#blankticket 11

[punisheye]

There are still people he's kind of been dragging his feet about contacting. Being stuck in the house made avoiding those conversations a lot easier, and then he gets pissed at himself for avoiding them in the first place.

He's confrontational, isn't he? Except still fantastic about completely dodging conversations he doesn't care about engaging in. An expert at avoiding questions. There are things people don't need to know.

But this isn't something he can just run away from. He still feels... pretty fucking responsible for everything that happened.

At least now he's able to move around a little easier. Vash still hovers frequently, but he's gotten better at giving Wolfwood space. The new addition to the household, however, wants to be on him every waking moment of the day when she can. The little black cat is stretched out on her back, tucked against Wolfwood's armpit.

Well. What better conversation starter than animal photos, right? People love that shit.

He turns the camera on himself but angles the phone so his face is hidden, all focus on the feline. The photo is snapped, and he sends it off after a few moments of hesitation.

[ text ] Come here and take this thing away she wont leave me alone (image attached) [ text ] No but seriously come here its not negotiable

@blankticket

[bigshot]

Spamton picks through it all with disinterest, though he does go ahead and steal one of those candies once its clear Vash isn't stopping him, "MAYBE NOT!! ! I DID SEE ENOUGH TO KN0W YUOR [[The Genuine Article]], [Holier than Thou], BUT B UT BUT !! [Analogue] [[Screams]] LIE !!! [p i x e l s] DISTR0RT!!!! CANT ALL WAYS TRUST [[Anything You See On TV!]]"

Being warned away from touching a guy's gun is fair enough and Vash's phone is dismissed before he even tries for it, deciding a potential lock screen is too much work, "AND WHO AM I TO [Guessing the right One Wins!!] WHAT KIND OF [[Miracles]] A [Angel] HAS UP THEIR [Hyperlink Blocked] ??? OR IN THERE [Deep Pockets]?!!?!?"

Admittedly, while he'd been a television-aided witness, he'd not cared for the details at the time. Spamton truly had spent the majority of that day deep in twisted prayer...

The reminder is enough, however, to encourage the puppet to swiftly scurry up the much taller man's coat like a particularly large bug, clambering onto shoulders to curiously peek around for anything worthwhile, "C'MON, YOU SERIOUSLY GOT [Nothing At All]]??? IM R34LLY WILLING TO PAY [[a Pretty penny]] FOR [Holy Artefacts]!!! AT LEAST [Throw a Dog a] [[Stigmata]] !!!"

"Eheh… Well! Shucks, Spamton." While he tenses at being called an angel, the pacifist puts a hand against the back of his neck bashfully for the next descriptor that follows, as though "AGRREABLE" were a compliment, or some virtue he had over his counterpart. "Suppose you're right!"

Not much of note in that particular pocket: a matchbook, a honey-flavored roll of lip balm, a few of those strawberry-patterned hard candies. Initially Vash doesn't seem to have a problem in having his inventory rifled through, although he would swat Spamton's curious little paws away from getting close to the pocket closer to his holster, or his holster proper.

There's ammo being kept in that pocket; a leather pouch of .22's. Kept underneath a simple leather strap, Peace Bringer itself is too heavy and too long to be stealthily drawn out from its holster. From where Spamton is, the guy could spot a particular pocket higher along the inside of Vash's jacket, for the fact that his phone is partly sticking up out of it, which happens to be where he keeps a thin flashlight, as well.

It's all woefully feather-free.

"Um, but I—but I wouldn't lie! Honest," Vash insists redundantly. "Feathers're from the other guy, n'maybe his brother. Not me. I mean, you were still around to catch the news last summer, right…?"

There's a guilty, shameful look to his face all at once. That terrible shape that had erupted out from his shoulderblade more than half a year ago, now—that had been televised. The media coverage of the destruction he'd caused that day hasn't been insignificant.

But more to the point, wasn't that wicked growth proof that his true nature was anything but angelic?

