w0lfm4n

[empoleon]

are you always so restless (yes you are, is that hard?)

rated t, one shot, 4233 words

also available to read here

Wolfwood purposefully ignores the tickle in the back of his throat. It’s nothing, but on the off chance that it is something, it’s likely caused by the ever present sand dunes that are really starting to make his eyes hurt.

But again, it’s nothing. He squints for a moment as he glances up at the sky, almost stopping to wonder if this is some sort of cruel joke—there is absolutely no way the sun was this hot a few hours ago. 

‘The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.’ He recalls a specific passage and almost trips over a large rock, struggling to regain his footing.

What a load of shit, Wolfwood grunts. 

It’s nothing. 

 .

 Meryl is talking about something with Roberto—reports, news articles, perhaps including that they need to charge the Jeep again soon—Wolfwood mostly tunes it out. 

He catches her glance at him a few times, something akin to worry knitting her brows, but it’s gone within minutes. 

They’re all waiting for Vash to come back with their canteens, having elected him to be the one to fill them this time.

It’s been almost half an hour though, and Wolfwood isn’t sure how much longer he’ll be able to stand without—

A sneeze rips through him once, then twice, and he has to steady himself by grabbing the Punisher. 

A deafening silence follows.

“Not a single word—” Wolfwood starts to threaten, but he’s cut off by the one voice he doesn’t want to hear.

“I’m back!”

Vash is trotting towards them—a feat in its own right, with how uneven the sand below their feet can be—arms filled with their supplies and none the wiser to anything that happened moments before his arrival. 

Or so Wolfwood thinks.

 .

 “You know,” Roberto starts, “it’s probably those Worms you keep eating, Undertaker.”

The ride in the Jeep had been peaceful until that exact moment. 

Wolfwood grunts and crosses his arms. “Haven’t you heard of allergies? I’m fine, old man.”

Meryl is staring straight ahead as she drives, but her eyes flicker back at him from the rear view mirror. “He may have a point, you know.”

She drives over a particularly rough patch of sand, sending the Jeep into a steady shake. It makes Wolfwood’s slowly persistent headache feel even worse than he thought was possible. 

“Not you too, shorty,” he grumbles, reaching to steady himself by grabbing his seat. This is really starting to grate on his nerves. “I keep tellin’ ya, I’m fine—”

Meryl steps on the breaks right as a giant sandworm launches out of the sand a mere few feet away from the vehicle. The action causes Wolfwood to lurch forward, hands weakly stopping his face from ramming into the headrest of the car seat in front of him. 

Vash, sitting across from him, doesn’t even have a chance to react—he does faceplant into the uncomfortable leather of the car seat and whines, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Meryl, I can drive for a while, if you want—”

“No,” is heard from both Roberto and Meryl at once. Vash frowns. 

“Well, maybe we should stop for the evening? If the Worms are becoming active—”

“The next town isn’t that far off,” Wolfwood finally speaks once he’s certain that things aren’t moving in his vision. He can’t remember the last time he ever felt so dizzy. “I’d rather sleep in a bed.”

Vash glances between him and Meryl. Wolfwood’s tone really didn’t leave much room for any arguments.

“Okay, I’ll try to drive… better,” she starts the Jeep again and grips the steering wheel. “We should be there by nightfall.

Roberto huffs a laugh. “Better buckle up.”

Meryl starts in on that, arguing with him while they continue to travel. Vash remains oddly silent, casting a few curious glances at Wolfwood.

“Nick?”

His voice is quiet, almost a whisper amongst the chatter within the vehicle. He turns to look at Vash, brows furrowing as he mouths ‘what?’

And then Vash, the absolute bastard that he is, gives him a grin that physically hurts Wolfwood to look at and pats his lap, as if he’s volunteering a secret service that only he can provide. 

Technically, he is, but Wolfwood is not about to try and unpack those thoughts. His head hurts enough as is. 

He settles for what he hopes is a very scathing look, because seriously, there is no way he’s about to rest his head on Vash’s lap.

Meryl swerves the Jeep to the left, presumably avoiding another sandworm, muttering a faint apology that does nothing to help Wolfwood’s throbbing head. 

A warm hand carefully touches his shoulder, and suddenly all he can see and feel is Vash. 

“Just for a little while,” is all he says while gently tugging on Wolfwood’s arm. “You know I don’t bite,” he adds after a moment, light and teasing.

He wants to say something witty in return, but merely hums a tired reply instead—just this once. 

Maybe awkwardly laying down would help. Vash’s lap is simply an added perk.

 .

 When Wolfwood comes to, he immediately notices three things: 

The first being that they’re still in the Jeep and it’s definitely gotten darker out. That nearby town must’ve been further off than he thought. 

