/n)'s gaze and Skye can see (Y/n)'s love and worry reflected there, along with pain.

"What am I supposed to do?" Skye asks.

"I made the casts from compression microfibers to help contain the shaking, minimize the damage," Simmons leans forward and (Y/n) narrows her eyes angrily.

"That's not what she means, Simmons," May says before she focuses her gaze gently on Skye. "We'll figure this out, Skye."

. . .

(Y/n) lies down on Skye's stomach, letting out soft kitten purrs that sooth Skye back to sleep, her bruised fingers gently brushing (Y/n)'s orange fur.

(Y/n) had realized that when using her powers, it was more helpful if she knew a lot about the animal she was going to change into.

. . .

"Well, the bruising has started to fade," Simmons says, looking at Skye's arm. (Y/n) is sitting close to Skye, (Y/n)'s fractured wrist resting on Skye's lower thigh, rubbing it with a thumb. "though I'm afraid these stress fractures will take a bit more time to heal."

"Great. Tried to go Zen to keep my powers in check only to find myself -" Skye lets out a soft yelp as he tries to pull her 'casts' back onto her arms "- back on the D.L."

"The down low?" both (Y/n) and Fitz ask in unison.

"The disabled list," Skye says, nudging (Y/n) with a knee.

"Oh, yeah," (Y/n) says, looking a little embarrassed.

"That makes more sense," Fitz agrees

"Yeah, and now I'm all . . . " Skye studies her bruised hands.

"You know, it could just be growing pains - from the new powers," Fitz says, trying to reassure Skye.

"It's okay, Fitz," Skye says, gently closing her fists. "You don't have to put a positive spin on this."

"I'm not doing that. I would never patronize the -" the three women look up at him. "Well, the - Things change, that's what I'm saying. So, maybe if you can learn to control this, then . . . You could have Avengers-level powers," Fitz says, looking at Skye. "Something like Captain America, even."

"I'd say more Thor-ish powers," (Y/n) corrects. "Thor's the God of Thunder. Tremors got, well, tremors. Both elemental based powers."

"I think it best we keep in mind the destructive capabilities of Skye's powers," Simmons says. "If there is an Avengers equivalent, right now, I'm afraid it's the Hulk."

(Y/n) turns her gaze on Simmons, an eyebrow raised.

"Well, Hulk saved the world, last I checked," Fitz says.

"You're absolutely right," Simmons agrees. "But given the choice, I believe Bruce Banner would not hesitate to cure himself once and for all."

"Actually," (Y/n) says, meeting Simmons's gaze. "Bruce is  trying to find out a way to make himself and the Hulk the same being. Just because something is powerful, doesn't mean it's dangerous. Steve Rogers, for example, is a super-solder, but he's as gentle as a mouse. People have the capacity to choose who or what they want to be, Simmons."

"Well then, maybe we should be glad that Bruce hasn't tried to cure himself then," Fitz says.

"Oh, Fitz -" Simmons goes to say.

"Don't 'oh, Fitz,' me," Fitz retorts and the BUS begins to shake.

(Y/n) lets her uninjured hand's fingers brush soothingly up and down Skye's arm.

The rumbling stops as Skye fixes her gaze on (Y/n)'s gentle, loving gaze.

"Sorry, Skye. It isn't really about you," Simmons says apologetically.

"I'm pretty sure it is," Skye says, frowning. "We'll go back to our cage," Skye says, sliding out of the the booth, (Y/n) following closely.

Fitz and Simmons watch (Y/n) and Skye closely. They watch as (Y/n)'s uninjured hand brushes one of Skye's bruised hand with a gentleness neither of the two had seen before.

Word Count: 7454 words

Skye / Daisy Johnson Taglist:

@imapotato

@confusinggemini612

[wolfwoocl]

Vash the Stampede walks and talks like a living caricature of a skipping stone jumping from one tent pole to the next. He makes for a good dispenser of life sciences, too, and Wolfwood nods his head along to the sound of Vash’s voice as they work.  

Demonstrations included.

Wolfwood tests the bones of their cabana to-be with a good shake along the base of each pole. Good enough for a night or two out here in the dunes. Not enough to challenge a sandstorm, but he can rest assured knowing he won’t wake up half-buried in sand.

Vash will have to endure Meryl’s tickling onslaught on his own. Wolfwood holds up the corners of the canvas hood with a thumb through each topmost grommet to indicate that he is presently too occupied to assist. Even if the end of his cigarette wags from one corner of his mouth to the next with the stretch of his grin. 

He doesn’t feel too bad that they have disturbed Roberto’s beauty rest. Laughter is good, better than terse silences and tight-lipped responses in the cramped backseat of a van bobbing up and down hills of sand. 

“Sorry! We’ll try to keep it down!” Meryl yells back, sitting up from where she followed Vash down in a tumble with her hat askew and her hair astray. Rosy-cheeked from laughter and tormenting Vash, Meryl Stryfe looks anything but apologetic. She scrambles to her feet, pulling Vash along with her. Somewhat. There are height differences and lack of proper leverage to account for, so pulling is more akin to dragging.

“Hm,” Wolfwood snorts, coming to a realization after depositing their bedrolls in a pile vaguely at the center of their temporary accommodations. He isn’t even going to think about attempting to unlatch Meryl’s bedroll on her behalf as he kneels down to unfurl his own and smooth it over the ground. “Gator sauce. Think that’s supposed t’be short for investigator sauce?”

Seems likely.

Back on his feet, Wolfwood leans his weight off to one side and, looking over his shoulder, stares at Vash dead in the eyes. “Alright. I called first watch, so you can make like a worm and get cozy in your bedroll. I’ll wake ya in a few hours.”

"Ahaha, I mean, if the wings are free, I'm willing to give it a try," Vash chuckles awkwardly, settling a skewed semi-smile on Meryl as she looms (inasmuch as she can loom) with hands on her hips. Waiting patiently to be handed the lines, maybe, she looks like she's plotting some sort of retribution for the elbow-noogie while keeping Vash between her and Wolfwood.

Before she can get any more ideas in the moment about specific interview questions, Vash clears his throat and fills the quiet between them with nonsense. Well. Mostly nonsense.