[punisheye]

It was already a great feat to reach out to his friend first, actively seeking comfort from him. Vash is warm and solid in his arms, smaller than his own and filling less space in his lap. He's alive and he's breathing and he's letting Wolfwood hold him, hide his face against him.

And he's holding him, too. Hugging him back, firmly but gently.

That gesture is enough to make Wolfwood crumble right there. He burrows his face further into Vash's coat, muffling his weak sobs and gasps followed by pained grunts as the sharp inhalations aggravate his ribs. Both arms remain secure around Vash, his fingers curling into red fabric.

He's curled around him, like a child clinging onto their favorite stuffed toy after a nightmare. Wolfwood isn't loud as he weeps; his body trembles and his breathing is rough, interspersed with the occasional whimper. It's not... tears of grief, necessarily. It's guilt, but also relief. Much-needed catharsis.

His throat hurts. By the time he stops and pulls his head back, his ribs are awfully sore all over again and his eyes are red-rimmed, his face a little messy and damp. Wolfwood slides one hand from Vash's back to mop at his eyes and nose, sniffling.

"...Don't..." Don't what? Wolfwood swallows. His eyes are still burning. They focus on the wet spot on Vash's coat as opposed to his friend's face. "...Worry."

Then, he knocks their foreheads together.

"You done enough for this sad old dog."

Vash is content to lie there with that smile, happily watching the cross-bearer allow himself a rare moment to feel.

From the look on the guy's face, it seems like this was a lot to process, confronted with forgiveness and acceptance point-blank. The pacifist's chest aches dully with the memories of his predecessor's gun, of the Grader. It's like any other scar, now.

When Wolfwood whimpers, though, Vash is quick to worry; was he resting too much of his weight onto his lap?

"Wolfwh—?"

But the movement and body language is enough for him to understand, at once. The healer moves himself to assist his friend in the embrace, focused on being deliberate with his points of contact.

He avoids putting his hand anywhere near visible injury, and the spot on Wolfwood's back right behind his heart, gingerly securing better purchase before reciprocating with that pressure.

Guy needed a hug. Vash wanted his friend to feel held. He can put any other thoughts out of the way for the moment.

[punisheye]

His hand lands back on Vash's chest, feeling that steady thump-thump-thumping of his heart. Wolfwood once upon a time didn't realize just how comforting the sound and feel of a heartbeat really was, even when his own was petering out. The reassurance you're alive, that someone you love is alive. A heartbeat in tandem with his, against his chest, pressed to his back. A heartbeat under his palm, strong and true.

So used to death. Still learning what it is to be alive.

Vash has noticeably eased up, his relaxation less performed, more genuine. That smile, too. Wolfwood resists the urge to pull on his cheeks again.

"You... are so..."

Wolfwood's hands still. Despite it all, the Typhoon's forgiveness baffles him. He's been harmed over and over and still, still wants to remain at the side of humanity. Something with Wolfwood's face shot him dead and he's happy that it's safe. He's not scared of Wolfwood, now.

He still believed in Wolfwood. Faced with the Shadow, with a gun to his gut, a gun to his back, staring up at him from the floor, he still trusted him, believed in the best in him. He was able to accept even the worst parts of him.

A strained sound bubbles up in his throat. Wolfwood's hand on Vash's chest moves to his waist, then circles his arm around it, hauling the young Stampede upright and closer to him. They had hugged once, when Vash had stayed in their home for some weeks. It'd been awkward, clumsy.

Wolfwood's other hand comes up to cradle the back of Vash's head, tucking it against his good shoulder. Arm still around his waist, he squeezes Vash close to him, the pressure against his injuries ignored, and hides his face in the bright red fabric of his coat. Feels that heartbeat against him. He doesn't say anything.

His shoulders shake.

"He was." That's an easy agreement. "Scared, n'hungry, n'lonely."

Vash had tried to help him. His own Wolfwood had tried to stop him. Maybe the two of them never had a chance. Especially not on their own. But he can surmise now that they did, and were bearing the battle wounds to prove it. There's a swell of pride he feels, then, toward the both of these older counterparts.

