fourstrings | i knew this would happen, still hard to believe it

i knew this would happen, still hard to believe it

[ At this point he’s said you’ll be the death of me to Vash on multiple occasions. Every time a violent situation would be easily solved by lasering someone’s head off, for example. Or when Vash figured out how he was coming up with the money for inns and hotels and tried to argue that it wasn’t fair to use his skills to fleece people, still pouting about it when Wolfwood pointed out stopping would mean no more actual beds, no bathtubs, and zero donuts. When they figured out that making Vash come via his dick meant he was still raring to go by other means, that was a good one.

He’d say it now, if he was well enough. Told you you’d be the death of me. It’s probably a good thing he got hurt so bad he can’t speak, because Vash wouldn’t think it was funny.

Truthfully, he wouldn’t want Vash to blame himself anyway, even if there’s no way in hell he would have put himself between someone else and a bullet without Vash’s influence. And it was fucking stupid! It’d be one thing if it was Vash, or a kid, or like… a really hot woman. But the person Nicholas D. Wolfwood, The Punisher, tackled out of the way and took a bullet for was an old man. Probably only got ten or fifteen good years left in him anyway, but the guy had given them a place to stay and made sure they were fed and introduced them to his family, and all Wolfwood could think of when he saw the bandit firing at him was his damn grandkids, and the way Vash would sink into that pattern of thinking he ruins everything he lets close again. How the fuck was he supposed to know the first bullet would hit the damn pocket he keeps his vials in? He’d even arranged a drop in the next town over, but he can’t tell Vash that because the second bullet had hit him right in the throat. Long term treatment like he got is designed to keep you on your feet long enough to get a dose to heal you up, but in this case all it’s gonna do is make sure he dies slow.

He'd thought about this moment, when he was feeling especially maudlin. How he’d kiss Vash gently and tell him that he gets to die a better man than he was, because of Vash. But he can’t speak, can’t move his limbs to raise a hand to Vash’s face. All he can do is gurgle and bleed and hurt. He’d almost forgotten how much it hurts and for how long when you can’t patch it up right away.

Turns out, though, that there’s one more thing he can do. And as his vision fills with blotches of red and black, he does it, and passes right the fuck out. ]

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( ᴏɴᴇ )

[ vash knows what happens when you try to protect too much.

it's not always advice he follows, because there's a difference between knowing something and letting your heart drag you into doing something else, but still. if you try to spread yourself too thin and save everyone, sometimes it means you end up saving nobody at all.

and the thing is, he always thought wolfwood knew it even better. there's a bitter sort of self-preservation in him; not like he wants to keep going for his own sake, but like the thing that's driving him won't let him risk anything that might make him stop. it's not the kind of selfish that vash would usually agree with on a moral level, but... wolfwood makes him a hypocrite. and if it's wolfwood keeping himself alive, then vash is glad about it.

maybe he gets too comfortable with it, the idea of wolfwood as a stubborn survivor. maybe it's why he stops watching wolfwood as closely as maybe he should. maybe it's why, when that bandit opens fire on them, vash is so distracted with shepherding the man's grandchildren behind cover that he doesn't check to see where wolfwood is. their group has gotten a pretty good rhythm down by now -- roberto will usually yank meryl to safety before she can protest, vash will throw himself into trying to protect the people nearby, and wolfwood will usually be the one to deal with the actual source of the threat. (non-lethally, and usually letting vash know what a pain in the ass it is at least once.)

but vash's senses are sharp. it's the shattering of glass that snaps his attention back around, and that means he's just in time to see the second bullet punch a hole in wolfwood's throat.

it's a blur of instinct, after that. vash ignores the voice that screams at everything and rush to wolfwood, to catch him before he can even fall, to cradle him there like vash can put him back together. no, he has to deal with the gunman first. shoots him in the knee, and even doing that, even after what he did, makes him feel sick. the man is screaming, panicked, but he still gets off a few lucky shots as vash lunges for him -- he blocks two with the prosthetic, but one catches him in the shoulder and another wings him in the side before vash can close the distance. but then he clocks the bandit with the butt of his gun -- hard, but only hard enough to make him drop, unconscious, to the sand.

but then there's nothing in the world but wolfwood.

