#and i've already put my faith in how you saw fit -- typhoonvash.

[wolfwoocl]

[ FAKE ]: the sender (who has just been crying in private) hastily wipes away their tears and tries to greet the receiver casually (to varying degrees of success).

If he’s being honest (and he’s rarely honest these days, whether to himself or to anyone stupid enough to get close to him) a not so insignificant and so very primal part of him is simply terrified in a way he can’t even put into words as he steps carefully over the roots spiraling out from the center of the room like ink running off a piece of paper. He can ignore all that, because this is Vash. Any sense of visceral horror he has is completely eclipsed by his concern for the figure huddled in the tangled mess of roots and ethereal flowers in front of him.

“Needle-noggin…” As he gets closer, he realizes there are eyes on the roots too. A couple of them may have blinked at him in the dim light spilling in through the crack in the door, pupils dilated and jiggling into focus. Right, going to ignore that.

Dislodging any further hesitation with a rough shake of his head, he crouches down next to the mass of writhing roots. 

“Hey,” he echoes, while Vash looks at him as though they’re doing nothing more than greeting each other from opposite sides of the town promenade. He’ll keep acting like it too, if that’s what helps. “Missed you at lunch.”

The burning filter of his cigarette glows in a thin ring of light as he draws in a breath against it, then exhales to the side as he reaches out, tentative, before resting his hand gently on Vash’s shoulder. 

“’s a nice day out.”

He is so good at this.

[wolfwoocl]

“Huh! That’s the best news I’ve gotten all day.” Wolfwood snaps back, complementing Vash’s task by plucking a hammer and pegs out of the tent bag before Vash wanders out of reach with it. 

Like he was about to let Vash connive and complain his way out of manual labor. The alternative would be sleeping on the cold, hard ground and knowing that spiky-haired idiot, he’d complain about that too.

“Better not stand me up on the big day, ya damn menace. You’re already a high maintenance date as it is. Do you have any idea how many double dollars we spend every time we walk out of a bakery? Or on towels at the hotels?” He sounds annoyed by the Vash-shaped hole in his wallet, but also impossibly, interminably fond.

“You’re not gettin’ off easy just ‘cause I like ya. And also–” Wolfwood crouches down and grunts, taking the hammer in his hand and slamming a tent peg down through the cracked dirt. Maybe this had been a river bed once. He’d heard one time or another that Gunsmoke still bore evidence of water once existed and flowed freely on its surface. “I carry all my weight in muscle. Unlike you. Pretty sure if any doctor got a good look at ya they’d figure you’re more like a bag of sugar than a person. Hah!”

They move through setting up camp with rote efficiency, exchanging tools between hands without pause, wandering off in tandem to pull up handfuls of dried twigs and grass, and finishing their work with a spark of flint over their gathered kindling and a hastily arranged rock pit. Setting up camp all happens without them needing to communicate a word to each other about the task itself. 

Normal. 

Normal for them, at any rate.

Wolfwood closes his eyes for a moment as the fire crackles at his feet to focus on the breeze as it picks up and brushes over his cheeks, lifts the ever-errant fringe of his dark hair away from his face. He’s tired too.

But they’re alive.

Vash lets out a hiccup and attempts to chuckle, only for him to snort and sniffle afterwards due to the fluid in his nose and throat. He backs off, still maintaining a hand around Wolfwood's waist to keep him and himself stable. "I think snot is the least of your concerns right now, yeah? If it makes you feel better, I can handle the laundry when we make it to an inn, honey."

Ah... if only all they had to worry about was who was doing what chores. Vash would gladly take all of the laundry duties if it meant Wolfwood could spend his mortal days in mundane bliss. All the laundry and more.

Thinking that way is dangerous.

"But fine. I, Vash the Stampede, promise you, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, that I will not die if you do not die. The length of this agreement is... until the rest of our lives. We can draft a contract or something in town, because this is legally binding!" he waves his left hand in the air with a vague gesture, then lets go of him to retrieve pieces of their camping gear. Is he being serious? Who knows—Vash has never really signed a contract before.

He makes a lot of promises to a lot of people, but this promise is the most important. It's more of a vow than a contract.

"I'm so tiiired," Vash whines, not convincing anyone, "When did you get so heavy? It was like I was flying with two sacks of rocks..." It's obvious that Wolfwood wants a change of topic, and Vash wouldn't mind talking about stuff that... doesn't make him cry, thanks. He doesn't let the genuine tears flow often, but when it rains it pours—or so they say. He's never seen rain either.

"Maybe I should make you do all the work instead; my arms hurt..." he swoons blearily, feigning fatigue. It's not wrong to say he's fatigued, but they both are. They'll set up camp together as always, despite Vash's dramatic complaints.

He spins on a heel, flashing Wolfwood a devilish smirk, "Then I get to watch you work. All according to plan."

[wolfwoocl]

"Don't you want a better life?"

Sad eyes. He always asks questions like that with such sad eyes, as if the irony of the question is totally lost on its asker. Wolfwood gathers up the scraps of his patience, takes a breath, and releases it as a sigh. Managing, somehow, not to dwell on the depths of the sorrow that reflects back at him.

"Don't you?"

[wolfwoocl]

[WOUND]: after the receiver has been wounded, the sender tries to keep them calm and conscious by cupping their face in their hands and talking to them to keep them focused.

"I ever tell you your eyes are beautiful?" Wolfwood slurs dreamily as the world begins to fade from the corners of his vision. Up close, far away; distance was never really an issue. 

His hands are starting to feel cold. Blood loss tends to do that. Shock skipped him right over the 'rage against the powers that be for dear life' stage and right into the calm waters of acceptance. Or maybe that's because it's Vash steadying him now, and for all his boneheaded ideas the Humanoid Typhoon manages one way or another to find solutions to problems most people would have never bothered to fix.

Take for example, the highly trained assassin parading about the desert under the guise of a priest now bleeding out on Vash the Stampede's lap. At least he never claimed to be a good priest. That’d be comedic. A laugh starts to bubble up in his throat but dies into a cough and a raggedy breath speckled with blood.

Compared to his twin brother, Vash is practically a saint. Presently, there are two Vashes now in his vision. He's pretty sure the other one isn't Vash's brother.