He'd hastily assumed the worst after noticing that The Bride had made her return. Vash had, after all, directly glimpsed the protective rage the both of them had unleashed, from their respective partner coming into harm; it was terrifying force, and united love. But Livio and Razlo had been spared. After Vash had killed the couple in Archimedes, they offered him shelter, clothes, food. And in the Abyss, over burgers and milkshakes, their younger counterparts had silently agreed on their faith - for their older selves to make things right.

"So even after he hurt the both of you, you showed him mercy together."

It's heartwarming, ultimately, to hear of this compassionate resolution. And a relief, at once; Vash is breathing easier, muscles less tense, thumbs stilled. How the Shadow's existence was possible, what sort of world this new Wolfwood had come from, or whether the pacifist'd ever see the Shadow again, they all felt like the wrong questions to ask. What was done was done.

It's a happy ending anyway, isn't it?

"He's safe, then." Vash's smile softens into something more true. "That's good."

[punisheye]

Saw him— there are those fleeting memories from when he took the shadow into himself. A burst of blood and shards of bone. Gunfire. A glimpse of the corpse of his friend, motionless and still warm in a puddle of his own blood. Blood that Wolfwood saw later, without the body, and with the stench of smoke.

(When he digs in his brain hard enough, reaches out to that shadow, he can recall a cigarette dropped onto soft grass, a century of growth erupting into flames.)

He's kind of absentmindedly petting Vash's hair again. Wolfwood knows his own Vash likes it, but he doesn't know if this one does, but he's not telling him to stop so that counts for something. It's mostly self-soothing right now, but maybe it does something for Vash, too. He feels the slight pick up of his heart beneath his other palm.

There's a tightness in his chest and in his throat. He's killed people over and over again. He's killed friends. But that was before, in another world. The memory that isn't his of his gun being used to shoot Vash dead is becoming clearer.

"He's..." Wolfwood raises his hand from Vash's chest to tap his temple. "Uh, here." Then to his own chest, to his heart. "And here."

It sounds cheesy, doesn't it?

"...I didn't kill him. He was scared, too."

Déjà vu. The line of Vash's mouth falters, then sets back into a smile. As if to say, oh, is that all? His head turns away from Wolfwood for just a moment, expression and voice conveying embarrassment:

"…Aw. You saw me again, huh?"

Meanwhile his heart beats away, strong and steady, slightly picking up in its pace. It had been pressed up against the Stars' life-draining cube to beg for mercy, pressed up against Meryl twice to give her assurance (and to let her assure it, in turn), and now it's here to assure this Wolfwood: hi there, here again, keeping your friend alive best as i can, i promise, please don't worry.

Vash swallows, sighs, swivels his head back to look at the wolf. Sideways, he still finds no problem looking him in the face, smiling again. He's a lot more confident this time around, knowing exactly what not to voice.

"Hey, it's alright. You didn't do that to me, big guy." The look of assurance melts into hesitant curiosity. "What happened to him? The other-other Wolfwood."

[punisheye]

It's driving him a little crazy. They argued, once, when Wolfwood had expressed his own distress over seeing both Stampedes dead—well, it was less of an argument and more of Wolfwood yelling at Vash and making him cry. Again. Wolfwood had to go through a doppelganger killing people he knew for him to finally get it through his head that these people care about him. Vash still seems to think he has to be useful for people to care.

Wolfwood's not gonna pretend to know everything about him, why he does the things he does. Why he's dodging the subject over and over and pointedly ignoring the elephant in the room, smiling and laughing and teasing. But what he knows is he feels like he's about to snap.

The nails on Vash's scalp come to a halt.

"You know that ain't what I mean." His voice sounds a little strained. While his hand remains in Vash's hair, the other goes to rest heavily on his chest, feeling that flutter of a heartbeat that had stilled once because of his own bullshit. How can he not blame himself? "How're ya able to look me in the face after—..."

