i knew this would happen, still hard to believe it

[anthophilia]

[ 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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[spiculatus]

( 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.