The second is something that he is actively trying to fight—there is an overabundance of saliva in his mouth. That never ends well, in his experience.

And the third—Vash’s hand is in his hair, carefully playing with a few strands of it. 

He wants to say something, because this is oddly intimate, considering everything, and there is a lot to consider whenever it comes to Vash.

The jeep makes a slow turn and Wolfwood can feel his stomach rolling with the movement. Shit. He swallows and settles on grimacing for now.

“How is he?”

Meryl’s voice is filled with concern, and if Wolfwood knew he wouldn’t be sick, he’d speak up and mock the reporter for being such a softie. Vash must be rubbing off on her. 

Vash’s fingers untangle from Wolfwood’s hair and move to his forehead, resting there for a moment. 

“He definitely has a fever,” Vash murmurs. He traces along Wolfwood’s brow line. “I wish he had said something sooner.”

“That’s rich coming from you, kid,” Roberto comments. He earns a glare from Meryl and he shrugs. 

It is, Wolfwood thinks. He feels Vash move his hand back to his hair, choosing to not say anything else to Roberto’s comment. 

Wolfwood tries to focus on Vash’s hand, willfully ignoring the growing unease he feels deep in his stomach. 

A comfortable—or rather, a tolerable silence falls upon the Jeep, save for the radio in the background. The voice he hears singing sounds familiar. 

Except it’s not quite singing—humming?

Vash is definitely humming. It’s sort of like a soft rumble, one that Wolfwood can feel, but not quite feel, hear and not hear—it doesn’t make much sense. Even with his eyes closed, it’s as though there’s a soft glow accompanying the noise. 

It’s extremely pleasant, along with Vash’s fingers in his hair and he prays it can last a little while longer. 

Truly, God must have it out for him, because the next thing he remembers is bolting upright and gasping for air as he starts to dry heave. 

 .

 The motel bedroom has seen better days, probably. Having one grown man practically falling apart in the bed and the other teetering around nervously surely isn’t anything new. 

Wolfwood could do without Vash’s nervous energy, though. 

“Blondie,” he struggles to speak and it comes out strained. “Stop. Moving.”

Vash freezes by the side of the bed. “Wolfwood?”

“Going to burn a hole in the carpet,” he mumbles, and that finally gets Vash to smile, even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” 

Like shit. “’M fine,” he says instead, because it’s easier. 

Vash kneels beside the bed and rests his head on his prosthetic. “You sound awful.”

“Thanks,” Wolfwood says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Where—”

“Down the hall,” Vash answers him before he can finish asking. “Roberto paid for the rooms, he said something about you owing him cigarettes, though.” 

Wolfwood snorts, but it turns into a wet cough. “He owes me—”

Vash ignores the comment. “I chose to stay with you since I can’t catch… whatever it is you have.”

There is an unspoken acknowledgment there in the way Vash words it—he knows what caused it, but won’t say as much.

“It’s just a bug,” Wolfwood argues, because again, that’s easier. “I doubt I’m contagious, hell, this is nothing—”

“You threw up blood,” Vash tells him, a deep frown forming on his face. “It certainly isn’t nothing.”

Well, shit. “Spikey—”

“Don’t, Nick,” Vash’s voice is entirely too soft now. “Just—don’t, okay?”

Wolfwood sighs and closes his eyes. “Okay,” he gives a small nod of his head and winces, regretting the movement. 

“You should rest,” Vash says after a moment. He still doesn’t move from where he’s sitting on the floor. 

It’s annoying when Vash gets like this, even more so when Wolfwood can’t do much to fix things. 

So he does what his fever-ridden brain thinks is right and stretches out an arm to pat the empty space on the bed next to him.

It’s a start.

 .

 “Did I throw up on you?” Wolfwood asks after they have lied together in a shared silence for roughly a half hour. It feels out of place to speak almost, like he should have simply let the quiet air continue to fill the room. 

But unfortunately, Wolfwood has to know. He isn’t going to sleep until then. 

Vash pulls a face, and even in the dark of the room Wolfwood can tell he’s wincing. “Yeah, but it’s okay, I caught most of it.”

“What?” Wolfwood sounds horrified. “Like, with your hands?”

“Kind of? I mean most of it landed on my lap, so,” Vash shrugs a shoulder. “Meryl was worried about the Jeep getting dirty—”

Wolfwood slaps a hand to his forehead and groans. “That’s disgusting, she can fucking pay for a cleaning if the damn thing needs it.”