"It's funny… Capsaicin, the spicy-chemical, evolved in peppers back on earth to ensure things that wouldn't help the flora disperse its seeds wouldn't eat it."

And humans eat them!

Granted, they are typically delicious, but they are devastating when one has willfully neglected drinking enough water. Roberto noticed because it is his business to notice. The three of them need more resources than he does. He can go without for far, far longer. He can manage to not be a drain on their vital goods. It's fine, it's fine.

"Birds are completely immune, but mammals have molars, so…"

Chomp, chomp, chew, he clicks his teeth. Vash is doing better since he has hydrated. The blush has dissipated for the most part. What has coalesced around the edges of his ears might be chagrin given the way he ducks his chin down into the collar of his coat, his shoulders rolled up in a shrug. Nothing impedes his dexterity, however, and he takes to assembling the poles and pressing the stakes deep into the sand, down to the wash of packed gravel beneath.

"Creampuff, huh? Well, I guess if I am what I eat— ack, heh— hah, hey! Nooo—"

Meryl bullies Vash's sides with ticklish pinches, leaving him to wiggle up onto one knee in an effort to flail away. Deliberately gentle and clumsy, he tucks his elbows against his ribs and heaves up like a worm with gummed wings, only to tumble over onto his backside. Pleading for mercy between breathless yelp-laughs, he flaps his hands in surrender, eyes bright and squinting as Meryl chortles her triumph.

He earned that. Probably.

"If you three are gonna get up to funny business, at least keep it quiet," Roberto barks from the van cabin, the cracked window venting wisps of smoke. Getting too damn old for this nonsense, he grouses as he stuffs yet another cigarette butt into the ash bucket on the dash.

[wolfwoocl]

your actions have wronged me, I must have revenge.

“Hah!” 

There’s a wolf in the henhouse.

“I’d like t’see you try, Needles.” Slowly but surely, he’s racking up all the points he needs to win this little game. Vash may have been sitting pretty on his 8-resource tile for a majority of the game, but Meryl rolling a lucky 7 just bought him a one-way ticket to sweet, sweet, victory. Naturally, she made the economical choice and placed the Robber on Vash’s major resource tile. That was enough to steal some of the wind out of blondie’s sails, but the Humanoid Typhoon’s fate was sealed the moment Wolfwood revealed his Knight card and put it into play.

Now, Vash’s defeat is all but assured. Seated cross-legged with one hand resting on top of his knee, Wolfwood leans forward to assess the current state of the board. He's practically grinning from ear to ear. 

“Yeah, okay,” Meryl interjects through their staring contest with an audible groan. She tosses her cards out in front of her, effectively abandoning her position. “I forfeit. You guys can do whatever you want. Roberto, you can–”

“Waaay ahead of you, newbie,” Roberto drawls from behind an outcrop of sandstone on the other side of camp. The sound of the senior reporter’s voice briefly draws away Wolfwood’s attention, but he’s less impressed with the man’s lack of mental fortitude and more impressed that he managed to gracefully excuse himself from the game without anyone else noticing.

Where the hell did he even put his cards?

“Hey! Are you eating dinner without us?!”Jumping to her feet, Meryl stalks off from the firelight with her hands balled into tiny fists.

Back to more important things, then.

“So, what’re you gonna do, blondie?” Wolfwood leans back into a rising throne of rocks behind him (it’s not even that comfortable, but he probably looks way more smug draping his arms over the boulders) and breathes out a lazy plume of smoke through the open sliver of his smirk. 

“Could beg for mercy.”

[wolfwoocl]

@sixty-billion

The fastenings attached the ends of his hammock to the bolted mounts on the wall creak as the sandsteamer streaks through the branching cracks of the canyonlands in a flurry of scattered dust and pebbles. 

A small, dark circle on the riveted ceiling panel marks the exact spot he’s been smoking every evening. The vessel rolls over a hefty bump and Wolfwood lets out a stream of curses as his skull hits the roof of the sandsteamer with a resounding thud. 

“Damned dolphin-class sandsteamers! Barely enough room to turn and look at my own ass and every damn rock or pebble has me knockin’ my head against the ceiling.” 

It beats trekking through the desert, considering they had just enough double dollars to cover fare to the next town. Miles and miles of sand separate each of the Seven Cities as they crawl eastward. 

Wolfwood braces with the points of his elbows digging into the stretched canvas and leans over, glaring at Vash in the dimly lit passenger cabin. The only source of light in their cramped quarters streams in through a small porthole window next to the tiered hammocks. There is just enough room to walk, hunched, from one end of the stretched hammocks to the other. The wall with the window peeking out to the desert is recessed enough that he managed to wedge the Punisher upright and into it.

Their only exit is the slab of a metal door by their feet with a simple deadbolt lock. He wouldn’t call the remaining features of the cabin “amenities.” Small cubbies beside each hammock leave enough room for a small-arm or minor personal effects. Netting stretches from one end of the war wall to the next for cargo.  

“Tomorrow night, your ass is sleeping up here and mine is sleeping down there, tongari."

[wolfwoocl]

[ LAUGH ]: having found the receiver to be decidedly unhappy, the sender lightly catches their attention before doing something to make them laugh, or at the very least, grin.

Everything, from the ridiculous performance in the middle of the town square down to the mourning father that beat the shit out of the Humanoid Typhoon, shouldn’t have worked. 

But it did. 

No one died.

He’s been trying to reconcile the outcome in his head for days now, long after the bruises have faded and the swelling has gone down. The injuries were all gone by the time he broke through the wall to the jail cell to pull Vash out (from beneath all that rubble no less, thanks to the missile he lobbed from the Punisher).

Vash the Stampede puts himself through hell for the sake of others, and Wolfwood finds he’s having an increasingly difficult time being okay with that. His irritation must be overly apparent today if Vash decided he needed to make a pest of himself.

Can’t a guy be allowed to sulk about the unreasonable state of internal affairs? It would be nice if his head and his heart could stay the fuck out of his business for once. 

Wolfwood can feel himself going cross-eyed as Vash looms closer and closer to his face. Closer and closer, and faster and faster the thumping behind his ribcage goes. He attempts to swat Vash away.