His tongue feels like it's made of lead.

"Blondie," he tries, slowly. Focusing on that heartbeat beneath his palm. The words are awkward, and his voice is choked, "'m sorry."

There's a flash of surprise on Vash's face when Wolfwood's face only darkens from his antics. Were Vash's punchlines not landing all that well, today? Once the priest voices his thoughts, though, Vash's smile returns—even if playful, it's a gentle sort of derision, to act as though Wolfwood's mood is due to him being too serious and humble.

"You were hurt," he reminds the other, "In the photo y'sent, callin' me over, while I've got two feet n'a heartbeat. Like I said, we're friends! And I did take a moment to grab a little extra for you two. Almost thought you were gonna grumble 'about time' or somethin' to that tune when I came in, honestly."

The pacifist, of course, isn't ignorant as to the true cause of it, nor to the cause of the man's wounds. But so long as Vash was given enough slack so much as not to even make a passing mention of what had happened, he'd keep taking it.

He laughs, lying there with hands innocently folded across his midriff, thumbs slowly twiddling. Used to it, the Plant does nothing to stop from his hair being absentmindedly scritched at like an animal, since it helps him seem harmless, and probably helps his friend relieve a bit of anxiety. He's content to lay there with a domesticated smile, eyes relaying genuine relief and happiness to see Wolfwood again, through the filter of orange glass.

"It's easy to care; 'sides that, you n'Vash care for me so much, too. I don't mind pickin' up the pace a little if it's to help you."

[punisheye]

The hand on Vash's face goes to rest on the top of his head, buried right in that fluffy golden hair. Frustration is eating away at him, because he's... he doesn't understand why Vash is acting like everything is fine. Like something with his face didn't kill him. Wolfwood didn't see the body, but... all that blood, and the smell of something burning, the ship filled with thick smoke.

They aren't talking about it. Maybe they should talk about it.

"Like I said," Wolfwood grumbles. "We got medicine for that."

On the arm of the couch, his little fuzzy roommate is purring away, her eyes shut. She's entirely unaware of whatever mental plight Wolfwood's going through, or what they're even talking about, because she's a cat. Being a cat's probably really easy compared to all this.

Hand still in Vash's hair, he sags back further into the couch, sighing. His eyes don't leave the younger Stampede, however. Wolfwood blinks. The grumpy look on his face only darkens further.

"...Ya came all the way here way too fast," he mutters. His blunt nails lightly scritch over Vash's scalp, like he does with his feline companion, the gesture done without thinking. "Thought that maybe there'd be a li'l more hesitation."

"Eek!" Vash topples over easy.

His half-speed reflexes are still sharp enough to have sensed the pull (and possibly enough to avoid it), but he figures Wolfwood needs this more. Playing along, the Plant lets a grin bloom across his face, open sunniness framed by Wolfwood's tensed fingers.

"Somehow, y'look even grumpier sideways," he laughs.

Vash fixes his crooked glasses by pushing at the edge of the frame with the heel of his palm. Then he uses it to flutter fingers, playfully greeting the cross-bearer.

"M'kayyy. But if I sneeze like this, it's gonna be real gross, y'know!"

[punisheye]

Again, Wolfwood can read Vash like an open book. He's mad that he got told 'no' and he's trying to plot something. The fact he doesn't just leave while Wolfwood can't easily chase him is surprising, but if he did Wolfwood could also guilt him for leaving his poor, injured friend all alone. And he's sick of hearing about li'l Blondie always trying to be useful. Coming by with cigarettes and oranges and menthol patches was honestly useful enough.

It's not like he's worth less to them if he does nothing at all.

Wolfwood hobbles over and sits himself down. He's slapping menthol patches on his shoulders first, and then he's reaching over to grab Vash by the hood of his coat and yank him down. The Typhoon's head hits Wolfwood's lap, narrowly avoids connecting with the injury in his leg.

The priest looks down at him with a huff and unimpressed glare.