“Hmm, you know,” Vash sounds a bit too thoughtful when he speaks, “we’d probably save a few double dollars if we cleaned it ourselves…” 

“You’d make a sick priest work?” Wolfwood feigns shock, moving to press his wrist over his eyes. “That’s just cruel, needle-noggin.”

“And here I thought you lived for charitable acts,” Vash slowly starts to sit up, but he’s stopped by a warm hand encircling his wrist. “What?”

Wolfwood, seemingly about to speak, instead starts to cough again.

Vash waits, because he has the patience of a saint—a real one, at that, Wolfwood decides, not some shitty uncanonized one—simply sitting next to him. He moves his wrist out of Wolfwood’s grasp and decides to hold his hand. 

When Wolfwood catches his breath, he clears his throat to try again.

“Don’t… go,” he says—he asks, but it’s a very weak attempt. 

“To the other bed, you mean?” Vash quirks an eyebrow. 

Apparently Wolfwood didn’t catch the fact that the room did have two beds. 

He tries to ease his hand out of Vash’s grasp and fails, miserably, all the while Vash, still being the absolute bastard that he truly is, laughs.

 .

 Vash helps him to the bathroom twice when he starts to feel nauseous again. Nothing happens at first—once he does throw up Vash is quick to kneel beside him, but hesitates to reach out. 

Wolfwood spits into the toilet and lets his head rest on the cool porcelain. It’s soothing. 

The hand that eventually starts to rub his back is an added bonus, also cool to the touch, and it makes Wolfwood shiver. 

“Sorry,” Vash murmurs, prosthetic hand faltering to settle near Wolfwood’s shoulder. “You okay?”

The feeling is so featherlight and Wolfwood partially wonders if Vash can feel the heat emanating off of his bare skin. 

“Yeah,” he replies after a moment, “’M good.”

He can hear Vash sigh and the hand on his shoulder is gone.

“Think you can stand?” 

Of course, he wants to say, it’s not like I’m—

“Nick?”

Oh. That tone of voice made sense to him now. He should have realized sooner. Irritation made sense, but this? This is—

Vash is scared for him.

Wolfwood pulls his face away from the ceramic bowl. “Help me up, blondie.”

 “You know, if you wanted a hug you simply could have asked me,” Vash’s face is pressed near Wolfwood’s shoulder, more so on the pillow than anything, unable to pull back as he’s being held there by the other man.

He easily carried Wolfwood out of the bathroom and back to the bed in the motel room, but once he stopped near the side of the mattress to help him lie back down, Wolfwood didn’t release his hold around Vash’s shoulders. 

Which now led to Vash standing—or rather, half bent over—awkwardly embracing Wolfwood.

It’s not as though he doesn’t want to, but this position is starting to make his lower back twinge with pain.

“Nick, come on,” Vash tries to pull away, “at least let me get comfortable.”

“This is comfortable,” Wolfwood says into the fabric of Vash’s shirt, to which he hears a quiet groan.

“You are such a pain in the ass, you know that?” There is no bite in Vash’s words, but he says it so suddenly and so seriously that it causes Wolfwood to laugh and ease up his grip.

“Hey, it takes one to know one,” he quips.

Vash ultimately decides that he’s right and goes limp, letting his full weight rest on top of Wolfwood, who immediately protests.

“Okay, okay! Get off me already, you idiot,” he pushes Vash to the side of the bed with a huff. 

“Now will you rest?” Vash asks again. 

He probably should, but the thought of having to lay there in silence with his own thoughts is starting to make him feel nauseous again.

“Talk to me,” Wolfwood turns to his side and is met with Vash giving him a questioning look, eyes softly illuminated in the dark. “I’ll fall asleep faster if you speak.”

“Rude,” he mutters, “is my voice that boring to you?”

“Oh, absolutely, spikey,” Wolfwood exhales through his nose slowly. It helps, a little. “You could tell me a story.”

Vash shifts on the bed slightly. “A story?”

“Used to do it back at the orphanage,” is all Wolfwood says at first, and he knows Vash is waiting for him to continue. “When the kids were sick. It was comforting.”

He doesn’t open up about it much—distant memories still too fresh and constantly present in his mind.

“I’m not sure if I can provide that kind of comfort,” Vash sounds uncertain, and it hurts, because that is simply not true—not true at all.

“Well, you won’t know unless you try, yeah?”

 .

 “When I was… huh, I’m actually not sure how old I was,” Vash pauses to consider it. “Definitely half a century ago, I think. Maybe a bit more—”

“I’m gonna start callin’ you grandpa,” Wolfwood decides. “Grandpa Stampede—”

Vash reaches over and pulls his cheek, earning an annoyed swat at his hand. “Shush, let grandpa finish his story, all right? Now where was I…”

The story is a strange one. Vash describes visiting half-empty towns in his youth, stopping to help when help is needed. A true hero’s tale, if Wolfwood ever heard one. 