“Alright, alright, Tongari! You’ve got my damn attention. What’re you…” Wolfwood trails off incredulously and lifts his sunglasses up past his browline. Doesn’t help him see that much better considering his vision is leagues better over most people, but it’s the principle of the thing.

Behind the closed front panel of Vash’s coat, the suspicious lump on his chest cheeps and wiggles. He gets this inkling sense…and a twitch in the corner of his mouth despite his best efforts.

“Where the hell did you get that.” 

[wolfwoocl]

In settlements that lacked a place of worship, community centers became the place to congregate, celebrate, and hold events. Such places often form the heart of so many small towns grown from the ruins of fallen ships.Art, regardless– that’s universal to human expression, and Opryton is specialized for that sort of thing as a whole. Perhaps they lacked the material goods and resources that other towns benefited from and its people needed to make do in other ways. He wonders if they use real wood floors in the halls, whether the walls are adorned with garlands and colorful lights, if they have long benches for viewing or if they merely make use of leftover crates and boxes stacked together. With room to wonder, that leaves him feeling out of place. So does the picture that follows, a hand pressed against the wrinkled fabric of a red coat, synchronized footwork in time to the tune of a band and not falling bullets. 

“Huh. Don’t let it go to your fat, spiky head.”

If his hands weren’t presently planted on the ground to keep them from toppling over, he’d dig his knuckles into those fluffy spikes. The slight growl at the end of his sentence promises his intent insofar as if I could, I would. 

Not that he’s denying the accusation leveled at him in particular. Nor does he pay any mind to the way his breath catches when Vash locks eyes with him over the rim of those yellow glasses. He’d like to be wearing his own pair at the moment, because of course Vash the Stampede can see every detail in the dead of night and he might even venture to say the Vash looks interested. In him. In dancing. In a…

“Date?”

He realizes a split second too late that he said the word aloud and visibly balks. Can‘t stuff that mistake back in a box. Wolfwood clears his throat– or chokes, hard to tell which– 

“I mean, yeah.” Smooth save. Real smooth. He’s committed now. “Sounds like a real couple’s spot. Why, no one ever shown ya a good time before?”

Pondering is a luxury, but it is nice to pretend.

Pretending in itself is an exorbitance they can scarcely afford, but out here it seems more within their grasp. Out here with the arid land stretching countless miles in every direction, there is nothing and no-one to stop them. Their travel companions are more or less transient these days, with their own lives to live.

Better that way.

Probably for the better if he and Wolfwood part ways too, for all that that seems unlikely. The shady preacher-but-not, the assassin with a heart of gold he just can't see, is determined. Vash cannot quite put his finger on why, but he can venture a guess. His brain does that for him, even if he does not want it to.

But it is nice to pretend that they can take a moment and be. Nice to just exist in company for a minute or three, beneath velvet-black and scattered diamond, beneath the wonder that is a niche in the cosmos far, far from the cradle of humanity.

"Aw, Wolfwood, you want to go dancing with me?"

It's something to seize hold of, something to tease out, a pluck of warmth lending resonance to his tone as it lilts past curved lips and a tease of fanged teeth. If he notices the burnish in the moonlight, he doesn't say a word as he cants his head and squints behind his ubiquitous yellow shades.

"Opryton's great for it. They have dance floors in each of the halls, all different kinds of music... even live music, with real guitars and other instruments. Ooh, and good food, lots of fried goodies."

It sounds like a date. He falls just short of saying it, but it's etched there on his face in a smile that has swiftly turned goofy.

So what if the edges of his ears are pink? That's just the wind. And it's an impossibility.

Probably.

Right?

[wolfwoocl]

Don’t and can’t are two very distinct concepts in Nicholas’s mind, but damn if it doesn’t chafe the hell out of his ass that Vash constantly conflates the two.

“Huh! Ya’d be a damn sight more useful if I didn’t have to be the only one constantly cartin’ your ass across the desert like a glorified taxi driver.”

They’ve become well acquainted with sharing and invading each other’s personal space. In combat, at rest, on nights with too many empty bottles, and yet the moments that should be little more than a blip in his radar are more like a thump against his ribcage. Just another of many topics they have chosen not to discuss in detail. They can’t afford to. 

They can afford baubles, though, placing meaning in things rather than their own words.

Wolfwood manages to keep the grin fixed on his face cordial and unassuming. Evidently he and Vash have passed muster as far as first impressions, but the right price leaves room for swindling. Striking the right amount of friendly but not too friendly is truly an art form. Vash has distracted himself, and that suits Nicholas just fine for the moment. The whole world doesn’t need to know about their hopeless plight. He saunters up to the storefront display, skimming over little figures until he finds a color match for the pair of them.

“Thank ya kindly, sir. How much’ll it be for these little guys?”

Having scooped them off their perches, their hand-carved doppelgangers sit perfectly in the cup of his palm as he holds it up for the old man to examine.

With an exaggerated lick of his lips, the shopkeep eyeballs the figures, then glances at Vash’s spiky hair as it roams down the aisle.

“I’ll give you a discount, but your friend’s gotta buy something too.”

"Hey! Haha—hey. Oww, I told you I don't drive..."

Vash juts his lower lip into a wobbly pout, eyes watering at the corners, but it is as much of a ruse as his noodly flail of arms as he finds himself dragged off with a muffled yaaiiee!

He could resist, of course. Maybe he ought to resist, but there is just something charming about the way Wolfwood insists. He refrains from too much jostling as they traverse the claustrophobic aisles between shelves of clutter, perhaps because he is too stunned at the lingering note of affection, gentle as anything.

He blinks at the weathered fellow behind the counter. Once, twice. Mouth open, mouth closed.

The shopkeeper's brows scrunch together like a pair of fuzzy worm-caterpillars, precipitating creases across his forehead, underscoring his growing look of question. For a beat it appears that he attempts to ascertain just who walked into his shop and why, rheumy eyes sliding from face to face.

The older man looks. Vash looks back. Another moment.

Then, with a sniff and a gesture of open hands, the shopkeeper rasps, "if it's here, it's for sale for the right price."