"Can't even spend time with a friend. He always wants to go runnin' off somewhere," Wolfwood mutters. His hand forms a claw and he grabs Vash's entire face like that. "You don't think I wanna see ya? It ain't like I called ya here just to bring me smokes."

The expression on his face is... irritated, and a little miserable.

"Just sit still, would ya?"

Vash's ruined the mood—and he knows it. He still plays along as though he hasn't purposefully struck a nerve, letting the hair-ruffle dissolve his serious look back into goofy protest, squawking out a few comedically ugly noises before laughing.

"Aah! My bad, my bad!" Just another stray moment of gloom and nothing more, surely? "Hey, c'mon, all I'm sayin's that I would've come running if you two’d told me you needed a hand, y'know? Heh!"

He's careful to excise anything bitter and serious out of his voice, playing it surgically casual. Really, he'd've liked to phrase it something more like: Why didn't you ask me for help? Either of you? Why doesn't anyone want to let me be of any use? Vash owed them the care, the both of them; but here he was instead, both being denied the chance to provide real help, and only having a measly single bag of palliative aid to show for it.

It's all easy to swallow down with a smile, now that Vash is back up to his old tricks again.

The Plant says nothing about Wolfwood's claim to stop Vash from pushing himself. As if the cross-bearer hadn't just admitted to letting Vash out to bag groceries on a shot-up leg. There is no stopping Vash the Stampede, especially not with Wolfwood's own injuries; doesn't that make it all the more important for the young healer to do his job? He hasn't come all this way just to accept being told 'no' that easily, after all. Given the priest's condition, this would be a perfect opportunity for Vash to slip away and head toward the grocery store to aid his predecessor, but instead he stays compliant, taking his boots off by the side of the sliding door.

Vash takes a seat on the arm of the couch, side-saddle; he gives a little wave over to the cat loafed up on the other arm. Even with his shoes off, he's not sitting for comfort, body language indicating he'd rather be ready to be back on his feet at a moment's notice. Vash figures the pre-established allergy works as solid enough cover for himself, though.

[punisheye]

The orange, half-eaten, gets placed down on the kitchen counter. On top of what he's already dealing with, the reminder of those ghosts and what happened that day stings. He doesn't like thinking about it. Wolfwood goes oddly silent in response, pinching a piece of red netting between his fingers instead.

It's... a sore spot.

"...I'm not lettin' him push himself," he finally says. "And I'm not lettin' this," Wolfwood reaches over, his hand landing on he back of Vash's head to the dark, downy fuzz just under the mop of golden-blonde, "Get any worse. Got it?" He gives his hair an aggressive ruffle, pushing it down over his eyes.

Maybe he's being a little protective. It's not easy to protect someone from their own bad habits. God knows he's tried, and God knows others have tried for him.

He pushes off of the counter. The priest's fingers tap at Vash's elbow, feather-light. He points over to the living room.

"Take yer shoes off 'n' go sit down, will ya?"

"Whoa, there." Vash swivels to the side deceptively fast, chest cleanly dodging the finger-point shot. Facing the priest like a duelist, the rascal smiles in the way that annoys the hell out of any Wolfwood, easy and guaranteed.

"Nah, no funny business here, big guy." A likely story? "I've been a Plant Engineer for somethin' like 150 years running, y'know! Maybe Vash got a li'l antsy trying to wait for me? See, we talked things out before, and he's not against me offerin' to help him out a little."

While speaking, he's subtly been tilting his head to ensure the kitchen lights reflect on his lenses just enough to obscure his eyes from the wolf. The healer's tone adjusts from cheery and light-hearted to quiet seriousness.

"…'Sides. None of us want a repeat of how he was when those ghosts appeared, right?"

[punisheye]

"No, he's out. Wanted to get groceries."

Wolfwood shoves another orange slice into his mouth. He watches the younger Vash closely, his expression betraying nothing, totally nonplussed. Blondie's not his Vash, but he's still Vash, and that tone is one he's all-too familiar with.

