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It's been damn near five days since he lost track of Vash, which isn't too odd, save for the fact last Wolfwood saw him was partway through a fight. By the time the dust settled, that slippery little fucker was gone. Still isn't too troubling, but he's 'sposed to be a babysitter and more'n that, he's half certain the smaller insurance girl's gonna throw a clot worrying about Vash 'til she's got eyes on him again. So, chivalrously , he volunteered to go out and look for their wayward pal.
Figures he can't have gotten too far, since ducking out for good without any tearful goodbyes just isn't his style. So Wolfwood's been looking anywhere that's close enough to get to on foot. Seems to him like the idiot probably got hurt 'n' crawled off to lick his wounds, like he's wont to do.
And he's about to write this little village off, but he figures a smoke won't hurt. Sits down on a rickety little porch out front of an empty lookin' home and rests his elbows on his knees, fishing one of his cigs outta his pack. Holds it between his lips while he strikes a match, cupping his hand around it so it doesn't gutter out in the wind.
Once it's lit, he takes a long drag, props his chin up on his free hand and just kinda settles, lets his shoulders sag and his eyes close. Never really lets his guard down, though, and by now he's not sure he knows how to anymore, since he's spent so long pulled taut as a drum.
He oughta go back and let the girls know he's alright. Doesn't need them worrying about him too.
'Cept he can't even settle on a plan, since he's got this bristling, nervy feeling setting into his bones. He tenses, gearing up for an attack, 'cos knowing his luck he's about to get jumped.
He's about to get up and get the hell outta dodge to see if he can outrun whatever his gut's warning him about, when he catches sight of a glint between the floorboards of the porch. Looks a little closer and he realizes it's a set of eyes, catching the light filtering down through the gaps in the porch.
"Well, I'll be damned," he throws his head back and laughs.
Then, he drops to his knees beside the porch, tryin' to get a better look. The lattice surrounding the porch sure as shit's seen better days, barely clinging on to the worn skeleton of the structure. There's definitely space enough for someone to get under there, even a tall, gangly fucker like Vash.
Sure, it could be somebody else, but then the hair on the back of his neck wouldn't be standing up like it is.
"Jesus Christ," he says, "I swear, you're like a fuckin' cat."
There's a beat or two of silence before he adds, "Don't you dare make me come down there, Spikey. I'll kick your ass if you do."
Though Wolfwood's starting to get a mite worried. Maybe Vash is hurt worse than any of them expected. He's not usually so quiet.
So spiderwebs and dust and how fuckin' miserable it's gonna be to wash that outta his suit be damned, he sighs, stubs out his half smoked cig and tucks it behind his ear, and crawls down under the porch. Just enough to grab Vash's ankle, nothin' more'n that.
Vash yelps when he pulls on him. Damn near gets his nose kicked into his brains in the process. And Vash keeps scrambling for purchase in the sand, but it doesn't do jack shit for him.
"Hey, hey, it's just me, alright?"
For a split second he's scared Vash somehow found out what he's doing, his role in this whole song and dance, but Wolfwood figures if that was the case, he'd be in a lot worse shape than almost-kicked-in-the-face. But this feels a whole hell of a lot less like Vash and more like the rare glances outta the corner of his eyes he gets of Knives, the blink-and-you'll-miss-it moments where he sees the blind terror underneath all the posturing.
Out in the sun, he takes a moment or two to catch his breath. Keeps a solid hold on Vash so he can't scurry off back under the porch, squirm as he might.
Awful strange to see him like this: eyes wide and panicked, pupils blown out. Hair laying flat for once, slicked back with grease and sweat, dusted with spiderwebs and sand. Locked up like he's just figured out he's caught in a snare, or maybe the jaws of a predator.
Then, once he's had a breather, he grabs Vash around the waist and hefts him up over his shoulder. He's lighter than Wolfwood thought he'd be, even with how scrawny Vash is and it kinda gnaws at him, thinkin' about it. Almost makes him feel like Miss Melanie, always worryin' over the kids, makin' sure they had enough to eat.
And he's had more'n enough practice with the Punisher, currently safe and sound in the care of the big girl as a promise he'll come back. Though the Punisher never tries to grab his legs and trip him up or hammer fists against his back.
"The fuck's gotten into you, Spikey?" Wolfwood grumbles.
But he must get it outta his system quick enough, 'cos after a few minutes he gives up and goes limp. Might even be asleep, which once again brings annoyance and concern neck'n'neck fighting for priority in Wolfwood's thoughts.
There's no way he can bring Vash back to the girls like this, all skittish and half-wild. Truth be told, he still isn't sure what to make of it himself.