Yeah. Leave it to Vash to decide that some random shithead at first glance is worth fixing. 

“Stupid…” he mutters, berating himself as he clumsily paws at the crumpled front of his jacket. He can’t get his fingers to curl enough to peel it back. The blood isn’t helping. Slick and slippery and goddamn frustrating. Where the hell is it all coming from?

[wolfwoocl]

"Where did you go?"

“Who wants t’know?” he asks, purposely obtuse. It would be so easy to lie, like smearing ink across a page to obscure any real meaning behind the words. The filter caught between his teeth wags as he stuffs his hands into his pockets and leans up against the wall space adjacent to the door of Vash’s room.

His cigarette isn’t lit. The people of Ship Three hadn’t much taken kindly to the sight of them when he pulled one from his breast pocket without the chance of even putting it up to his lips. Sure, folks were nice enough on the outside. Their stares, however, judged him differently than their words and welcomes. A wild animal loosed in their hallways.

This is not his first time surrounded wall to wall by spacefaring technology. He has no particular love for it. Not the immaculate surfaces, the sanitized smell, brushed metals, and confined spaces. 

So he did the logical thing.

“Went for a walk,” Wolfwood answers, looking at Vash. More specifically, he went looking for some part of this damn ship that didn’t smell like scrubbed air. The green dome would have been his first choice, but there were too many people there. 

From his pocket, Wolfwood pinches the quill of a bright blue feather and flicks it off in Vash’s direction.

“Found the onboard tomas stalls.”

[wolfwoocl]

"When was the last time you took a break?"

"Since your spiky ass started complicating my life? Never." Wolfwood barks a laugh from somewhere behind the other side of the shitty hovel they’ve chosen to haunt. It’s a good thing that Vash cannot see his face from here, because he isn’t sure he could wrangle it into something that looks human at present. Not with the exquisite cocktail of self-loathing, regret, guilt, and fear threading through his veins.

What they have chosen is little more than a lean-to supporting itself off the side of some neglected warehouse in the far reaches of JuLai’s towering splendor. 

Not that anything in JuLai is truly abandoned.

Every piece has its place. Every fixture, every building, every person, because that’s just how Conrad Williams is, because the good Priest fancies himself a temporarily embarrassed God and playing with human lives is the closest Knives has ever allowed him to come to such heights. Just as the delusional rise to the top, the disillusioned fall to the bottom. The forgotten. The lepers. JuLai’s underbelly is not a pretty one; riddled with open sores and beggars and refuse. A place out of sight of mind, for high society to turn up their noses and scoff at when they deign to remember that it exists. 

If only it were bigger, it would take them longer to climb it. If only Wolfwood could do anything but count the hours they have left. If only he could count those hours on more than one hand.

In every trade, Vash the Stampede always seems to lose. This time, he’s part of the deal and he doesn’t even know it. Maybe he does, and maybe Vash has already forgiven him, because that would be the Vash thing to do and that just makes it fucking worse. 

“The Military Police are all on high alert looking for you, Tongari. No point in getting caught right on their doorstep.” A plume of smoke escapes the corner of his mouth as he stifles the urge to scoff at himself. “It’s fine. We’re already this close. I’ll keep watch ‘til we get there, and you can get all the beauty sleep you need.”   

[wolfwoocl]

Partner. Partner seems about right. They’ve long since passed the point of are they aren’t they between one near-death experience and the next.

“Only one of us is the Humanoid Typhoon and it ain’t me.” 

Vash has no qualms about stepping in to provide his assistance, and Wolfwood can’t help the flush warming over the bridge of his nose as the weight of Vash’s palms spread over his chest. He hoods his eyes to the kiss, and God keeping up with Vash takes nothing short of all his self control. 

The last damn thing he was thinking about just now was a shitty beer when Vash was happily feeling him up in the middle of the street. Too much blood flowing in one direction and not the other, and Wolfwood utters a sound somewhere between a growl and a whine as Vash sets them eye-to-eye. 

Vash the Stampede is certainly never as unaware as he pretends to be. If he has to hope that Vash never noticed anything, then he’s already fucked. Lead us not into temptation, except if temptation happens to be your Plant-angel-alien-boyfriend and the most beautiful person he’s ever laid eyes on. 

He wisely keeps that thought to himself.

“Is that so? Now why would I let you get me drunk?” Nicholas draws even closer, following the outline of Vash’s waist with his hands and holding him by the hips. “Don’t tell me a nice guy like you has some kinda ulterior motive? How uncouth.”

"Me?!" Vash reacts immediately to Wolfwood's insistence to cling by holding him by the thighs as though this interaction was fully intended. He swings his head around to try to face the man on his back, but fails—especially when his knuckles grind into his temple. He can't help but pout at his companion, nearly forgetting about the woman before them.

"Oh, no no, this is my part... ner...?"

And there she goes.

Damn. Vash was really enjoying being drunk; it's a shame he had to sober up for the sake of keeping the peace. C'est la vie.

"Well that ruined the mood," the blond pouts again as he lets Wolfwood down and folds his arms, "And I think you were the one who scared her off, mister. She thought I was being mugged!"

Smiling softly, Vash takes Wolfwood's disheveled lapels and straightens them, then flattens his palms against his chest. The soothing rhythm of his heartbeat plays like a drum, and he must not be completely sober, because the sensation flutters like feathers in his chest. Bubbly giggles rise to his mouth through his throat and from his lungs as he closes the distance between them, still attached to Wolfwood.

This is a man who nearly died for him. But he's not dead. He's here. Alive.

"Guess we just gotta drink again!~ C'mon, you didn't even get drunk, did you? Can't have that, nope."

His hands instinctively grab at the muscle before the blond presses against Wolfwood with his own full chest, placing them forehead to forehead. Vash's pupils dilate with fondness and intrigue; his Cheshire smile suddenly reveals just how quickly the Plant can switch from sober to drunk.

So what if he's playing it up a little? He just wants to have a little more fun...

[wolfwoocl]

Life is short. Perilously so. He survived where so many other children of blessing did not because he wanted to live, even if the brightness of living dulled every time he let blood, as the air hissed above his skin and his breathe escaped his lungs as an icy vapor. His own blood. The blood of others. Bandits, murderers, thieves, sinners. 