And, well, Wolfwood remembers. Sure, he's got a habit of just straight-up not listening when he doesn't care, but with the people he cares for? Everything gets tucked away somewhere safe in his mind—and his heart.

Not that he'd say it.

His own Vash probably wouldn't let him do shit, knowing how he is. Wouldn't want his successor using more of his power on him, darkening his hair. Neither of them deserve to rot away like that, just for the sake of others.

"And you—" He jabs an accusatory finger Vash's way. "I see ya schemin' in that li'l blonde head of yers. Ya gonna say hi or ya gonna do some funny Plant shit on him?"

How's that even work, anyway? Plants are freaky. Both the aliens and the green kind. Whenever he accidentally digs up roots in the garden he's unnerved by how much they look like veins. Recently, he learned what the fuck mycelium was. Creepy.

"S'not yer problem to worry about."

Flexible, uninjured, and still knowing how most of the furniture's arranged, Vash is graceful as he does something as mundane as tossing a tossed peel away into the kitchen's trash bin, momentarily betraying his klutzy demeanor.

"Hmm. Sounds like 'im," he casually replies to the news of his predecessor, with calculated restraint of emotion.

This iteration of Vash is underestimating how much the priest is familiar with the tone—to him, it's likely a not-so-subtle indication of 'there's something I'm going to do about this'. He's a bit too eager to get right back to his century-long occupation as a Plant engineer, since this world largely had had no need of him.

Granted, he's already given part of his hand away much earlier, something like half a year ago, now. So it's up in the air, at least from his view: Vash is left wondering how much Wolfwood remembers of it, and how much he'll allow for the healer to try to do his job.

"Wait, so when you said 'around' just now," he says, "Y'mean like, upstairs or somethin'? I wanna say hi to him, too!"

[punisheye]

The sneeze is loud enough to be heard throughout the house, and the cat doesn't seem fazed by it whatsoever. She even chews on Vash's pants a little bit and tries to jump up onto the counter, but Wolfwood immediately scoops her up with one big hand (to which she squawks in protest) and places her back onto the floor.

Wolfwood goes back to tugging the peel of the orange off and promptly throws it at the younger Vash, clocking him square in the forehead. When he pulls one piece of the orange off and plops it into his mouth, the juice makes his fingers a little sticky.

"He's around," Wolfwood replies mid-chew. "Crashed his bike on the way to the desert 'n' bruised up his shoulder."

There is a brief pause where Wolfwood hesitates, swallowing the fruit, turning his eyes away. Vash is healing a lot faster than he is, but he's been focusing a lot on Wolfwood's own healing rather than his own. Probably because Wolfwood's still... very much human, still without his full power.

(If he had been, then... maybe... ... well, no use dwelling on it. It's over now.)

"Shot in the leg," he finally continues. "Still walkin' around like normal. Won't let me leave. Farthest I can get is the sidewalk before he's materializin' outta thin air and draggin' me back. Talk about bein' protective. Ain't I s'posed to be his babysitter?"

Wolfwood sniffs. He sounds annoyed, but fond. Mostly annoyed. Being taken care of when he's hurt is strange. He's getting stir-crazy, but he can't deny there's something wonderful about being curled up in a thick, heavy, soft comforter and snoozing away during the day.

The cat goes and loafs on the arm of the couch. Wolfwood watches her.

"We got allergy meds sittin' somewhere. Had to get some 'cus I started gettin', uh... hay fever? That's what it's called? 'Round when I first got here. If ya don't wanna be sneezin' the whole time yer here."

That first question earns Wolfwood a funny look from Vash, eyebrow raised—maybe that question's rhetorical, but it's still considered a little silly, given the Plant's totally earnest response:

"We're … friends?" Easy as.

If he were a little more mean-spirited like his predecessor, maybe he'd hit him with an overly-cheery you're welcome of sorts, but can't a guy just look out for a pal in recovery?