It doesn’t have a happy ending. 

“There was this family,” Vash is staring at the ceiling, the too-bright cerulean glow of his eyes faint. “They let us stay for a few days during a bad sandstorm. It was a little cramped, but Brad and I didn’t mind. We were—we were grateful, really.

“Not many families would do that for someone they… didn’t know,” Vash chooses his words carefully, “despite us having helped out the Plant that was ill.”

Not many families would do that for someone like Vash. For someone like him.

“They had a little boy, I’m not sure how old he was, but he couldn’t have been more than five years old. 

“He was sick. Some illness that Brad had to explain to me. I asked him if—if it was similar to how my sisters…”

Wolfwood swallows. “Blondie, you don’t have to—”

“I was so naive. I really thought—”

“Vash,” Wolfwood is slowly moving to sit up this time, “stop.”

“I couldn’t help him,” Vash doesn’t bother to look at Wolfwood, knowing full well he can see the tears trailing down his cheeks. “I couldn’t help—humans. And I wanted to so badly. I haven’t tried to do that ever since—”

“Today in the jeep,” Wolfwood is leaning over him now, both arms caging his head on the pillow while he peers down at his face. Vash blinks up at him, frozen.

“In the jeep,” he repeats himself, “I heard you singing earlier.”

Vash lets out a breath he had been holding. “I’m sorry.”

Wolfwood can’t help his sigh of annoyance. “I’m not mad, needle-noggin, but why did you… why?”

Why me?

“I don’t know,” and Vash is being honest, for once, about it. “I wasn’t really thinking too hard about it.”

“Obviously,” he drawls, and Vash snorts wetly. “That’s not—not what I meant, though. Why after all this time?”

Why try again?

Vash closes his eyes. “Because I love you.”

He hesitantly peeks one eye open, possibly expecting the worst after such an admission. Wolfwood is a lot closer now, a mere few inches away from his face. 

“We should do it properly, then,” he insists, resting his forehead carefully against Vash’s own. 

“Nick…”

Vash brings his hands up to cup his face, flesh and metal thumbs stroking along Wolfwood’s jawline. 

He wants to cry. He is crying—he never did stop, and Wolfwood simply remains there through it all, basking in the ethereal glow that Vash’s body emits. 

“’M not going anywhere, spikey, you hear me?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Vash’s laugh is warbled. “I hear you.”

 .

 “You’re still burning up,” Vash presses his lips to Wolfwood’s forehead. 

“Can’t help that,” Wolfwood mutters, eyes closed, “you’re the one who’s a furnace.”

Vash hums in agreement. “I did offer to sleep in the other bed.”

Wolfwood doesn’t argue with that, but he does reach under the covers to grab hold of Vash’s arm. 

“I’m not, don’t worry,” Vash teases. He feels the hand on his arm loosen, ever so slightly, but never completely lets go.

“Sleep, Nick,” he loses track of how many times he’s asked the man beside him to rest. The night isn’t going to last forever and they’ll have to leave tomorrow morning. 

Again, silence. It stretches on for some time and Vash waits. 

Then, “Spikey? Could you… one more time?”

“Could I do what?” He hears a huff of annoyance and smiles. 

“Pain in the ass,” he echoes the insult from earlier. “You just want to hear me say it.”

“It’s nice when we’re honest with each other, right?” 

Vash moves under the covers, one arm holding it up as an invitation. 

Honesty. Definitely not one of Wolfwood’s stronger attributes, but for Vash he can try. 

He scoots closer, opting to curl one arm around Vash’s waist, face pressing into his neck. 

“One more time. Please,” he whispers against the thrum of Vash’s pulse. This is about as honest as he can get, given the current circumstances. 

Vash pulls the blanket up to his shoulder, careful and precise. He angles his head in a way to place a kiss to the crown of Wolfwood’s hair, replying with a soft ‘okay,’ and then he starts to sing.

 .

 “Should we wake them?” Meryl’s voice is quiet when she speaks. “They both look… peaceful, surprisingly.”

Roberto leans against the doorframe. “Probably the only peace we’ll be getting today—you heard the innkeeper this morning.”

Bounty hunters were already on the move again, hot on their trail. Nothing new. 

“He deserves it,” and whether Meryl is referring to Vash or Wolfwood, no one can be certain. 

“Fine,” Roberto steps out the door and into the hallway. “Come on then, newbie, let’s leave them to it.”

The floor creaks and the door is closed softly with an audible click. 