How much simpler life could be if his heart did not pump his blood through his veins, reminding him of his own mortality and the cage wrapped around it. If he could look at Vash and see nothing but the monster that his brother is. 

Nicholas is as enthralled as he is terrified. 

He can feel the traitorous, palpitating organ fluttering behind the wall of his sternum even now. With a freehand, he scruffs at the back of his neck. Some paltry attempt to look blasé about pouring his innermost desires in front of the very object of them while the bridge of his nose and cheeks burn.

And burn.

Vash keeps talking, and Wolfwood can’t figure out whether the least embarrassing option is to maintain eye contact while obviously flustered or look away and make a total ass of himself. The latter technique which he has used to great effect more than once before, but this time… 

“Damn right you are, Needle-noggin. I’m no one,” he huffs, squaring up like he’s about to give Vash a good thumping. “Least of all a good guy.” 

God. He can’t even try to sound mean about it. Just fond, impossibly so as he tips back on his heels and stares up at the recessed lights in the ceiling with a long-suffering sigh. When he comes back down to earth (or as close to it as he dares to without burning up along the way, in any case), Wolfwood slings an arm around Vash’s shoulders alongside the clinking of the mugs hanging off his fingers. 

“You’re right about a few things, though. I’ve got your back.” Even if Vash has a tendency to get himself into the worst kind of situations. No one who valued their life in the slightest would ever consider it. Key phrase and all that rolled in.  He’ll spare the Humanoid Typhoon the sermon this time. 

All this talk of feelings has him ravenous to replace the buzzing his head and chest with food in his belly. 

“The hell was it you were tryin’ to put in my face the other day? Never seen have the stuff they make in this place in my life.”

Vash forgets to breathe. Forgets how to breathe as he stares wide-eyed into dark pools. They capture him, put him back into zero gravity, and turn his brain to static.

It's a bad idea—to get close, to be liked or—or—

He hasn't felt like this in over a century; he hasn't allowed himself to. Have there been moments of weakness? Sure. But he was always strong enough to fight away the feelings. This? Right now?

Vash isn't sure he's strong enough. He's not sure he wants to be strong enough. In fact, were he any weaker, he'd want to stay here with Wolfwood as long as he could; he'd give the man the peace and love he deserves. Thought he doubts that the priest would say yes, Vash wishes the people aboard Home could extend his life the way they've extended theirs, even if it means losing him to sleep a few years at a time...

But that's selfish.

Even more selfish, perhaps, is the fact that losing any number of years that he'd be spending together with Wolfwood is catastrophic.

Years together? But that'd be... perhaps too intimate? Heavy?

Swallowing down his fear—because if Wolfwood is able to, why can't he?—Vash grips the warm hand inside of his palm. He wants to make a joke, something self-deprecating, but that would discount everything Nicholas is braving the world to tell him. It would throw away the fact that the priest used his name...

"You," he starts, blinking dry eyes and swallowing saliva, "Want to be with me?" His voice cracks under the pressure of such a simple question. It's simple, yet it makes his heart pound and his voice crack.

He's stunned long enough for Wolfwood to shuffle on and find something else to occupy himself with. That must've taken so much for him to admit. If it were just a friendly admission, it would've been easier, but the way he acted was quite... fond.

Vash scrambles to him after he picks up the cups and slams into him with a hug as Wolfwood turns around to ask about the bracelets. His arm grips around his body; his cheek slots perfectly onto his collarbone. "I'm happy you're here, Wolfwood. I can't... I can't imagine a life traveling without you by my side anymore. However this ends up looking," Vash gestures with his nose and chin vaguely, relatively towards Wolfwood's nearest hand, "There isn't anyone I trust to have my back more than you. You're a real good guy, you know? I've always known. Always."

For someone like the wandering Humanoid Typhoon to admit a clear desire for companionship despite the dangers is the closest he can come to saying 'I love you.' They both know that.

He releases Wolfwood, his face a red mess of wet eyes and hot blush, "Un-unless I'm misinterpreting you?"

Vash hopes that the clear analysis that he's giving Wolfwood's lips has to do with that interpretation. He really hopes he's not wrong about this, whether he regrets it later or not.

[wolfwoocl]

He searches, desperately, through the calm, misty blue of Vash’s eyes for any sign at all of a lie and finds none. Vash explains himself with far too much patience. Soft, slow, and soothing, as though he were tucking a loved one into bed. 

Or to rest.

Exactly how long has Vash had to think, to internalize all his sadness, his loss, and his infallible optimism?

There’s something else. Fleeting. He wants to hone in on it; the pained flicker in Vash’s expression, and he’s about to, mouth open, brows knit, except– Wolfwood bites his tongue. He draws a breath, releases Vash, casts a guilty glance aside and… Thinks the better of pressing further into this line of questioning. He’s demanded enough of Vash already, and even his brief intrusion was a gross overstep.

Vash’s ideals are completely idiotic and unrealistic, so why does the insanity of it all make so much damn sense? 

Wolfwood scrubs at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, only to look back at Vash when the same question he posed is flipped on him. He bristles. Wrong. Vash is wrong.  They’ve known each other all of a few months, and Vash doesn’t get to summarize it all with rose-tinted glasses. 

The Punisher hunts Sinners for a living, granting them judgment and deliverance in one package. Hate, of course he hates. He hates himself, for Christ’s sake.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Spikey.” 

In a manner of speaking. 

“There’s plenty I hate ‘bout humanity. We’re greedy, selfish, sons of bitches, Needles. We resolve our differences through violence, we lie, we cheat, we steal. We kill because it’s easier to.” Wolfwood hisses spiced smoke out between his teeth, a brief reprieve from his bitter diatribe. Then, after a continued beat of silence, his voice gentles. “I guess, we’re not all terrible. Shortie and Roberto are alright.”  

Last chance, Punisher.

Life has hand wrapped and gifted him plenty of regrets. Vash sits at the top of that pile, the crowning cherry on top. He doesn’t want forgiveness. Doesn’t deserve it. They may never speak again after this, and he will disappear from Vash’s life forever (and that knowledge stings, tightens like a closed fist, pulping the dead thing behind his ribs). But at the very least, he wants Vash to know–

“I still think you’re a fool with no damn sense. Somehow, you’re way smarter than most people give you credit for. You’re about as scary as a wet paper bag. You’re incapable of putting your own needs ‘fore others’. Your heart’s bigger than your spikey head. You…deserve better.”

