#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.”

[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.

[wolfwoocl]

The knit in his brow only appears there for a split-second, but that is enough. Vash could not have missed it. Want to– he doesn’t want to have to, even if he is glad for the trust that Vash has placed in him. Or more accurately, misplaced.  

Want to. Two simple words that have saturated many a thought as of late, and Vash has a tendency to be at the center of all of them. If he is a moth to a flame, then it is already too late. He finds himself mirroring, leaning in, angling as Vash extends his fork and the bright, tart flavor of fruit and sugars touch his tongue, all to the growing warmth dusting the bridge of his nose, the way his breathing slows to anticipatory crawl. Normal. This is all completely normal. Yup.

Despite the pounding of his own heart in his ears, Nicholas does not pull away as Vash’s tale draws to a close. If the other diners can’t find the sense to mind their own business then that’s their problem. He doesn’t care if people are staring.

They’re having a moment. 

“Never took you to be the superstitious sort,” Wolfwood murmurs in their little pocket of folklore privacy. He licks away the lingering sweetness in the corner of his mouth with a flicker of tongue. “The bells only work if they’re given to you by someone who cares about you, right?”

If it were down to a matter of opinion, Vash needs the bells more than he does. Protection from himself or something.

Resting his chin against his palm, Wolfwood lazily twirls another mouthful of noodles around the tines of his fork. He stares down at his food, pondering whether the palate incongruity is truly worth it. Any food waste won’t be going on his conscience, so Wolfwood steels himself and eats another bite of vegetarian savoriness.

“Didn’t know you cared so much, Spikey. You’ll have Angelina blushin’ from dusk to dawn with that attitude. We can go.”

He scrapes up the last few bites into a small pile that he can shovel over the edge of his plate. “‘ssumin’ we aren’t dead broke from you splurgin’ on that crepe.”

That’s not such a bad scenario either. They can stick around in town a bit longer. Between them, able-bodied and eager, it won’t be difficult to scrounge up a few more double dollars. 

"Mhmm… but do you want to?"

Maybe he shouldn't ask, shouldn't have given it voice. He already knows the answer, and that thread of thought screws his face up, then smooths it over into a mask. Nobody wants to be stuck in his wake. He is a localized disaster. There are moments of calm, but through his interference or otherwise, they are bound to fall apart.

Everything he touches, everything he wants to touch, ends up burning.

Wolfwood has proven remarkably resilient thus far, but…

Better to focus on the here and now. On sharing a meal.

"You know, I remember hearing a story…"

Glancing down to his plate with a little smile and a flourish of fork in hand, he sets about cutting a generous piece of crepe, certain to fold a couple of the shiny pieces of Plant-produced fruit and tangy jam into the thin batter.

As Vash feeds Nicholas this bite, he muses, hums, and expounds with glinting eyes and a conspiratorial tone. While others may listen, this is for Wolfwood's ears.

A long, long time ago, back before people touched the stars, back on Earth, the deserts were just as hostile, just as full of life of all shapes and sizes. On a cold night, a lone rider sped along a moon-silver strip of road, bearing gifts for the children at an orphanage far from the city. Something caught his eye as he rounded the bend, but too late; he slammed into something unseen and flew from his mount, skidding across the sand.

When the rider came to, he saw them: malicious little things, gremlins, had set up a trap for him. They loved nothing more than to wreck equipment and wreak havoc. Outnumbered, he crawled back to his bike, only to find his gun pinned underneath it. With no other recourse, he split open his saddlebag to throw gifts at the creatures, to no avail. They kept advancing.

And then just as the gremlins leapt to set upon him, he found the bells at the bottom of his bag, and started shaking them hard.

Ring-ding-ding, ring-a-ding, they scattered, terrified.

Around that time, a couple other bikers happened upon the scene, having heard the chaos, having seen the fleeing gremlins in the beams of their headlights. They lent the rider a hand, helped him gather the gifts from the road and pack back up… and in gratitude, the rider affixed bells to his saviors' bikes to protect them from attack.

"…So, I was thinking, maybe we get her some bells. You know. To keep the road gremlins from breaking her down."

Another bite shared, Vash avails himself of another nip, another sip, all with a puckish little smile.