vash drops to his knees in the sand beside him, gathering him up into his arms. gently, like wolfwood is a fragile creature made of glass and vash might be the thing that breaks up. he hates himself for crying only because he see the way wolfwood's eyes follow the tears, hand twitching like he wants to lift it and wipe them away. vash swallows down the terror and the nausea and the grief, tearing at wolfwood's undershirt hard enough to make the buttons scatter (and mumbling sorry, sorry to him the entire time, choking on his own tears), then ripping the fabric into strips. he doesn't have to dig a hand into wolfwood's jacket pocket to know what's happened there -- he can smell the contents of the vials soaking into the fabric, devastatingly familiar and wrong all at once. so all he has is this, winding the strips of fabric around wolfwood's throat, tight enough to try and trap some of that bright red gush of lifeblood inside him.

and then meryl is there. dropping to the sound beside him, choking on her own tears, reaching for wolfwood like she wants to help. (there is a savage, feral thing inside of vash that wants to snarl at her, to gather wolfwood up and curl around him, to make his own body a shield to make sure nothing can touch him again, but he swallows it back.) vash takes her hands gently and presses them on wolfwood's throat, swallowing the bile that rushes up in his throat at the tiny little sound she makes at the feeling of all that blood already soaking through the cloth. but then her grip gets more sure, and vash can feel her finding the steel inside her that'll let her do this.

still, there's a moment where she looks up at him, eyes going wide. vash. you're --

vash looks down at himself, to the sight of the plant markings that have lit themselves beneath the deceptive surface of his skin. and then, because he can't help himself, even already knowing what he'll see, he lifts his eyes to see the man who wolfwood had gambled everything to save. the old man is scrambling away from them on trembling legs, skin drained of color and eyes full of horror. he isn't looking at wolfwood, bleeding out for him on the sand, only at vash. and when their eyes meet, the only man nearly collapses again from fear, voice trembling as he begs. please, my grandchildren, don't hurt them --

vash could scream. ]

I have to go. [ he grates the words out through the way his own tears are trying to choke him. meryl is looking up at him, panicked and not understanding -- she thinks vash is leaving them here, taking this chance to cut and run even though vash knows it's already too late. he wants to explain it better to her, but there's no time; each tick of wolfwood's pulse is time slipping away from them, he's on the clock. ] You need to --

[ but then roberto's hand is on his shoulder. voice steady, somehow already knowing what vash needs to do. ] We'll take care of him. Hurry back.

[ vash wants to thank him. he wants to apologize to them all -- roberto, meryl, wolfwood most of all. he wants to tear out his own throat if that would mean he could fix what's been done to wolfwood.

instead, he does what he has to. the only thing he knows how. ]

( ᴛᴡᴏ )

[ vash hasn't been keeping tabs on wolfwood, but it's hard not to pick up things when you travel with someone for long enough. especially when you spend at least half your time staring at them, lovestruck. little habits and endearing quirks, mostly. he's not looking for anything in particular, just looking.

but he's filed away what he's seen, just in case he needs it, and he needs it now. one of the ways wolfwood will sometimes approach the bartender working at whatever joint they find themselves in, drawling something about looking for their special brew. most of them respond with a drink recommendation, some wave him off entirely. but once, vash caught one of them telling wolfwood he should go looking in the next town over -- and vash had thought that was strange, wasn't that just sending business away? at least, until they'd stopped there long enough to refill their water and recharge the truck, and wolfwood had gone wandering and come back with a new clink of glass in his pocket.

it's just stupid luck that vash had caught him doing it again at the last town they'd passed through.

but now, that's where he points himself, like a bullet fired from a gun.

he finds the town, and then he hunts. wolfwood probably has a way of finding the contact when he needs them, but vash hadn't bothered trying to uncover the secret. he doesn't need to. the members of the eye of michael are all haunted by the ghost of that same smell that vash catches whenever wolfwood bites into a vial, and vash can pick it out even in the chaotic jumble of humans clustered together. through busy streets and down shadowed alleyways, until at last he's found what he needs.

and even knowing what hangs in the balance, vash still tries not to let it come to a fight. opens his mouth, tries to ask for what he needs, but it's a moot point. it's obvious the members of the cult -- at least, the ones important enough for a task like this -- know what he looks like, and this one pales at the sight of him. lashes out like a cornered animal before vash can even get the words out, opening fire and trying to flee.

it isn't as easy as taking down the bandit. it's obvious the man is enhanced, a narrow blessing that it's nowhere near the level of someone like rollo. (or wolfwood, his traitorous brain reminds him.) no real match for vash, but it's still a struggle to take him down -- and a noisy one, enough to alert the rest of the town to the fact that that they've been paid a visit by the humanoid typoon.