So he makes his way to the one inn in town, doesn't bother asking what the going rate is, just counts out bills until the clerk behind the counter stops staring at the semi-conscious man slung over his shoulder. You can buy an awful lot of discretion if you're willing to pay the price and he figures this is far from the worst these walls have seen.
The room they end up with is on the ground floor, got a window big enough for 'em to slip out of if things go south, but as far as he knows, no one's on their trail. He's wracking his mind tryna figure out when Vash mighta gotten hurt so bad. Never cried out or anything during the fight, but Wolfwood figures he's the type to grin and bear it.
He locks the door behind him and finally sets Vash down, keeping himself between Spikey and the door just in case. But Vash stays seated on the bare floor, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes peering out over the tops of his arms. Narrowed, watching him intently.
Figures it's probably best to get down on his level, done his fair share of trying to make headway with his kids when he's gettin' them to trust him. So he sits down, back restin' against the door.
"You gotta help me out here, Spikey. Give me somethin' to work with."
Nothin'.
But he gets the feeling that he isn't just getting the silent treatment. No, it seems to him that Vash looks downright haunted, eyes sunken in, ringed so dark around they almost look bruised.
And it hits him, makes more sense than anything else about this situation, "You can't talk right now, can you?"
Vash's eyes flick away, finally breaking contact for the first time since they got in the room. Glances off to the cracked wall like it's awful interesting, same thing he does whenever he's cornered in a conversation.
"S'alright, I won't tell anyone. Figured you wouldn't want the girls to see you like this, they're a couple towns back waitin' for us."
Though he should send a message down the wire to the place they're stayin', let 'em know he found Vash. He'll do it soon as he knows Vash won't slip out on him if he's left alone for a few minutes.
But he doesn't want to make Vash feel trapped, either, 'cos that'll just make it all worse, set back any of the trust that's grown up between 'em. And he needs that trust, at least enough to get him patched up and on the mend.
It's real strange how easy he falls back into this line of thought. Figured Eye of Michael beat all the tenderness outta him years ago. Doesn't even feel like he's got the right to call himself a caretaker, even though that's how he spent the first chunk of his life. Doesn't deserve the title of protector after all he's done to save his own skin.
There's no one here to catch him in the act, so he figures it's alright, he can get away with it right now.
"Not gonna make you do anythin' you don't wanna," he says, nice'n'even, still leaning back against the door, keeping himself casual and open, "But seems to me like it might help if you got cleaned up."
Vash must agree, seein' as he makes his way to his feet, kinda unsteady and uncertain. Then, he gives Wolfwood a look he's halfway inclined to read as expectant.
After all these years, he's learned it's best to go with his gut, but it still feels like this is a line that he can't go back from if he crosses it. He swallows hard, tells himself that none of his bullshit, none of his desires, are on the table here. Just a matter of makin' sure Spikey stays in one piece, and he might be a bad man, but he's not so bad as to twist such a vulnerable situation around 'til he's the one benefitin' from it.
He gets up, closes the gap between them 'til they're damn near nose to nose, and tentatively grabs ahold of one of Vash's coat buttons, just in case he's got it all wrong, still time to back out. But Vash just lets his eyes flutter shut, too damn trusting.
So Wolfwood sets to undoing the quite frankly ridiculous amount of buttons on that flashy wreck of a coat. This near to Vash, it's clear that he smells of rot. Of the few festering pockets of damp in the dark places no one ever sees, of blood and sweat. He's lucky no one else found him, would've written him off as a corpse.
Once they're all undone, Wolfwood peels the coat away from Vash with this godawful sticking sound, the interior of it saturated with still-tacky coagulated blood. He can't even tell where it came from, seems like it ended up everywhere. All of it's old, from the looks of it.
Wolfwood holds the coat by the collar, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, as far away from him as possible, "We oughta just burn this thing. Cut our losses."
Vash actually snarls , nose wrinkled, teeth bared. The most emotion he's seen outta him since they got to the inn.
Wolfwood shrugs, tosses the coat aside, "Well, you're the one who's gotta wash all that blood out."
With that out of the way, he moves onto Vash's undershirt. It fastens at the side, under his left arm, and when Wolfwood undoes it, he's struck with the revelation that it's like this so Vash can do it one handed if it comes down to it. Just has to pull it over his head and it's off, joining the jacket on the floor.
See, Wolfwood thought he was ready for it. Been thinkin' about gettin' Vash undressed in the deepest, hidden, part of his thoughts for a while now, even if it was under different circumstances.
And he knew about the scars. Heard about 'em from the smaller insurance girl, Meryl. Happened one night a few months back, all of 'em drunk enough to loosen up their lips, Spikey asleep facedown on the table and her whispering like she was givin' confession.