“I know you’re awake, needle-noggin,” Wolfwood’s voice is muffled by equal parts blanket and Vash’s shirt. 

Sunlight is shining into the inn room now and onto the bed. It feels good, better—definitely not as torturous as it was the other day.  

“What gave me away?” Vash asks, disbelieving. His face is still partially buried in dark strands of hair. “I was perfectly still!”

“Well, the squeeze to my ass, for starters,” Wolfwood points out. “You can stop now, by the way.”

Vash does nothing to remove his hand from the area. In fact, he keeps it there for good measure. 

“When the door opened it startled me—”

“Right, and you’re still recovering from that?”

“You know me so well, Nick,” Vash croons.

Wolfwood doesn’t dignify that with a response, choosing to slowly untangle himself from Vash’s wandering hands and steadily sit upright. The blanket pools near his waist, and only then does he realize how damp it feels.

“Shit, guess I sweated out the worst of it,” he says. “Sorry if any of that got on ya—”

Vash sits up so unnaturally fast, moving to place a hand on Wolfwood’s chest. His skin is warm, but not too warm, and his heart is steadily beating underneath his fingertips. 

He feels so relieved until he sees Wolfwood’s shit-eating grin.

“Couldn’t resist feelin’ me up after all, could you?” He laughs as Vash feels himself start to boil, deftly retracting his hand with an eye roll. 

“I’m not—”

“While I’m flattered you like my tits,” Wolfwood catches his hand with ease and brings it up to his lips, “I really should be thanking you for putting up with my sorry ass last night, so,” he presses a kiss to Vash’s knuckles. 

Vash’s mouth twitches humorously. “Surely that’s not all?”

Wolfwood releases his hand and leans closer, a mere hair’s breadth away from Vash’s face. 

“Definitely not all,” he murmurs, placing a kiss to the corner of Vash’s mouth and nothing more, waiting for permission.

His stubble tickles and it makes laughter bubble up in Vash’s throat. When he tilts his head back Wolfwood aims for his throat, peppering even more kisses across his skin. 

He works back up towards Vash’s jaw, lingering there, and Vash finally meets him halfway while cupping his face to bring their lips together. 

It’s chaste and it has Wolfwood feeling light, airy, much like the sudden, soft-white downy feathers that curl outward from Vash’s temples. 

Huh. That’s new. 

Wolfwood should probably comment on that, but Vash is tentatively licking at his bottom lip, and really, all it takes is that one movement for him to open his mouth further and let Vash have him. 

But there’s a hand tapping on his shoulder entirely too soon, causing him to pause and take a breath. 

Vash is giving him a well-practiced apologetic look. “You taste like vomit.”

Wolfwood doesn’t miss a beat. “You have feathers growing out of your head.”

That gets a rile out of Vash, immediately reaching for his hair with an indignant squawk. Wolfwood’s cackle is downright wicked, but a welcomed sound.

 .

 Now all Wolfwood needs are three things:

His shirt, a smoke, and some food. Preferably in that order, but he can make do with what he gets.

The shirt, his beloved white, button down—Vash had used it to clean up the Jeep.

“You’re kidding me, right?” he stares at the blonde when he steps out of the bathroom, the taste of vomit now a thing of the past. 

“Ah, no, sorry Nick,” Vash grins sheepishly. “I had to use something!” 

“You—damn it, needle-noggin,” he stalks over to the bed where Vash is still lounging. “All right, fork it over.”

He holds out his hand in front of Vash and waits. 

Vash’s gaze flickers between his hand and face before shrugging and clasping Wolfwood’s hand into his own, giving it a firm shake. 

He even has the audacity to smile at him.

Wolfwood squeezes Vash’s hand hard—prosthetic be damned—as his mouth sets into a scowl. “Your wallet,” he clarifies.

“Oh! Sure,” Vash lets go of his hand and reaches for his jacket, fumbling around inside the pockets. “Why do you…?”  

“You’re paying for a new shirt,” Wolfwood informs him. “Nicest one I can find—most expensive I can find.”

It doesn’t faze Vash in the slightest. 

“Think you can bring me back a box of donuts too, while you’re at it?”

(Meryl sneezes later that evening when they stop at a local diner before heading off. 

Roberto is quick to leave the table, muttering something about how he’s ‘too old to be dealing with this shit.’

Wolfwood follows in suit, pausing only to blow Vash a two-finger kiss and an offhanded remark of ‘good luck!’

Somehow, Vash becomes the designated caretaker anytime one of them falls ill now—he doesn’t mind.

Meryl, however, has a long list of complaints that fall on deaf ears—she is stuck with Vash until further notice.)