by the time vash finally manages to take the cultist down, bludgeons him enough to ensure that he stays there, he's bleeding from a dozen new wounds, and the town is in an uproar of terror. so vash makes quick work of digging through the man's clothes until he finds what he's looking for -- a little case with a dozen new glass vials, blessedly unbroken even after their fight.

it'll be enough. it'll have to be. ]

( ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ )

[ by the time vash makes it back, the sun is hours past setting, and their little group has relocated. not far -- they wouldn't have wanted to risk moving wolfwood more than they had to. but far enough for vash to know what must've happened; the moment he was gone, the old man had made his apologies, explained that he had his grandchildren to think about. maybe even begged for them to thank wolfwood what he had done, because he'd seemed kind, but the end had been the same.

it doesn't matter. vash understands too much to hold it against him.

they've parked the truck behind a little outcropping of rock to get shelter from the wind, built up a fire. roberto is standing at the edges of the light it throws, eyes softening with relief the moment he sees vash, and meryl... is sitting closer to the fire, wolfwood's head in her lap, her hands still clasped around his throat. talking softly to him, even though her voice is raw from what must've been crying, and the sight makes vash want to gather her up into his arms and thank her. both of them. they could've left, they could've run, because vash isn't their problem and wolfwood is even less so, but they'd stayed.

there's no time.

meryl murmurs his name as he settles down on his knees beside them, helps in the gentle transfer of wolfwood's head into his lap from hers. heavy, almost deadweight, but there's still a faint pulse when vash presses his hand there to see. he digs for the case, takes out one of the vials -- then two, just for good measure. snaps off the tops with his teeth, ignores the way the liquid within glows at his proximity, like the answer to a riddle vash is desperate not to know.

but all of his focus is on tipping wolfwood's chin carefully up so he can pour the liquid inside, hoping it's enough. his eyes are gritty from crying, his throat a ruin; it's the first time in a long time vash isn't sure he has any tears left. but his fingers are tender where he strokes them over wolfwood's cheek, up into dark hair still matted with blood. crooning to him, soft and low, like it's a rare morning where vash has woken up first and wants to be the first thing wolfwood sees. ]

Need you to wake up now, okay? You're okay, you have to be okay. Just open your eyes and let me know. Please.

Edited 2023-03-08 07:55 (UTC)

[ Turns out dying slow is worse than he ever imagined. After he passes out, he comes to. But since it's just to more dying, he figures that's probably punishment for everything he's done.

This first time is just a little snippet, the familiar stale cigarette smell of the truck. Jouncing around, the feel of a warm thigh under his head, a hand on his face, and for a moment he thinks it's Vash before he realizes his mistake. Hand too little, too smooth, smell all wrong. Sound fades in and it's a voice telling him to hold on, it's going to be okay, he's going to get through this but he has to hold on and he'd smile if he could, tell Shortie thanks for trying. Maybe he'd even call her Meryl, a special treat before he goes. It's nice though, for a moment, before the truck hits a rough patch and his wounds decide all at once to go from a dim presence to screaming agony. At least the last thing he hears before he passes out again is Shortie swearing for the first time since he's known her.

The next time, he's being carried. Still not Vash. Shortie at his feet and Druncle at his head, from the feel of it, and he wonders briefly if they're burying him. Can't decide if he'd tell them (if he could tell them anything) that he's not quite dead yet or not to bother, not to waste the water of sweating by digging him a hole, that they should just leave him there.

Maybe something'll eat him and his death can save two lives instead of one. That'd be a little more impressive, at least, even if he's the only one who ever knows it.

The last time, it's agony. Searing, his wounds burning, his mouth bitter. He's hot all over, like the flesh will blister and crisp and char right off his bones, and despite never having been a true believer until now he thinks: ah. Here it is. Actual, factual hell.

Until:

the burning becomes familiar enough that other senses can get a look in. A touch against his cheek, a hand in his hair. A scent that's nearly drowned out by the bitterness in his mouth, but is just present enough to be familiar and comforting. A voice, fading in slowly, the rhythm of it clear long before the words. Vash.

He wants to open his eyes. Prays for it, or tries to. Wants to look at Vash and let him know, just like he's asking. The thought of doing that gives him something to hook on to, like a climber scaling a cliff face. It feels impossible, looks like it should be, but you gotta try, right?