"Oh! Well, that's wonderful."

Perking, Vash peers at Wolfwood, then veers his attention off to the side, searching the collection of smaller objects within the glass case. Bells. He's looking for bells, little ones, but he does not say as much—and he pointedly avoids eye contact with his compatriot.

For Reasons.

Reasons wholly unrelated to the way he rolls his shoulders up to hide his ears in the collar of his coat.

[wolfwoocl]

Can a man and an angel of God want the same thing?

Wolfwood watches out of the corner of his eye, convincing himself of a need not to look and looking all the same, because he invariably finds himself drawn back to that sad, hopeful smile every time. Especially because of that smile.

The fluttering behind his breast isn’t a part of his imagination. Neither is the weight of Vash leaning against him now, and he can’t tell which part of the tomas or the egg equation came first in this scenario. He says nothing about it, just like he says nothing about how he inches his hand back in, closer. Right up to the side of Vash’s leg with no room to spare for the desert chill.

“Mm.” Wolfwood casts a glance down. He can’t claim to be ignorant of why. The evidence is strewn across the desert, the remnants of ghost towns, the stares that leave no room for forgiveness, the graves they dug. Pondering is a luxury, but it’s nice to imagine. To imagine that they can ponder. Like Vash, he made his choice a long time ago. “Never heard of Opryton.” 

Maybe he passed through its streets without knowing; too busy seeking other prey. Wouldn’t be the first time, but then, expressly not thinking about people has gotten him this far.

“Music…Like the sort ya dance to?” 

Dancing is a nice thought. Wolfwood has a sudden awareness of the occasional tickle of blond hairs against his face and when did Vash get so close? Dancing with…Heat rises from his chest to the tips of his ears. He can’t even finish the thought.

“We could go dancin’ sometime. I’ve seen you move like you’ve got two left feet, Tongari.”   

Vash notices Wolfwood's lack of interest in sharing the water. The swirl, the agitation, the forgetting. It doesn't connect, not at first, not with everything else, not with the feeling of an arm behind his back, prickling almost-contact through layers of fabric and more fabric and isn't that interesting?

That's interesting.

It's interesting to the point that he shifts, deliberately easing some of the tension in his spine to make contact, flush lean to flush lean into the point of balance. It's strange. So odd. How natural it is, just like in the back of the transport - how easily he slips into sleep with the questionable priest-undertaker-gunman at his flank.

It's also odd how natural the crooked little smile on his face is. He does not realize it's there at first, looking down at the canteen once again in his hands.

"Um."

Making a sound of agreement at not having to bury anyone is Vash's first instinct. Rollo comes to mind. The breath of wind through rusted and hulking turbines groaned a dirge as they dug a grave in silence. He was so angry. So, so angry.

And mournful. And guilty. And that is neither here nor there, because he can be many things all at once, and there is a question even he cannot dodge, and there is a canteen of water in his hands.

Taking a deep sip buys him some time.

Not much, but beggars, choosers.

"I don't know," Vash says then, and it is perhaps one of the most honest exchanges they have had in their journey thus far. "Haven't given it a lot of thought, you know?"

Maybe that is a lie. Maybe that is a half-truth written in eyes cast out to the horizon, to the shapes in darkness against darkness, the shadows of mountains on the backdrop of stars and galactic arms.

Wandering is what he knows.

When would he really get time or a place to stop?

If he stops, people get to know him. People see that he does not age the way others do. The photo Meryl found, the question on Roberto's face, it was all so much all at once.

"Besides, seeing the sights isn't so bad. Have you ever been to Opryton? It's a town that's all about music, and there's so much of it."

[wolfwoocl]

In combination with Vash’s conspicuous brand of subtlety and a long study of the Humanoid Typhoons little tells, Wolfwood generally has a fair approximation of whatever may be going on in Vash’s head at any given moment. Vash seems distracted after they’ve gone through all this trouble. Hardly more than a brief detour off the path. Every detour is worthwhile in of itself, and that all amounts to a roundabout way of saying it isn’t any trouble at all, but that does not absolve Vash of his apparent inattention. 

The nerve.

“What, so you can knock ‘em all down like bowlin’ pins with yer shitty drivin’?” He squeezes Vash in even closer and angles them both down so he can drive the first two knuckles of his hand into the top of Vash’s head.

“We’ll get both of ‘em,” Wolfwood decides, pulling Vash along with him past the ringing bell of the front door. He eases off two strides in, allowing his companion to right himself. Not without a minor hitch, the slow, quick linger of fingertips to the fine, dark hairs at Vash’s nape. It’s…It’s indulgent and not entirely by accident. His turn to suddenly and inexplicably feel burned by the suns, only, he doesn't have that as an excuse anymore as they stroll down the narrow aisle by the counter past hand-painted game pieces and yellowed boxes.

A leathery man, bent by the decades with bushy brows and thick glasses, looks up from his work as they enter.

Wolfwood offers up a smile while pointedly avoiding eye contact with Vash. “Mornin’ to ya, sir. My friend and I– we were wonderin’ if those little guys at the front are for sale…The red and the black one.”

It's good to hear Wolfwood laugh.

And at something so small, so random. It isn't at someone else's misfortune, it isn't schadenfreude, it isn't a bark of triumph after winning a fight, it's...

It's nice. It is. And so many other things, but nice is what filters through Vash's brain as he finds himself snared and squashed in close, ostensibly to peer through the window. He is close enough to smudge the point of his nose against the glass, but he is also close enough to squish against the side of Nicholas's partially-exposed pectorals, right up underneath his armpit.

"Haha, yeah, and the other one looks a little like you, it's even got the... uh... um..."

It's pear-shaped. It's bottom-heavy. It's painted with a white shirt and black slacks - are they slacks? It's like the bottom of a bowling pin, hard to tell from here, even as he squints at it and then aside, down. Up.

"...the face!"

Excellent save, that works right along with blaming sun and wind for the pink tinge at the edges of his ears.

He angles his right elbow for a nudge at Wolfwood's ribs, but otherwise falls slack in the semi-headlock, leaning the whole of his flank against the whole of his compatriot's, one knee bent and the other boot planted firmly on the ground.