Sappy. Stupid. He did it though, put his truth out there to let Vash make of it what he will. 

“Look, either get some shuteye or don’t. We’re going up to the tower tomorrow. In the meantime–” Wolfwood takes a moment to look around at their surroundings, the shadows of the city, the scavengers shuffling close to the walls in search of scraps, anywhere but Vash, “I’ll be here.” 

Vash finishes the song, blinking away bleariness only to let out a hitched breath as Wolfwood suddenly grabs him by the shirt collar and drags him closer. The sudden action shocks him, but he relaxes—this is Wolfwood. He's not in danger, the undertaker won't hurt him, Vash knows he won't.

Did Wolfwood reach out and touch him while he was singing? It's as if he was staring but vacant—Vash can't remember exactly what happened in the last thirty seconds when he sang. What is this reaction, and why is it happening?

Dilated, interested pupils return to Vash's crystalline eyes, runic patterns disappear into the unnaturally flawless skin of his face—smooth, pale skin only interrupted by the mole under his left eye. Familiar fondness, adoration, reflects against frustration, pain. He wants to soothe—wants to help, just like he told Wolfwood in the sewer—all he needs to do is let Vash in.

"Wh—Wolfwood, what's wrong? What happened? Why are you—" It's no use if they're both shooting each other with questions at the same time. If this is the last chance the two have to talk—to really talk—Vash supposes he owes his protector some answers.

"There's not much to understand... Is it so wrong to love humanity?" His brows tilt up, his voice is soft, there's a lull to his voice that seems to retain the same energy of the plantsong he sang, "Everyone's got something they care about. For me, that's what humanity is. Every person has a chance to be a different person tomorrow than who they are today—I want to protect that choice."

humanity should hate you you deserve every wound, every shout, every heartbreak— you did this to them

"Someone I cared about a lot phrased it kinda like this: We're all given a blank ticket at birth. We'll go on our own journeys, live our lives, but if you don't like the path you've taken then... You fill in the destination, and you go, and you don't turn back. The people who love you will come too."

He can't mention the reason for the sacrifices he makes. He can't bring himself to do it—what if Wolfwood—

Vash swallows, trying and failing to hide the glimmer of fear in his expression.

"A-anyway, humanity shouldn't have to pay for the wrongs of a few. It's not worth going through life with a heart full of hate when there are beautiful things in this world worth saving."

would've been better if you hadn't killed them—

"You've been wronged too, by humans," he tries to change the subject before he lets more of his feelings slip through, "Why don't you hate them?"

[wolfwoocl]

Some people don’t deserve to be saved, he wants to snap back. They’ve gone down the road of this particular argument before, and he isn’t in the mood to go chasing his own tail after Vash had just finished saving his life. God, of course he’s grateful, but damned if Vash’s reasoning didn’t make him want to throttle that spiky-headed idiot with his bare hands every so often.

Vash holds him so tenderly, and with more care than he has ever felt deserving of for most of his life. 

He’s such a fucking hypocrite; as much of a hypocrite as he accuses Vash of being.

“Please,” Nicholas gruffs, clasping his hand to Vash’s nape and rubbing soothing circles into the muscles of his neck with his thumb. “Y’know I can’t leave yer ass alone for more’n five minutes without you gettin’ into some kinda trouble.”

Wasted seconds were never an option. The acrid scent of propellant filling his nostrils and the gunpowder on his fingers became so intimately familiar he hadn’t noticed the holes those bullets carved into his pockmarked soul. He stopped hesitating. 

But now, more than ever… 

“Funny ya mention it, I was thinkin’ the same thing.” Wolfwood pauses, closing his eyes and breathing in Vash’s scent to turn his own thoughts away. Something vaguely flowery, salty and musky from exertion. 

“I know, Spiky. I know,” he sighs, holding even closer to steady the fine tremors that continue to wrack Vash’s body. Gently, he cradles Vash’s head.

Of course he’s aware of his own damn mortality. Every day he can stand to stare death in the eye and follow the Humanoid Typhoon wherever he sets down, and yet breathing a word of the possibility of his own demise is what makes it feel real.

 A pair of oxymorons locked into a stalemate.

“Alright, fine. I promise not to die if y’promise not to die either.” It’s foolproof. Why didn’t he think of this earlier?

“Now quit blubberin’ all over my suit and help me take stock for camp.” Harsh words on a soft tongue, Wolfwood tries to steer the conversation away from potential futures and back to the present. “...Need to repair all the damn holes in my jacket again.”

"I have to try," Vash responds with a whisper, "You know I have to try."

He knows that Wolfwood can empathize with the weight of guilt, but only Vash—and his brother, he supposes—have to grapple with the shame of tens of thousands of deaths aboard optimistic, starbound ships. The worst disaster known to mankind on Gunsmoke, but also the birth of humanity on Gunsmoke. It's terribly ironic.

"Some people have never felt what it's like to be saved."

Vash tucks him back where he was before. He strokes the scruffy hair on the back of his head, presses a cheek to the side of his head... He lets the moment simmer like this, selfishly enjoying each second that passes with the priest's lips to his neck.

"I'm not saying you'd have to run forever. I just... I want you to run, take care of yourself, and then—if you're able to—you can come find me. I don't want your plan to include you dying because you didn't take care of yourself first. I want there to be a plan. I can't—you can't die. Not for me. I don't know what I'd..."

He swallows back a sob.

"I don't know what I'd do if you died for me," Vash's leather-gloved grip tightens in Wolfwood's hair, "So... don't. Please don't. Don't leave me alone like that—I—I..."

His hands shift, one tightly against Wolfwood's back, the other between his shoulders. Vash's entire body shudders with a sob.

"Y-you weren't breathing, Wolfwood! You—you were cold, and your pulse and—and—you can't just dismiss it like it doesn't matter!" Knees tremble, threaten to give in. The sob worsens, the mask shatters. He knows he's the pot calling the kettle black—but Wolfwood talks as though he comes that close to death often. That close, as if people can—as if Vash can—just get over his death.