Can't open his eyes, not yet. Oh, he tries, but they're the heaviest things he's ever known. Tries to move, to make a signal, twitch a finger, even, but his body is dumbly unaware of anything other than the pain and the feel of Vash. Vash and the familiar feeling of trying to heal itself through the regenerative drug. Tries to talk, to say Vash's name - and that's how he knows the healing must be working, because the wound in his neck has closed enough that the blood is in his throat, now, instead of leaking out.

So he'd like his first act as he rises from the dead to be to say something cool. Sorry to bother you, the Devil told me I'm too fucked up even for him. Or he could look at Vash and make him laugh with a cheesy old line, say something like never thought I'd go to Heaven, but I see an angel. Unfortunately the first thing he does - his first sign of life - is to drag half a rattly breath and then cough up a veritable fountain of blood. ]

[ it's a relief when that ugly wound in wolfwood's throat starts to steam. he's quick to reach up and tug those strips of fabric loose so that the skin can knit back together properly, even though they're practically glued to him with blood. he doesn't know if two was enough, but he also doesn't know if three would be too much -- it's the first time that vash realizes he was stupid to avoid the subject instead of trying to learn. nothing to do now but watch and wait and hope.

and then wolfwood's body jerks, chest heaving, and vash realizes what's about to happen about a second before it does. he shifts wolfwood's weight so that he can roll him onto his side and keep him from choking as the other man coughs up blood -- old and new, red and gushing alongside black and clotted. (he's vaguely aware of the little sound meryl makes at the sight of it, of the way roberto takes her gently by the elbow to draw her away, but all his attention is for wolfwood.) supporting his head with one hand, gently pushing his bangs away from his face with the other. ]

That's it. That's better. [ soothing, stupid nonsense. an echo, maybe, of the kind of thing rem used to say to him after a nightmare, when vash would choke himself on frantic tears. ] You're okay. It's okay. Breathe.

[ He does breathe, and it is better. The wounds flare briefly in pain and then it's over, like a good burst of oxygen was all the drugs needed to finish the job. Hell if he knows. He doesn't know how they work, just that they do.

There's a little more spluttering as he hacks up the last of the blood, but it's minor. Clearing the unpleasant clinging in his throat rather than expelling what might have drowned him and wasted all Vash's good efforts. He still feels like garbage, but he's alive, and he knows what he wants the first thing he does (other than puking blood) to be. Forces his arm to move, jerky and sloppy, so he can slap around in an effort to find a part of Vash to hold. ]

[ wolfwood coughs and hacks and splutters, and part of vash feels like he's choking right along with him. but then, finally, he breathes in a desperate, greedy inhale, and the first finger of that fist of bone-deep terror that's been clutched around vash's heart finally eases.

he wants to collapse. let himself bend double over wolfwood and cry out all the desperate terror and grief of nearly losing him, purge it the same way wolfwood is coughing up clots of blood from his throat. he doesn't. only because making wolfwood is okay is more important than being okay himself; vash knows how to compartmentalize when he needs to.

still, he's distracted enough for that flailing arm to catch him in the stomach, elbow digging into one of the places he's been shot, and it's the first time he even remembers the injury since it happens. but it's okay, it's not fatal, and vash would put up with way worse to hold wolfwood's hand.

which is exactly what he does, catching at it and lacing their fingers together so he can squeeze. ]

I'm gonna grab you some water, okay? [ lucky because he doesn't have to go far; someone had enough foresight to leave one within arm's reach of where he's sitting. easy to lean over and snag it, twisting off the cap with his teeth before gently propping up wolfwood's head and holding it to his mouth. ] Drink a little for me. It'll help.

Nnn-

[ But as it turns out, the no he's desperately trying to rasp out is unnecessary. Vash isn't going anywhere. The thought of drinking, of swallowing, is awful, but he takes a tiny sip of water for Vash. It helps, and takes another. One more, except he uses this one to swill out his mouth and spits into the sand.

Yeah, it's wasteful, but he defied death today. God'll have to catch him to hold him to account.

It's funny, but he's never really thought about the fact that the drugs don't really stop things from hurting. Not for a little while, anyway. It's always just been the case that he still had work to do after he took them, so he pushed through and ignored it until it faded. It's an odd feeling, to be grateful to have time to sit with it. ]

Hey.