So what if he's a little muffled?

"Gee, Wolfwood, I didn't take you as the type for tchotchkes. Do you wanna line them up on Angelina's handlebars?"

[wolfwoocl]

Days, hours, minutes…seconds. Overthinking and hesitating are a pair of old friends that he tries not to get caught between. Even seconds matter when there is so much that needs doing. Inaction might cost him everything he strives to protect. Funny, though, how that makes the moments where he knows exactly what to do stand out all the more. 

Warmth seeps through their clothing, blooming in the shared space that puts them shoulder to shoulder. Not like blood staining his shirt, not like the inescapable heat of daylight hours. The warmth of someone living and breathing. At ease. He doesn’t mind taking the credit for that.  

Just the facts.

Wolfwood quirks a brow as Vash hides behind the lip of his bottle. The waiting is not so bad. Seconds pass. He thinks of nothing in particular except how Vash the Stampede is capable of drinking water and looking damn melancholy about it at the same time. He thinks about the way those goofy grins fade when Vash assumes no one is paying attention. He wants– and that is dangerous in of itself– to see more of the smiles unfettered by guilt and self-loathing. 

Exhaling through his nose, Wolfwood eases his arm down from Vash’s shoulder, hovering, and not for lack of wanting, over the small of his back where his coat has billowed out only to proceed farther downward past Vash’s hip to provide an additional point of balance on the ground. Places him in a flush lean as he accepts the proffered canteen and swirls its contents around with a turn of his wrist.

Overthought it, isn’t that the damnedest?

“Same as you,” he shrugs, returning the bottle without drinking from it. Why he accepted it in the first place is a mystery. Vash probably could have handed him an empty can and he still would have taken it without question. Weird. “I'm an undertaker. I bury people. If there’s no one in town to bury, well, between you ‘n me, it’s better when I don’t have to bury anyone at all. It’s the same everywhere. People tryin’ to live their lives. Sometimes they leave home ‘cause they have to. Sometimes they leave ‘cause they want to.” 

Great talk, great talk. They can’t very well have a real conversation if they’re too busy dodging each other’s questions. He tries again, this time after a long drag from his cigarette and a distant stare off into the barely discernible horizon.

“Left a lot of places, convincing myself I had to. What would you choose, given the chance?” 

"H-hey, I - hulp—"

Protest earns Vash a lungful of secondhand smoke and a posture-jarring bonk to the shoulder. Wolfwood finds him a solid wall of deceptively shrouded muscle, not at all as attenuated as his oversized coat and textured underlayers would suggest. He wobbles as an afterthought, hiccup-cough-sniffing with a wrinkle of nose and a wave of his bottle-blue prosthetic.

Mercy, maybe. Wafting some fresh dry air in, perhaps.

It's performative, judging by the glitter in narrowing eyes. He caught the nuance there, a curious undercurrent between appearances and honesty jostled with the sudden sling of an arm around his shoulders. Proximity. More of it. Vash is suddenly aware of how warm Wolfwood is through the layers of fabric he wears—the questionably-fitting suit coat and the open shirt are not precisely the most insulating, even if black absorbs sunlight. Vash has noticed. He has had reason to look. There's quite a lot to look at.

Maybe Nicholas has seen Vash observing the way he moves, the way he interacts with others around him, the care he takes… the lackadaisical carelessness, the callous veneers too.

Nighttime matters precious little to those with keen sight. Here and now Wolfwood can likely see the way mischief gives way to wide-eyed surprise as Vash's heart does a somersault in the cage of his chest. It is all that he can do to sit still for a couple of seconds.

"Huh," he exhales a little dumbly. And then against every instinct, against every rational action he could possibly take, Vash relaxes. He lets the tension in his shoulders bleed out under the weight of Wolfwood's arm. The stacked rigidity of muscle eases.

Flank to flank he braces Wolfwood's lean, leaning in kind.

"Ahaha. Ha, hm. Well, reporters report on facts, right?"

Slender, his grin teases, and he offers absolutely no clarification on his meaning, preferring instead to distract himself with a reach and pat-pat at his belt for his canteen. He has in fact taken his water ration. They've taught him that lesson. Unscrewing it one-handed is not a great challenge of dexterity, but it, like the couple of sips he takes from its open mouth, buys him some time.

For what?

He doesn't know.

"Doubt it'd bore me, but I get it," he ventures. "Ah, just— A couple of weeks here and there, maybe."

He pauses, offering the bottle over and letting his eyes drift down and aside to where Wolfwood's arm drapes. He's careful to keep his shoulders level, afraid of discouraging… even if he really should discourage. This is foolish. There will come a night when he takes his watch and disappears into the dunes to spare them the danger he courts.

"What about you?"

[wolfwoocl]

He forgets, sometimes; Vash is not quite like them. Dedicated too much attention to analyzing the impersonal, but impossibly kind smiles, perhaps. He may as well give up trying to follow his own advice at this point. No matter how many times he’s told himself to stop– he’s out here for a Goddamn reason, after all– Vash makes it so hard not to care. 

The sudden switch from furtive to forward is almost uncanny. 

Scaly critters blink at them and shrink into crevices hidden from the pale light of the moons, dark, glittering little peepers blissfully unaware of how small their place in the universe is. At least he can commiserate when it comes to feeling small. 

“Should be resting, you needle-headed idiot,” he gripes, tilting his wrist back and directing a pointed plume of smoke in Vash’s general direction. He follows up with a shoulder-check and a grunt. They both know Vash would have never listened anyway.

Regardless, it’s important for Vash to know that he’s going to keep mentioning it. Saying nothing would be condoning bad behavior, and that won’t do.

“You keep this up and those two reporters’ll start makin’ the wrong kind of assumptions if they notice you sneakin’ off every night.” He can’t even make it sound like a real complaint, really. Vash is here, and for reasons he doesn’t care to delve too deeply into (because that would objectively be a bad idea for everyone involved), that is still better than the alternative.

“I noticed,” he responds wryly, having been in the unique position of playing the resident human pillow. 