"I know I can't stop you, b-but I can't go with you if you die. I don't even—" he takes a deep breath, "If there is an afterlife, I don't think I can go. If you die—that's it."

[wolfwoocl]

The scent of singed flesh has barely cleared his nostrils and he can already see Vash examining him with that bleak, guilty wince. Every Goddamn time. If they had the time, he’d be shaking Vash by the shoulders right about now to dislodge whatever stupid ideas were taking root in his brain. Time might convince Vash if not another handful of ill-advised electrocutions. Evidently the word of a priest doesn’t amount to much these days. He wouldn’t be here if he were truly afraid of traveling in the Humanoid Typhoon’s wake.

For now, they dart through the streets, bound over stacked barrels and crates, weave through clotheslines, and scurry across the rooftops. All eyes are trained on the red tails of Vash’s coat as calls to follow go out. They aren’t focused on him. Fear pulls them to Vash.

“Well, that won’t do,” Wolfwood mutters under his breath, dashing down a parallel alley and grabbing a milk crate in each hand. He throws both out, scattering empty bottles into the thoroughfare as law enforcement gives chase along the main thoroughfare. Satisfied with the yelps of confusion and breaking glass, he quickly spies a path up to a balcony using exposed vigas jutting from mud plaster as handholds. 

No unorthodox route goes untraveled without an ear-splitting shriek or two when he blunders past some poor woman’s living room after climbing in through her window. He helps himself to a fresh, heaping plate of spaghetti off the edge of the dining table while dodging a thrown frying pan.

“Sorry, lady! Ain’t got time to explain,” he yells, tossing out a handful of crumpled double dollars from his pocket as an empty can of tomato paste goes flying past his head. Some of it splatters against his cheek and across the popped collar of his shirt.

Spaghetti in hand, Wolfwood launches from the top rail of her balcony and lands in a crouch inside their hotel room. There, the Punisher leans shadowed from the sun. He wrenches it up by the strap. Any vines lingering at its base disintegrate as he hefts it against his back proceeds to rendezvous with Vash.

His ears are still fucking ringing.

“Needle-noggin!” he shouts, more to announce his presence as he hefts the weight of the Punisher entirely to one side to keep the saddle clear as he throws a leg over his bike and throws it into gear as Angelina’s engine roars to life. 

They really need to look into getting a damn sidecar. 

The Humanoid Typhoon is somewhere nearby, but Nicholas feels no present need to verify exactly where. It goes without saying that their paths would converge here. An instinctive glance to the rooftops, and he hollers, “Get on!” as a fresh wave of bullets pepper the ground behind Angelina’s rear wheel.

Driving straight is no problem, but turning represents a challenge when he’s carrying the Punisher in one hand and balancing a plate of pasta in the other. Keeping his knees braced against the sides of the Angelina, Wolfwood releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he finally spies the head of familiar blond spikes just by the edge of his periphery.

The front wheel is starting to wobble.

Adrenaline swoops through his stomach and throat while his heart pounds in his ears. They can still pull this off, even with enraged townspeople behind them.

“Take the handlebars! Ohh, fuck, oh God.” 

Vash can only watch the scene unfold in front of him in horror as the shock blasts Wolfwood mercilessly. Sure, the man can heal it up with vials but...

A shock like that could kill a man.

Any other man would've died.

He... could've killed the one person who stands behind him through thick and thin, his best friend, his partner—oh, oh...

Bile rises in the back of his throat, and he can feel himself freeze to the ground, but Wolfwood is right. Staying here would be dangerous for both of them, so he... he has to leave. A part of him says to leave, to run and run and never turn back; that he's too dangerous to be around—but these are the same thoughts that led to all this in the first place.

Soundlessly, Vash mouths the word, 'Okay,' before turning to bolt. He can feel the tears threatening to spill as he zigs and zags through tight corridors and alleyways; even as his lungs cry out for air, his throat feels like it's closing up. It's pathetic, crying and running away like this—he doesn't deserve to cry about it, he just needs to run—

No. No, Wolfwood just nailed it into his head that he would stay. They're... they're partners. If he ran it'd hurt him more than the shock did, probably.

Wolfwood loves him, and Vash loves him in turn—more than anything.

Fully distracted, Vash rounds a corner into a wide street. Angelina is a few blocks away—so close, yet so far—and the sounds of footsteps and clacking guns and shouting draws ever nearer. He needs to find high ground, get on top of one of these buildings, something before he gets caught and causes more trouble for Wolfwood.

The red tails of his coat billow behind him as he leaps onto a dumpster, then a fire escape—nearly taking the latter down with him as he climbs up the rusted iron ladder and stairs. Shots ring out from below; a few bullets graze his coat, some go wide and shatter brick or glass. Someone is seriously trying to use a sawed-off shotgun from a distance, which Vash has to admit is quite optimistic (and very loud).

With unnatural speed, the blond leaps from building to building, taking small breaks behind rooftop structures for cover. At the end of the road however, a lone man in a leather duster guards the way out of town with a rifle over his shoulder and a revolver holstered at his side.

That's the sheriff? He looks like an outlaw!

'Shit.'

His back can shrug off bullets without issue, but his front is typically vulnerable. It's dangerous, but Vash needs to run parallel to Angelina before Wolfwood catches up—he can't give away the location of their getaway ride, or else the man might do something to it.

The next building is taller than the one he's currently on, and doesn't have a fire escape—just windows to scale it. It'll be risky, but he needs the high ground, so Vash makes the leap, managing to catch a windowsill and heave himself up, then up again.

A rifle shot rings out, and Vash can feel it—the bullet strikes him in the back of his thigh, then another in the same leg but lower this time. Unfortunately, the man is a good shot and called his shot in the small, weakly-armored space between where his coat covers and the protection of his knee-high boot.

It's fine! It's fine it's fine it's fine it's fine—

He manages to scale the building without getting hit again, and rests out of sight until he can hear the pounding of Wolfwood's steps as he runs carrying the Punisher. He'll deal with the bullets later.

[wolfwoocl]

Yeah. Okay. That fucking hurts. He blinks stupidly as light lances through his hands, branching like lightning against a darkened sky beneath his skin. The burning comes after, splitting flesh that darkens at the edges and shredding through the sleeves of his coat and shirts. All that, and Wolfwood has just enough time to shatter the glass between his teeth before the final expulsion of energy sends him flying backwards and skidding across the dirt.