[ He sounds like shit. Not too much more than he usually does after waking up before he's not ready and smoking since childhood, though, and he hopes that's a comfort to Vash. ]

[ and there it goes. a little more of that awful fear peeling away, until vash almost feels like he can breathe again. he fully intends to grab the cleanest piece of cloth he can find and waste a little more of that water wiping some of the blood away, but for now? the only thing in the world vash wants to do is just sit here and look at a wolfwood who's looking back, drink down the rasp of his voice like it's the sweetest thing in the world. ]

Hi. [ it comes out thick, eyes stinging. ]

[ It's an effort, and drags a little nnngh out of him, but he hooks an arm up around Vash's shoulders and manages to pull Vash down enough and himself up enough to give him some approximation of a hug. A little kiss is on the horizon, too, but maybe after he finds some way to clean himself up a little. ]

Fucked that right up, didn't I?

[ bending like this to get himself down on wolfwood's level is enough to make every wound sing out in a little starburst of pain, but vash doesn't care. he lets himself get dragged down willingly, sliding his prosthetic arm around wolfwood's back to support him and letting himself lean into him. just a little, just for a minute. it'd be a better hug if he let go of wolfwood's hand, but.

no.

there is a part of him, selfish, that wants to agree. to say it was a fuckup, to demand that wolfwood never does anything like it again. to be selfish, please. but he swallows back the impulse, shakes his head a little. ]

You did good. [ and then, emphatically, even as vash wishes he wasn't: ] You're good. You saved his life.

[ In spite of himself, in spite of the way every part of him wants to insist he's giving up on this whole no-killing thing he's trying, he sighs. That's good. Good to know the old fart made it; that he didn't get himself damn near taken out only to have the guy catch a bullet after him anyway.

He's got an idea of what might have put a halt to all that, and it's only confirmed by the way he feels Vash moving. It's not like he's resistant or tentative - feels like he should be, though. ]

You're hurt.

[ If he sounds almost offended by this, it's because he is. It's full dark. Plenty of time to get himself seen to, and he hasn't. Stupid. ]

[ a laugh, but it's a thready thing, not an ounce of humor in it. ]

Scrapes and bruises. Nothing to worry about, it'll heal.

[ sitting himself up again, mostly so he can get a better look at wolfwood. changing the focus back towards what's important! ] You okay? Does it hurt anywhere else? I gave you two, but if you need more...

[ nudging wolfwood's jacket carefully away from his chest, checking for a wound where that first bullet shattered his supply. relieved to find nothing more than dried blood and a little pockmark, like the scar of an injury that's already been healed for ages. ]

Hurts like a bitch. It's getting better, though.

[ What's not getting better is his desire to hold Vash, and since all his body parts appear to be functioning he gives Vash a little pat on the hand that's checking for injuries and then heaves himself up. Scoots around until he can sit next to Vash, leans close, wraps an arm around him. ]

Don't know how you got it, and I'm sure I'm not gonna like it, so before I find out and tear you a new asshole over it:

Thanks.

[ even knowing wolfwood is sturdy, even having seen the proof for himself that he's been healed, vash can't help the low sound of distress he makes as the other man heaves himself up. the panicked little animal nesting in his hindbrain is still insisting that he stay down, stay still, stay alive, and it's harder to convince it that everything is okay.

but the hug is nice! even if vash's response isn't nearly as as enthusiastic as usual; it's more of a slouch of his weight on wolfwood than anything else, the shakes starting to settle in as the adrenaline burns off. ]

Mmmhmm. [ it's about all the detail he plans on going into. ] No problemo.

Oh, hey.

[ It's reasonably calm. Not the first time he's seen Vash get the shakes, although there are nicer ways to see him get overwhelmed. He shifts a little more so he can pull Vash into a decent, two-armed hug, presses a little kiss into his hair, starts stroking there to try and soothe him. It helps to have something to focus on, too, his brain shutting down the lingering pain once it identifies a more important task. Taking care of Vash is always going to take priority. ]

I'm here. I'm okay. You did good, Tongari. We're gonna be just fine.

[ just this, wolfwood having to comfort him after he was the one who’d nearly died, is enough to make vash’s stomach twist with guilt. if he was stronger, better, he’d redirect things — he’d know how. instead, he just leans himself a little more into that embrace, not caring that the proximity is smearing blood over his skin.

still! he tries, forcing more steadiness into his voice than he feels. ] Uh-huh. Yeah, no, I’m good.