“Counted…maybe six or seven times now, if you aren’t busy looking out the window. Got to three times in a row at one point. That was impressive.” He pauses abruptly on a point of realization, then slings an arm around Vash’s neck with a heavy lean and an unconvincingly nonchalant pull from his cigarette. Admitting to collecting Vash-related trivia had not been on the docket tonight. 

Sand whispers over the dunes, and Wolfwood tries not to think that it sounds like Zazie is probably laughing at him from somewhere afar. It’s just them out here– he can pretend as much.

“Can’t say I’m the same way. Got a whole checklist I run through. It’d probably bore you. Happens when you get used to running alone for too long, I guess.” That sounds too much like a confession for his liking, but it's out there now. He shows no inclination to move his arm from around Vash’s shoulders anytime soon. No harm in it, as long as he conducts his train of thought just so. As much as the stupid thing pumping blood through his veins craves more.

“What’s the longest you’ve ever stayed in a single place anyway?”

Vash knows that Wolfwood can espy him from his perch. In fact, he counts on it with his angle of approach and his appeal to other senses. Visible, deliberate, he switches from a prowling whisper-brush cognizant of shifting sand and dry-cracked gravel that ought to crunch under every footstep to an overtly 'sneaky' sneak.

Tiptoes in bulky boots, knees bent, strides long and premeditated in the clumsiest of ways.

Fingers delicately clasping the edges of his oversized jacket as if he's hiking his skirts.

Not suspicious. Not in the slightest. Nope.

When Nicholas calls out, Vash freezes mid-step—literally mid-step—with a foot lifted, toe pointed, shoulders hunched and wrists arched. He juts his chin and tilts his head to set a wide-eyed stare on the preacher-turned-sentinel for a heartbeat. Two.

"Ehehe—"

Smoothing out his posture and his clothing with a puckish grin, he picks his way around the rocky outcropping without disturbing the network of winnowed slabs that serve as territory and hunting grounds for resilient fauna. It wouldn't do to just trounce all over creatures on the prowl for a meal or sheltering to avoid becoming a meal. Vash has not forgotten Wolfwood's threat-promise of a midnight snack.

"Gleeful wiggling, huh? That's an interesting image to think of. You did say make like a worm…"

It's sing-song. It's cheeky. It's delivered with a curled smile and a gleaming squint, well aware that he might earn reprisal. He might deserve reprisal at this point, but it's nice to just do and be without any immediate pang of remorse.

Kip-hop and he alights on the level, extending his arms out and then up. Long and lean and the opposite of suave, mid-stretch he paces forward and on the tail of a sigh he invites himself to a cross-legged seat within elbowing distance. As he strokes his chin and takes in the view (near and far alike), he nudges Wolfwood's shoulder with his right. If he knows that he startled his compatriot, he gives no obvious sign.

The last thing he wants is to be frightening, and it is better to seem oblivious.

"This is nice."

Apropos of nothing. And of everything.

Out here it is quiet: arid and vast and altogether empty. No headlights crawl across the dunes or flash like beacons across the salt flats. No drones. No bots. No screams. And the best of all, it is not completely lonely.

"Mm. Got plenty of rest…it's easier to sleep in the truck," he ventures, soft and conversational, a furtive sort of candor with few to witness but Wolfwood, worms, and the void above. "On the move, you know. Going somewhere."

[wolfwoocl]

“Hah, well, things do have a tendency to go pear-shaped when–” Aaand Vash is gone, leaving him the man left standing to be stared at by the perplexed diners. His expression falls flat with a flash of irritation before he shrugs for no one in particular, what can you do?

Despite his previous attempts at rushing Vash out of the cafe, Wolfwood does not put in nearly as much effort into matching the Humanoid Typhoon’s pace as they emerge from indoors into the sweltering heat of the twin suns. 

He passes his right hand over the back of his neck where Vash’s hand had been moments before. At this time of day, most people hug the walls and skirt between scant slivers of shade. Wolfwood is by no means immune to a good beatdown, environmental or otherwise, but he paces well enough to keep Vash within line of sight nonetheless. 

In a land of haves and have-nots, specialty stores are hard to come by. The hobby shop they have chosen to visit has its name hand-painted in flowy, pretty lettering: Dyed in Heaven. Through the recently cleaned storefront window, they can see shelves filled with bolts of fabric, dye bottles, paints, various craft tools, an assortment of glimmering jewelry supplies composed of natural and manmade materials, and out-of-season holiday decorations jumbled into a clearance bin. Diversity is the key to managing a well-rounded business in tough times, after all.

Wolfwood stops in front of the window, shielding out light from above by cupping his fingers against his temple to peer inside. The display shelf behind the window holds painted figurines arranged into neat little rows– including the odd pear-shaped people-looking things that Wolfwood had spotted in passing before. Seeing their little feet and exaggerated expressions are more entertaining up close the second time around.

“See, Spiky, that funny red one. Doesn’t that look like you? It’s even blond!” Wolfwood barks out his laughter as he leans over to hook his arm around Vash’s neck and reels him in to look.

Trapped-not-trapped, Vash's eyes widen as Wolfwood holds his chin (and his attention) captive. Drawn close, closer. Sure, they've spent plenty of time in close proximity, crammed together in tiny bunks, back to back on transports, shoulder-to-shoulder on Angelina when the sidecare is functional, or practically wrapped around one another astride the motorcycle.

Closer, closer. Close enough to appreciate details, like the flecks of color in Wolfwood's irises, chatoyant and eye-catching and so, so warm; like the glitter of stubble where he attempted to tame his facial hair at some point in the semi-recent past. Close enough to smell the not-pleasant-but-not-unpleasant confluence of fruit sweet and spiced savory on his breath mingled with spiced cigarette smoke, the remnants of his last wash-up, the lived-in warmth of fabric to skin, and…

Given his proclivities, how are his teeth so clean?

Vash stares, gulping as if to break his own tension (what tension? he's practically ragdolled). It feels like his heart might escape between his ribs, flutter-flap with held breath and lips rounded, gloved hand lifting to counterbalance on Wolfwood's upper arm.