Dazed, Wolfwood stares at the cloudless sky as trails of vapor rise into the air at either side of him and ruined skin knits itself back together. Nothing to be done about his clothes at this point, but that’s an acceptable loss. 

Considering he’s only had a hotel room and the destruction of an entire city to compare against, this outcome is…not so bad. Better to err on the side of caution. They both already have enough guilt to share between them. 

Despite hearing Vash’s approaching footsteps from afar, Wolfwood doesn’t move from his prone position on the ground.

“I. Um.” 

He spits out glass onto the ground beside his head, then licks away the tang of serum lingering between his teeth. Breathe. 

“Just gonna stay here for a minute to catch my breath if ya don’t mind.”

Pedestrian traffic has come to a standstill as the dust settles. He can hear them whispering, voices tinged with fear. These people don’t understand what they just witnessed, only that it looked decidedly explosive and deadly. Not good. 

“Somebody get the sheriff!” a man cries from a nearby balcony.

If Vash hadn’t already noticed the souring sentiment in town, he definitely would have noticed now.

Groaning, Wolfwood throws his weight forward and hops up to his feet. He wastes no time in leading Vash by the sleeve, graduating from sleeve to lower back to herd him away from the open street. 

“Gonna make a run to grab the Punisher from the room.” Nicholas glances back at Vash, looking pained and apologetic. “Tongari…” 

It’s not fair.

“Promise, we’ll get you some donuts later to make up for today, alright? I’ll nick you something on the way out of town. Gotta get some food in you, at least.”

Even through the energy coursing through him, Vash manages to let out a squawk as Wolfwood scoops him up bridal-style and absconds with him outside. It's uncomfortable to have so many people seeing his glowing patterns like this; he notices onlookers 'ooh'ing and 'aah'ing at the purple glow. No one seems to see this as imminent danger.

Well, Wolfwood does. Perhaps... he sees it as too much danger, but one can never be too careful when it comes to this kind of stuff. He hopes it's not bad enough to require a vial, it was only a room full of the creeping tendrils, but his companion does seem to have the right idea.

"O-okay, if you say so—just pretend it's static!" Vash tries to explain it in a way that might make sense in the few seconds Wolfwood has to prepare himself before Vash reaches for his hands. He can hardly bare to look.

Vash takes Wolfwood's hands in his and releases the stored up energy.

It's a quick burning sensation. Vash can feel every hair on his body stand up—including the hair on his head—as the bright purple light transfers from his hands to Wolfwood's. The shock that courses through Vash is nothing compared to the shock Wolfwood gets with even the briefest of interactions. He can feel himself repelled as though he withstood a small explosion—which perhaps happens more than he'd like it to.

... It's probably what it feels like right now for the undertaker, as Vash releases his hands and watches in fear as he sends Wolfwood flying towards the other side of the town square.

"Oops—"

[wolfwoocl]

An infectious sensation threatens to spill from his lips, but his energy is wasted trying to fight the laughter that rises alongside the sound of Vash's.

"Think yer funny, Needle Noggin? I'll shake every last double dollar out of ya, swear to God. Recompense for all those damn half-empty bottles."

Wolfwood remains (uncomfortably and stubbornly) attached to Vash even after he springs up from the ground like a worm in a can. So much for hopelessly drunk. Vash's recovery speed, or the impression of it, never fails to impress. Unlatching one arm from around Vash's ribs, he grinds his knuckles into Vash's temple to impart some modicum of common sense.

"They're talkin' about you, numb nuts!" he growls, ignoring the saucer-eyed blinks of the bystander watching two grown men comically wrestle with each other even after one has managed to stagger to his feet with his companion willfully latched onto him.

"I...um...It was a mistake!" the woman stammers, taking haphazard steps in reverse before scurrying back down the street in the direction she came from.

One foot down, then the other, touching back on the ground as though he'd climbed down from a great height, Wolfwood straightens up and halfheartedly smooths down the front of his shirt. "Tch. Look it that, scarin' off the locals."

"Ahahaha~ Hehehehee!"

Vash can't stop laughing, even as Wolfwood tackles him to the ground. There's something comfortable about this, something so incredibly Vash and Wolfwood about it, that tickles the back of his mind in a satisfying way. Their last few stops have been nothing but trouble (and trauma, but we don't talk about that). It's nice for things to work out for once.

...Or so he thinks, as he quickly sobers up at the pitch of a scream for help. Vash expresses his strength by rolling Wolfwood off of him so he can stand to his full height and dust off his backside. He immediately jolts into action, swiveling his head for the man who is getting mugged.

"Where?" Vash turns to the shouting witness, his legs positioned to bolt after any ne'er-do-wells, "Which direction did they go? Are they armed?"

The movement unfortunately churns the contents of his stomach, so he can't help his stagger as they threaten to come up. He hunches over, cognizant of where Wolfwood is and facing away from him, and covers his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.

A couple dry heaves later, Vash manages to control the nausea and returns his attention to the shaken witness. Bashful, he rubs the back of his head and offers an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. Now—where's the mugger?"

[wolfwoocl]

“That’s stupid,” Wolfwood counters immediately with a flash of teeth. “I’m not–” I can’t “--C’mon, that’s not fair. You know I’d still come for ya, Tongari. I’m not goin’ anywhere without ya.” For as long as he knew Vash was still out there, somewhere, somewhere he could still reach, somewhere he could find, alive, because considering anything less than that doesn’t bear thinking about. They both have so much to do, but if anyone stands a chance in achieving anything on this Godforsaken planet, it’s Vash the Stampede.

He scowls and jerks his gaze away and down to the scattered pebbles at his feet with his fists curled tightly into his sleeves. So maybe Vash doesn’t age all these one hundred fifty years or the next, or even the next century after that, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s seen Vash bleed, spilled his own blood like any other man. If he can bleed, he can die. 

“Yeah, well, I’m used to it,” he drawls, stepping up beside the sidecar. 

God, he needs a smoke. Wolfwood breathes out a low sigh and starts fishing in his pockets. “You aren’t the only one who’s gone through the blender and come out the other side.” 