[ parroting it back to him stupidly. ] You’re okay, we’re okay.

We're okay. We're here, we're okay, and I love you.

[ He doesn't know what else to do, so turning it into a loop of reassurance seems as good a bet as anything. Put it's okay in Vash's head, and then hammer it home like a nail. He reaches for Vash's hand and holds it to where the pain is easing to little more than a dull ache now, over where his flesh has knit itself back together, keeping it flat so Vash can feel the big pulse in his neck too. ]

You saved me. See?

[ the i love you should be good. or maybe it is, maybe that’s the problem. it makes that scared-rabbit panic startle back to life in some back corner of his mind, and vash has to squeeze his eyes shut tightly.

(it’s like a nightmare he’s had a hundred times before, wolfwood telling him i love you with his blood drying on vash’s skin.)

he needs to knuckle himself back under control. he has to, at least for a little while. they can’t stay here — they need to make their way to the next town over and hope it’s a quiet place to spend at least one night. wolfwood needs new clothes, a shower, probably something to eat. they all need to sleep.

the way wolfwood folds vash’s hand gently over his throat should help. it does, until the present overlaps with his memory — when he expects a rich gush of blood to follow each thump of wolfwood’s pulse, and the panic nearly makes him jerk his hand away. but he doesn’t. keeps it there, tries to tell himself that this is real. ]

You’re okay. [ gritting his teeth to stop them from chattering. ] You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.

Give it half an hour, I'll be good as new.

[ Vash, on the other hand. Wolfwood doesn't know what to do for this. It's not the first time Vash has freaked out a little but it's never seemed quite so bad - never been such a mess, probably - and it's usually been when they were alone in a bedroom together, and Wolfwood could just press him down and kiss him softly and distract him. Seems rude to do that while he's covered in blood, ruder still when he assumes Shortie and Druncle are within line of sight. ]

What do you need? When's the last time you ate something? Drank water?

[ it feels... awful, for wolfwood to be the one who nearly died but vash end up being the person who needs to be taken care of. the guilt twists up in his stomach, sours at the back of his throat.

so he shakes his head, trying to gently work his way free from that hug. ] I'm okay. Really, you don't have to worry.

[ trying to shift the focus off himself. ] Do you think you can handle a ride in the truck? If we head south instead of east, we'll hit a town in about an hour. We can find you a place to wash up, maybe some new clothes.

[ He can feel that shift. There's a part of him that wants to grab Vash's hand, reassure him - that he's fussing because he needs Vash, because that was fucking terrifying and Vash's presence is the only thing keeping him sane right now, because he thought he'd never see Vash again and now that he does he realizes how fucking stupid it was to risk throwing it all away. Because he's grateful that Vash did what he did, however stupid or dangerous it might have been, grateful that he did it and now Wolfwood's alive to be mad at him for taking that risk.

It feels like that would probably make it worse, though, so he bites it back. Later, when things have calmed down, he can tell him. For now? ]

That sounds... really good.

[ He lets Vash disentangle himself, stretches a little and makes a catalogue of the places and ways that doing so hurts. Pretty normal, pretty standard.

He was damn lucky. ]

Gimme a hand up? [ A grin, crooked. ] Could do it myself, but I want the excuse to stay close to you.

[ wolfwood lets it go, and that's something. vash doubts he's off the hook forever, but maybe long enough to pack some of his own reaction back up and box it away, to figure out what he's supposed to do about any of this.

standing is enough to make him wince, but vash bites back on it. he hadn't really taken proper stock of the injuries before, but with the adrenaline wearing off, they're making themselves known. he'll have to find a way to deal with them once they're settled somewhere safe, but that's... a problem for future vash. (sorry, buddy.)

for now, his main priority is making the smile he summons up halfway to believable as he extends a hand to help wolfwood up. ] Subtle, huh?

[ He catches that wince, too, the way the smile makes it maybe halfway to Vash's eyes before he forces it the rest of the way with sheer determination. Once they have somewhere to rest, he can bug Vash about how much pain he seems to be in, what he might need. For now, it seems like the best way he can thank Vash is to go along with the lie. ]

As always.

[ He takes Vash's hand, even though he mostly pushes himself to standing. It's steadying in more ways than for balance, and he keeps hold of it as they move towards the truck. If a near-death experience doesn't get him off the hook for being lovey-dovey in front of the others, what the hell will?]