Good timing. The peak of timing. Crashing brow to brow is enough to jolt him from his breathless ridiculousness, and the sudden clench of fingers is the only thing that keeps him from toppling off of the stool. Can one really be grateful for a headbutt?

Maybe. Maybe if that headbutt saves him from doing something incredibly stupid. It would not be right to damn someone he has come to consider a… a friend. Companion. Something like that. Selfishness out of mind but never far away, he wobbles in his seat, translating the pitch-yaw of gravity into momentum. As Wolfwood stands, Vash pops up to his feet, rolling his shoulders back with a shimmy-rustle of carmine coattails and…

An ill-advised pat-squeeze to Nicholas's nape. Just steadying himself. Yeah. A likely story. Nevermind the tinge high on his cheekbones he cannot hope to play off as sun exposure or windburn, much as he intends to try.

"Pear-shaped?? Hey. Well, pears are delicious so I'll—" uh. Nope. Nope, nope. That and the sudden critical look from a few folks near the window spur him into movement, not running but speed-walking with a comically long stride out into the street. It isn't far to the shop in question.

"—yeahc'monlet'sgo!"

[wolfwoocl]

He stands at the fringes, observing from behind a wisp of smoke like he isn’t cracking the occasional grin at the ridiculous company he keeps. Playing at indifference, but not so much that he can suppress the snort of laughter when a harried Roberto squints at them through the window with bedhead and a grumpily twitching mustache. 

When they involve him against his will, it is his turn to scowl. Not at Meryl, whom he grabs gently by the shoulders to rebalance and set her upright on her feet– tries to, in any case, only for his efforts to be in vain.

“Oof- hey!” 

The whole scuffle wasn’t even his fault. For once. Vash can look cute and innocent all he likes (and maybe it works just a little bit), their Humanoid Typhoon is part firestarter and…all teeth. He blinks and stares a second longer than strictly necessary before exhaling loudly through his nose.

“Hmph.” Wolfwood throws a half-hearted glare in Vash’s direction before stalking off in search of a rocky shelf to haunt for the first half of the night.  

With as much flat desert as they have stretching out before them, elevation makes all the difference. The only arrivals and departures of note as the shadows deepen and the stars and moons glow unchallenged in the dark is the occasional buzz of worm swarms undulating in a glittering cloud of bioluminescence as they pass over his head. Watching, being watched. It is harder to be where Zazie is not. 

Lizards skitter in and out of pockets of wind-carved stone, their tiny claws scratching in the dark as they search for midnight snacks. Lower, almost imperceptible, the haunting groan of grand worms breaching the dunes and carving through great swaths of sand can be felt through the sandstone spire that he has made into his roost. 

An impression of quiet. 

So when movement in his peripheral vision turns out to be none other than Vash in the dead silence of ambience, Wolfwood cannot decide if he ought to question whether he has lost his edge or if Vash has always been capable of moving quietly enough to escape detection from enhanced senses. 

Traveling with this trio might have made him too comfortable, perhaps. He stubs out his cigarette to a small pile growing between his bent knees and looks back out over the desert again as if Vash hadn’t just startled the hell out of him.  “Surprised you managed to even wait that long. Did you actually get any sleep or were you just gleefully wigglin’ in your bedroll the whole time?”

Vash shows more mercy to Meryl than she showed to him, regaining his questionable composure quickly enough to help her peel him up off of the ground with minimal jostling.

"Uh huh," the gunman gulps wide-eyed at such a pointed stare from Wolfwood, making it painfully clear that he has other ideas in the moment. Maybe myriad other ideas given his glance down-then-up, lips-nose-eyes, with the start of a moue desperate to contain a smile.

Just because he is by his nature merciful does not mean he can't reciprocate Meryl's mischief. As she unrolls her sleeping bag, he darts in, absconds with her hat, and leads a chase. He gives her just enough space to catch up, dancing on graceful (and gracefully clumsy) feet to avoid her kicks and grabs, always fleeting out of her grasp even as she snatches for his coattails.

There is nothing balletic about the noises he makes with every stride, every duck, every high step or pirouette around the truck, dodge-weaving about escalating irritation and fury.

Gigigigi- ehehe, ha- eek- hwaaaaa, pitching higher and lower as he bounds off with the floppy blue beret, Vash surreptitiously dusts and shakes it of the sand from their tussle. Roberto is a scowling face in the window of the van as he hot-boxes himself inside with cigarettes and nurses both his flask and a growing headache. Around and around the vehicle they go, and while the older reporter's aspect darkens to their exuberance, he does not bark at them again.

They're allowed their fun.

At least a little bit of fun. Roberto isn't so hardened that he can't see this as something young people ought to enjoy, even if his caution is abundant and well-founded.

Vash reverses track, a flick of his wrist sending Meryl's beret like a fishing net dead center into her face. As she skids to a stop with a sound of alarm, she crashes into Wolfwood's flank.

Meanwhile, Vash dives for his own bedroll, typhoon-rolling himself up in the blanket and spare pad like the aforementioned worm. Only his nose and eyes (and hair) poke out, innocent as can be.

Yeah.

That's the ticket.

Meryl ughs and shoves at the undertaker's side, huffing her way into the shelter to collapse into her bedroll too. Expended energy is expended energy. She will sleep better than any of them, and it's well deserved. The driver should be well-rested.

It won't be a few hours before the blond creeps out of the makeshift tent. He knows Wolfwood knows too.

Hard not to.

With a jaw-cracking and overtly fanged yawn, Vash laces his hands behind his head and shuffle-settles in, eyes closed and ears open.

[wolfwoocl]

They’ve had multiple opportunities to acknowledge this, whatever this is. He isn’t about to go around calling it what it is. Luckily, people can be trusted to be more concerned with their own stories rather than investing time in watching a pair of randos who can’t seem to lay anything out on the table except their lunches. 

He shouldn’t tease, even if Vash makes it so, so easy.

What the hell, as if that’s ever stopped him.

As Vash finishes up the vestiges of his decadent meal, Wolfwood extends a hand to catch Vash’s chin between his forefinger and thumb and tug the fidgeting gunman towards him. 