Sleight of hand, click, click, hss, produces a short-lived mote of flame to light up the cigarette caught between his lips. He puts both hands on Vash’s shoulders, making eye contact, then slides both hands down under his armpits to bodily lift Vash out of the sidecar. 

“Alright, up y’go.” Wolfwood moves his hand down the span of Vash’s back, coming to a rest at the small of it before looping around his waist properly to support his weight. 

“Just…” 

Frustrated, Wolfwood scruffs at the already-mussed hair at his nape, then plucks the cigarette from his lips in time to bury his face into the crook of Vash’s neck and breathes in the scent of him, grounds himself in the warmth of pale skin touched to his lips. There, he notices for the first time that Vash’s hair has darkened at the roots, and something about the color bothers him in a way he cannot put into words.

“You forgive them when they’d sooner put you in the dirt. You help them even if they don’t deserve it. You try, even if they’re not worth the effort, all of this, all on your own, and–” He pulls back, holding Vash’s gaze and willing him to understand for once in his damn life.

“...I wish you wouldn’t.”

Maybe he’s selfish for that, maybe he’s greedy for wanting Vash not to give parts of himself away so freely.  

“You can’t save everyone, Vash.”

Vash knows there's no use hiding his feelings from Wolfwood anymore—they've had this discussion so many times that if he tried now it'd be an insult. The resulting conflict in his mind between the desire to hide away and the need to flay open his own ribcage for his partner has him burying his head further into the sidecar, hands pushing it down, trying to silence the internal voices. He spent the entire ride like this, not bothering to put his goggles on, and yet he still doesn't have a good response.

Wolfwood was on death's door. One foot in death's door.

"I should be the one asking you that," Vash murmurs, monotonous. Serum sticks to his lips like bile that he can't just rinse away in the sink. The memory of Wolfwood's breath fading plays on loop. It's the things like this that make Vash remember why he runs.

Wolfwood would be in more danger if he ran. He'd be searching for him on his own, trying desperately to overtake the hundreds of bounty hunters seeking sixty billion double dollars. Here, Vash can protect him. He should be able to protect him. He... failed.

If Wolfwood were an average human, he'd be dead. If he didn't have serum, if he couldn't regenerate, he'd...

Taking a deep breath and a heavy exhale, Vash thrusts his head back up, making the loose blond strands over his brow bounce. He can't look Wolfwood in the eye yet, but he takes the offered arm and stumbles out of his seat.

...Perhaps it was too optimistic thinking that he had the energy to stand by now. His legs feel like jelly; he nearly collapses, instead choosing to cling to Wolfwood like a heavy weight. Vash can't help the groan that escapes his throat.

"If people like them capture me? I could get myself away from them, no problem." His voice rasps with fatigue and emotion, unnatural for the outlaw. "If someone like Knives, or someone working for him," he continues, disrespecting the irony of mentioning Wolfwood's ex-employer, "If anyone like that captures me—you run. You run, you save yourself, you save whoever you can on the way out—and... and I..."

'I'll figure it out.'

"I'm over a century and a half old, I've been doing this for so long that it's all I know—I'd... I'd be fine."

The people who'd nearly laid them low today were unrelated to his brother, but, naturally, the issue would go thought of but unspoken otherwise.

"Wolfwood, you almost died," Vash emphasizes, exhausted, "This is exactly what I was afraid of happening when we officially became partners." Partners in both definitions of the term.

It goes unnoticed, but the coarse black hair marking the shaved sides of his head seems to creep further and further up, bit by bit.

[wolfwoocl]

“Wise ass.” Wolfwood ignores the skip of his heartbeat when he gets an eyeful of Vash’s pointed (and pointy) grin. 

Vash makes good on his word.

Nicholas has no way to restrain the mortifying whimper at the back of his throat as Vash mouths against his neck, thrilling and gooseflesh inducing and loss just as suddenly. Heat sublimates to a fresh wave of cold fear.

“Vash?” He doesn’t bother worrying about himself despite Vash’s natural inclination to recoil as he approaches, hand outstretched. The sudden shifting hues now lighting the room seems ominous, but all he can focus on is the obvious grimace of pain on Vash’s face. 

“C’mon, Needles. Y’know I’m tougher than that.” 

Take it slow. Don’t fuck this up.

Wolfwood inches forward, sliding the point of his foot across the ground without lifting his heel. 

It’ll take more than a lightshow to scare him off, even if the breath pulled into his lungs is heavy and charged. The urgency in Vash’s voice makes it obvious their window of time to do something is rapidly closing. They need to get out of here. 

Before Vash has a chance to back away, Wolfwood snatches him up. One arm tucked behind Vash’s knees and the other wrapped around his shoulders, he wastes no time shouldering the door open and barreling down the narrow staircase with Vash in tow. 

“Just hang on! I got you.” 

The bottom floor of the hotel is half reception, half saloon. Patrons gasp, curse, and scatter as Wolfwood shoves his way past tables and chairs and through the hanging double doors until the blinding sunlight hits his eyes. The world outside is nothing but white outlines. He keeps moving, pleading silently for his vision to hurry the hell up and adjust before he crashes into some unfortunate soul all the while.

They need a clearing of some sort, away from people. Damn it all. He knows they won’t get that lucky this deep into town. 

“Alright, beautiful. Listen closely to me now.” Wolfwood tucks his chin, touching his lips to Vash’s feverish forehead. Shifting Vash in his arms, he manages to regain enough reach to pull a vial of serum between his fingers and hold the opposite end of the ampoule between his teeth. He can heal through it. He’ll have to.

“I’m goin’ to cover you and you’re goin’ to do what ya need to do. I’ll make sure nobody else gets hurt,” he grits out, dropping to one knee and partially throwing himself over Vash.

Okay, so there is a small pinch of pain when Wolfwood does pluck a flower—but it's nothing he can't handle. It's no greater than the prick of a syringe, and certainly isn't as bad as any of the wounds that have carved scars into his body. His body cringes slightly at the unexpected blip of pain, but quickly recovers.

"So... it turns out that accidentally accessing your inter-dimensional gate during a moment of intense emotion and creating a veritable jungle of plant-like vines takes a bit of energy out of you," Vash scratches at the back of his head, "Yeah. I'm starving. Dunno if I'll make it to a restaurant."