[ thankfully, it doesn't take roberto and meryl long to be on board with the plan. their makeshift campsite is just as easily cleared away -- canteens and supplies gathered back up, sand kicked over the fire, the truck packed with everything they brought with them.

it's a quiet ride, but vash doesn't mind. it's good just to be able to press himself up against wolfwood's side in the backseat, their hands still clasped together. trying to reassure himself that wolfwood is still warm, living, whole -- that vash can feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing from their proximity, can soak in the warmth of his skin. it doesn't take it all away, but it blunts the worst of the edges. enough to let vash keep it together for a little while longer.

they run into a bit of a complication once they've arrived at the town and are ready to make tracks for the inn -- wolfwood's clothes are a ruin, and there's too much blood smeared on his skin and matted into his hair to be able to rinse off with one of the canteens. but, after a moment, vash shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around wolfwood instead, tugging the hood up to cover his hair. the jacket's big on vash, but wolfwood is swimming in it, and something about the sight makes vash's chest ache. he wants to wrap both arms tightly around him, he wants to make a bunch of stupid promises he can't keep. he bites the inside of his cheek instead, offers to go see about food and water while the rest of them handle getting rooms for the night. (gently waves off wolfwood's attempt to go with him, points out that people are more likely to do business with a guy if he doesn't have a buddy covered in blood and gore dogging his heels.)

it's quick work, tracking down what they need. refilling the canteens, scoring a plate of hot sandwiches from the older woman working behind the bar. and then, turning up the charm and not afraid to look pitiful, vash hits her with a story about his friend being mugged in the last town they visited, asks her if she's got a change of clothes he could pay her for. vash knows he must look like a mess -- dirty, bedraggled, dark circles under his eyes; it's obvious she feels bad for him, and that pays off. so, when she offers him a set of her son's clothing that vash thinks is roughly about wolfwood's size -- dark jeans and a long-sleeved henley -- she won't even hear of taking payment for them. (if it was for himself, vash would probably feel guilty about the charity, but if it's for wolfwood, he's willing to do almost anything.)

so it isn't long before he's able to head to the inn. knocking on roberto and meryl's door as he settles some of the sandwiches and one of the canteens outside, then crossing the hall to the room he's sharing with wolfwood. ]

Hey. [ trying to keep his voice light. easy. unbothered. ] Found you some new clothes. Not your usual style, but they're not covered in blood, so...

[ unloading the contents of his arms onto the bed. canteen, food, clothes. ] You think you're okay to shower off?

Probably.

[ He could stand up in there, hose off. The damage is healed, and blood loss never really keeps him down for long once he's all patched up - whatever's in those little vials seems to get the juice pumping as well, tops off whatever's emptied out of his tank. But he aches in places that really aren't anything to do with the wounds that are covered over now, that he knows will have healed tidy enough that you might not even know they used to be bullet holes to look at them once the blood's off them. He wants to be close with Vash, to hold him and have Vash hold him in return. He just.. knows Vash might not be up for that. The time he's had to himself while Vash ran around taking care of everyone was just enough to start worrying that some damn fool ideas have taken hold in Vash's heart. Thoughts about getting too close, and where that gets you.

He makes it a suggestion, rather than a request. ]

Wouldn't say not to company. Do our bit to conserve water, and all.

[ The showers are usually on a timer in all but the fanciest places, but the offer's there. ]

[ the yes that tries to tumble out of him is immediate, but vash bites down on the inside of his cheek to stifle it. he wants to. wants to help rinse off all the blood, wants to put his hands on wolfwood until he can convince himself that he's really okay. wants to hold him, skin against skin, and is desperate to have wolfwood hold him in return.

but vash knows he shouldn't. wolfwood's been telling him all along, you make me a better person, and look where that had almost gotten him. it's... the first time vash has ever had to confront the potential consequences like this, seen them applied to someone else and begun to stumble over whether it's a price worth paying.

and there's the other matter at hand -- if he takes the offer to go shower off, there'll be no hiding his injuries. wolfwood'll worry, or worse, feel guilty (like vash wouldn't take a hundred times worse for him without a thought).

he should turn him down. stay here, see what he can do about some hasty first-aid while wolfwood is gone. it's why he freezes up for a long moment, breaking eye contact and shifting his weight from foot to foot. he should say no. he knows it.

... but, instead, voice small: ] ... okay.

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