The lighthearted jokes about dragging Vash out of Home go without commentary, though he's still grinning in appreciation of the priest's humor. Lucky that it was just a joke and nothing more; if he'd come to visit without warning and his Wolfwood had gone to open the door, well…!

Vash stiffens as the tiny good-luck omen suddenly threads herself through his legs, an "(Eek!)" slipping out of the corner of his mouth. He's quick to try and cover it up once his friend makes it a point, though—suddenly over-relaxing against the counter to show how casual he is, smile a wobbly line of pure nerves.

"Whaaaat?" Pshaw. "Vash doesn't have one, right? So I defi—def… Defuh-fwuh…

"vvAACHOO !!

"… … ...

"Maybe," Vash mutters, pulling his face from out of the corner of his sleeve. He sniffles.

Then he's moving on right away, both hands grabbing oranges and holding them both in front of his face, obscuring his eyes. It's a makeshift wanted poster. "Hey, that guy around, anyway? He's not hurt too bad, is he?"

[punisheye]

In the time between their text exchange and the younger Vash finally showing up, Wolfwood's taken to dozing there with his little furry friend purring away in his armpit. But he picks up the sound of footsteps against the wooden porch and his eyes snap open, head lifting up so he can blearily look at the sliding back doors from his spot on the couch.

He lifts his hand in greeting and, slowly, pushes himself upright. The cat lets out an annoyed chirp as her rest is disturbed, twisting her body to get on all four paws and bat at Wolfwood's elbow before she jumps off of the couch and stretches, tail in the air.

"All that when I just asked for smokes," Wolfwood remarks, snorting. "Always goin' above 'n' beyond. What'd I do to deserve it?"

He doesn't know how long they can avoid the subject of... everything that happened. It's the very big elephant in the room. Wolfwood's got stitches in his shoulder and gut and while the bruises on his ribs are slowly fading, they still stand out. He still has to put a hand on the edge of the coffee table to help him stand up. He still moves slow and has a limp when he goes to meet Vash in the kitchen.

Vash, however, looks fine. Of course he does. Physically, at least.

"Thought I'd have to go out there 'n' drag ya outta the desert myself." Wolfwood leans his hip against the island and fumbles with the bundle of oranges til he can tug the netting open and pull one out. "Woulda been hell when I'm like this. 'Least it'd get me outta the house, though."

The little void of fur trots over to the pair and, without hesitation, begins weaving between Vash's legs, rubbing her fluffy cheeks against his calves, purring away. Wolfwood looks down at her in vague amusement while he sticks his nail into the tough skin of the orange to unpeel it.

"Cat allergy?"

The following exchange of texts has Vash convey the wrist-wringing concern on his mind: was Wolfwood sure it was alright to have him over? Did the priest want anything on the way back? Was Vash around? How hurt were they? Was Wolfwood double-extra-super-sure it was alright for him to come over?

It was undeniably cute and exciting to see a new cat chilling out on Wolfwood, but the photo also caught the state of his injuries—not much to smile about, there. He's already on the move when his phone blinks back messages from his friend in recovery, albeit it's a rather characteristically brusque response. Wolfwood's in need of some specific cigarette brand. …Wait, that's all?

With Spirale's myriad modes of transportation, the commute isn't painfully slow back to the Fibonacci home, nor is today a day where Vash finds himself recognized in the city crowd. He's hoping he's taking some of this good luck with him while he crosses into the house's backyard. Waving over at Wolfwood with his free hand before using it to pull the sliding door open, Vash is holding a grocery bag over his shoulder with a two-finger hold on the handle.

"Hey! Gonna—um, set these over right here," Vash says, moving to the nearest counter. He's still well in ear-shot of Wolfwood and his tiny pal as he pulls the bag's contents out, so he keeps himself at room volume. "Got your smokes, big guy. 'Long with some matching menthol patches—for the body aches. Should help.

"And oranges," he says, hooking a thumb into the plastic red netting to lift them out. "Not sure I can take you up on savin' you from that lil furball, though. Sneeze a lot, so...!" Nervous laughter.