He swoons dramatically, back of his hand to his forehead, "Good thing the perfect snack foolishly stepped into my lair!" Vash flashes Wolfwood a grin full of mischief, displaying his mouth full of teeth that can tear flesh from limb easily. Swifter than what would be considered human, those same teeth meet the meat of the priest's neck as he goes in for the mock bite. Then another. Then another.

The fake bites slowly turn into light kisses that express his amusement, along with a barrage of 'nom nom nom's that he lets out loudly enough for Wolfwood to hear.

Natural light returns to the room as more vines retract. Instead of the usual blue, Vash seems to light up purple with his geometric plant patterns and the lights of his eyes. He twinges at the feeling and backs away, making some distance between himself and Wolfwood suddenly. His fingers grip at the floor unsuccessfully—Vash fully hunches over with heavy breaths until, finally, all of the twisted appendages disappear within the confines of his coat.

With a tight feeling in his chest, Vash recognizes this feeling. It's watered down from before, but he has felt this surge of power once... somewhere. It must have been JuLai. It feels like electricity burning within his veins, threatening to burst forth and explode.

Vash stands up tensely, arms, eyes, and hands clenched as he struggles to contain even the most minor flash of power.

"A-ah, shit—Wolfwood—" The intense pain shakes him. Here is no place to dispel such a shock, he must leave, find an empty spot, something to get rid of just a small burst... Nothing—nothing like before...

"Need to... um... get outside? Probably d-don't... touch me—"

[wolfwoocl]

“You can think of a million ways to save some random goon in the middle of ass-backwards nowhere from the noose but as soon as it comes to yourself you’re suddenly all out of good ideas, are ya?” Nicholas has known this to be the case for a long time, so Vash’s answer does not entirely surprise him.

From Wolfwood’s perspective, the question remains unanswered. Maybe he’s expecting too much. Vash will outlive him, one way or another. Nicholas D. Wolfwood is just one short chapter.

Wolfwood takes another long, silent look at Vash and sighs. Not one of his many, patented long-suffering sort of sighs, but a sigh garnered with nuance and a sad wistfulness matched only by an ominous figure sulking on the ledges of high vantage points in the deep, dark night.

The suggestion of visitation privileges is so appalling he doesn’t know how to address it right now. For now, it serves as a painful reminder, whether intentional or not, of just how good Vash is at habitually keeping people at arm’s length. Vash is already hurrying off, back turned, head down, as if the only weight he’s ever noticed is the same one he’s always carried. Already running away, trying to hide in his own head.

“What if I don’t want a peaceful life?” God only knows what he’d do with it even if he had one. Talking to Vash’s back always makes him feel like he’s chasing a dead end. If the orphanage is taken care of, if Vash is taken care of, he’s happy. He thought he’d learned to pick and choose his battles better by now.

“Me having a better life means not having to wake up to one side of a town turning the other half of town into swiss cheese over a few damn scraps. When we travel together, feels like…Maybe for once humans could get to a point where we can at least make it a month without going for each other’s throats.”

What he describes, really, is hope.

Having provided some sort of answer, even if it was a shitty one, Vash seems to have dismissed himself from the conversation. This time Wolfwood stubbornly digs in his heels and drops the Punisher in the sand without any intention of budging another step farther.“You told me what you think everyone else deserves, not what you want, Needle-Noggin. Give me a real fuckin’ answer for once. And if you really hate havin’ me around so much at least have the decency to say it to my face!”

"Owowowowow—"

Vash quietly sputters and hops on his unbothered leg after even the gentlest bump of the several-hundred-pound weapon aches—if only for a moment. He recovers and regains his balance, then shuffles back into formation next to his companion with an apologetic, hollow smile painted awkwardly on his face. Following up with a quiet chuckle, he can't help but wonder what Wolfwood means. The undertaker-slash-priest-slash-whatever is constantly at the barrel of a gun because of him.

His statement visibly confuses Vash. Wolfwood doesn't have... anything, really. All he has is, well, him. The one man to capture Vash the Stampede, and he's chosen to love him instead of turn him in for cash. And... and well, there's no way that all of the trouble and the hard times and the running outweighs... any of the positives. If there are any.

Naturally sad sky blue eyes connect to Wolfwood's for just the briefest second, but it's enough. It's enough to remember all the times he's been there for Vash, all the times he ran to his side despite the tears and bullets—he's run out of tears to cry about that a long time ago. How can he just say that... he deserves that...

"I don't know what a better life looks like, I guess," Vash admits with the usual sad tremble of his voice, "Probably one where you're safe and happy and you have everything you could possibly want and more..."

He bites the inside of his cheek, thinking. It doesn't really matter where he is—just knowing that Wolfwood and everyone he cares about is safe would be enough.

"And, um, my family would be safe too. Everyone would be! Everyone would have the choice to be... and everyone would have at least one person who cares about them. No one would be alone. (W-well, I might be,) but you'd live a peaceful life, and that's what I really want."

Describing this 'better life' leaves him speaking in a dreamy voice, as though he really is doing something for himself by not doing anything for himself. The thought of doing something selfish never crosses his mind as a possibility; he does have selfish thoughts, but to allow one of them to surface is... not an option.

"I think that's what a better life would be for me," Vash keeps his focus on the grains of sand that disappear under his feet, maintaining an empty smile as he hides his eyes behind his own sunglasses, "It'd be a lot less stressful!"

Years and years and years of being alone and wandering, and yet... it feels so hard to describe a 'better life.' It's all true! It is! Everything he'd ever worked for would be worth it—but... without Wolfwood by his side, could he really say that it's a better life?

Ugh. Love is so complicated. If Wolfwood loves him, he'd... he'd think he'd want Vash there. He could have so much more though... something so much better than him. And it's not like Vash will stop loving him—he's not sure that's possible.

"I... I could come visit...? If you wanted me to visit, a-anyway."

There's a slight sniffle. It's just happy tears, right? He'd be happy. Everyone would be. Everyone would be happy and his life would be better for it. Vash stumbles once, but keeps his pace steady, perhaps just a little faster than Wolfwood so he doesn't have to witness the stupid dewdrops already sparkling on his light lashes.