“Oh, yeah? Lettin’ me pick out whichever one catches my fancy, huh? I’m so touched ya’d want to wrestle with me for the sheets again.” He sounds needlessly menacing because it’s fun, because he enjoys the captivating shade of red that crosses the bridge of Vash’s nose more than he’ll ever admit to anyone but himself. His grip firms and Wolfwood leans forward in his seat, butting his forehead against Vash’s with a solid thunk. If Vash mistakes the burnish on his own face for annoyance, that’s a win-win.

“'Cause it sounds like I'm gonna be stuck in another single with your skinny ass– if even that– because that’s all the damn double dollars we’ll have enough to afford after this.” 

Being a step above flat-broke generally means as much, if they're lucky.

Money’s never been an issue, even if they’ve had to get creative with their funds on occasion or take an odd job here and there. They have the open desert sky and a pair of raggedy bedrolls if things don't work out. There are still miles and miles to go and reality seems to be lagging behind today.

Wolfwood feels strangely upbeat about the whole thing.

Finally, he releases Vash and stands to fish around in his pockets for a few crumpled bills plus tip for the poor waiter grimacing in the corner while waiting for them to hurry up and get the hell out. 

“C’mon, Tongari, we’re wastin' daylight. Saw some funny little pear-shaped doodads on the shelves when we passed by the shop earlier. Maybe I’ll get the one that reminds me of you.” 

"Yeah. They work better that way," Vash answers, guileless before the smoky timbre that might be wry, might be teasing. He's struck with an awareness, then.

There is almost no distance between them. They've practically climbed over one another in combat. They've spent hours, days, in proximity while traveling from place to place, on Angelina, aboard steamers and buses and other transport.

This is different.

The bar-slash-diner chatter murmurs around them. People go about their business, maybe with furtive glances over at the couple of conspiratorial idiots, waiting for a show of some sort that maybe isn't appropriate for public. Or maybe a bet gone wrong. Nobody is listening too closely.

Just them. Just to one another.

Blushing and care and permission and doubt and oh, oh—

"Ummmm…"

Vash's brows hike up toward his hairline, arching over the rims of his ubiquitous shades. Wolfwood is close enough in their shoulder-to-shoulder lean to see where Vash's gaze rests. It isn't at eye contact, not at first.

Lips. The dart of tongue and the disappearing berry stain. That's what catches and holds attention, as if he is a feline sighting a tasty morsel, pupils rounding out in focus. Then he meets sight. They have known one another long enough to learn each other's tells. This one is readily apparent as eyes widen—then narrow—then squint, precursor to a little grin and a laugh. He might ruffle at his undercut if his fingertips weren't smudged with sweet sauce.

It's complicated and uncomplicated in the same breath.

Delight. And he is innocent. He swears.

Mostly. Probably.

"—Well, we're not flat-flat broke, ahaha."

It was an indulgence. It is an indulgence. And it is easier to seize on that rather than the way his stomach flips. Better to make the rest of the crepe disappear, mopping up the last of the reconstituted berries and syrup with a final thin pancake scrap.

"We can window-shop, huh?" Vash nudges with his elbow, tapping his toes to the floor, left-right. "See if we find one you like— uh for Angelina. Yeah."

[wolfwoocl]

The tension of wakefulness bleeds from his limbs, his extremities, the slow rise and fall of his chest as Vash turns his head towards a beating heart that may or may not be there. That may or may not have sped up in the same moment that Wolfwood feels heat prickling over his cheeks.

Months, years, caught in the wake of the Humanoid Typhoon, and this transformation is wondrous every time. That is not to say that Vash does not trust fully, wholly, in his waking hours, but it is different when they are alone. Subtle. Like Vash truly only allows himself to want when the rest of the world is no longer watching him, and even that seems stolen, made small.  

The sand steamer engine groans and rumbles like a weary beast of burden. Flimsy walls of bolted steel will not keep out anyone determined to get in. For many, the constant ambient noise would not be easy to sleep through. 

He slips his hand out from beneath Vash's fingers, curving around and gently pulling until he brings Vash's hand against his chest. Then, after having spent a godforsaken amount of time warring internally, Wolfwood finally shifts his own arm over Vash’s ribs higher up. 

He condemns himself. 

Names and insults and every possible thing he can think of stretch out into one long, ineffective list. Still, he does not stop. 

Here, in the dark, Wolfwood comes to terms with a truth that has taken residence behind his ribs for some months now. 

So this is how it will be, for however far they go. This is the sort of man he would follow.

Vash the Stampede.

Wolfwood stretches his fingers outward, brushing against the smaller hairs at Vash’s neck before his hand comes to rest fully at Vash’s nape to hold him closer. 

“Good night, Vash.”

"Mhm."

Airy, soft. His affirmation might almost sound dismissive were it not wound through with the curl of a smile that, as Vash relaxes into rest, does not fade.

He receives and keeps those nicknames (ha, Nick-names) with aplomb. Perhaps he oughtn't be so keen to hold those little nuggets of humanity close, but he does, he does, because they are precious. And sure, maybe they are just offhand moments, maybe they are insults at first, maybe, maybe.

But they come from someone. Someone thought of them, thought of him. Nicholas did. And that (even amid denial) does funny things to his heart.

The sand steamer rattles and hums on, resonating through its great metal shell. For all his breadth, Vash can fold smaller, conserve space, and in dozing he has no qualms or complaints with the balance of their shared hammock. Their combined weight stabilizes the slung sleeping surface, muting the sharpest of jostles down to a gentle sway.

Somehow the cramped closet of a bulkhead compartment feels more secure this way. Someone determined to enter could simply smash the door off of its track—or, if they are clever, they could use pliers or bolt cutters to chop the hinges themselves off. Someone the next compartment over (or someone above or below) could just as easily peel up plates and push through.

Not a concern. Distant at most. They have slept in worse places, occasionally this close. Funny too how that is some of the best sleep Vash can recall in recent memory.

Floating. White noise. White noise and heartbeat as his neck relaxes and his face turns, his cheek and ear nestled near the center of Wolfwood's chest.

Even his hand has relaxed, little more pressure than fingertips on the undertaker's wrist, easily escaped.

Contact, warmth, sound and life, all anything but silent.