She's got a soft spot for Vash, too. Tryin' to hide it, just like he is, so there's a measure of understanding 'tween the two of 'em.
But just hearin' about them doesn't compare to seeing them. Thank God above that he's been trained to control every little expression, 'cos he'd just scare Vash off if he realized how much pause it was givin' him.
He's not even gettin' the whole picture 'cus of the dried blood, but it makes his heart ache, knowin' the whole story of Vash's life is written out across his skin. They're alike in that regard, gettin' their hands dirty, endurin' the pain so no one else has to.
Still thinks he's a bit of a hypocrite, but it's clearer now that he's misguided, not stupid. Too much of a bleeding heart, too idealistic, and he's paid his dues with a pound of flesh.
And Wolfwood realizes he's been starin', clears his throat to try and get rid of the lump stuck in it and says, "I'll get the water goin'. You got it from here?"
Vash nods, gives Wolfwood the out he's desperately looking for. He retreats to the little bathroom, trying to have enough faith in Spiky to not worry too much about him being gone by the time the bath's full.
Doesn't have quite enough faith to leave the door closed, though.
But at least there's some space between 'em and he can catch his breath. He never had a fighting chance, always felt too much, cared more than he should've, was too human for his own good as much as he tries to tell himself he's a monster.
It hurts, God, it hurts, like his innards are being scraped out by a guttin' knife, knowing someone trusts him this much. Even after seeing the worst side of him, even knowing he's a killer.
He leans over, turns the faucet to hot and lets the water wash over his hands, trying to shock himself outta whatever rut he's stuck in. Doesn't plan on using too much water, just enough to get Vash clean, since he doesn't want the innkeeper to bleed anymore money outta him.
Shuts it off when the tub's about halfway full since he figures Vash'll need to rinse off after considerin' the four days worth of grime coated on him. And he damn near sneaks up on Wolfwood after that, probably would've if it weren't for the bristling sense of someone nearby that's second nature to him by now.
Vash swings a leg up, foot resting on the edge of the bathtub. Wolfwood turns enough to see him eyeing his thigh carefully, tongue poking out between his teeth. Watches him dig his fingers into the flesh, dark blood welling up around the spot.
It's damn near hypnotizing, the slightest furrow to Vash's brow as he does whatever he's doing, no other sign of the pain it must be causing.
He pulls back a few seconds later, closing his gore smeared fist. Takes his foot off the bath and heads towards the small sink, arm outstretched, and lets a mangled bullet drop onto the counter.
The little clink of it breaks the bubble of tension resting heavy on the room and Wolfwood whispers, "Lord above."
Vash reaches over his shoulder, drumming on the bare skin as if to say can you…?
And, of course, Wolfwood obliges. Sidles up behind Vash and examines the flesh he's indicatin' towards.
There's another angry, raw spot, made clearer when Vash grips the sink and Wolfwood swears to God it's moving. Ripping itself open. Would almost think his eyes were playing tricks if it weren't for the bullet poking its head up like a juvenile worm, nothing more than a glint buried in the gash.
Wolfwood sucks in air through his teeth and presses his forefinger and thumb hard into the skin on either side of the wound, helpin' it along the way, but it's really doin' most of the work burrowing out.
The world slides sluggishly into slow motion, goin' hazy around the edges of his vision. His pulse pounds in his ears, like the pressure in the room's doubled. With his free hand, he probes at the wound real hesitant-like, feelin' for the bullet amid all the blood. Almost retches when he realizes his finger's slipped in up to the first knuckle.
He's half certain he's touchin' bone tryin' to get a grip on the bullet, sure as shit is touchin' muscle at the very least. By all rights, Vash should be howling at the top of his lungs from the agony of it, but he's not doin' anything more'n letting out a low, breathy whine.
It's a damn mess, that's for sure. Wolfwood can feel the rise and fall of Vash's breathing as he tries his best to work gently. His hand is coated in the viscera and the flesh inside the wound is warm, too damn warm, but he figures it must work up a lotta heat doin' something like pushin' a bullet out.
Once it's a bit further along, he can get a hold on it. Not too good'a one since it's so slick and he's gotta be doing more harm than good, but Vash doesn't even flinch.
Finally, he gets enough purchase, catching it between his fingernails, and pulls the bullet loose with a squelch. Tosses it like it's burned him, sending it skittering across the counter to join its brother.
Vash sighs and turns back to face him, eyes closed, head bowed slightly, what Wolfwood takes as a sign of thanks.
"Water's gettin' cold, Spikey."
And Vash rolls his damn eyes, closest he's gotten to being his usual self thus far. Smiles after that, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes, isn't one of his real smiles, where his eyes scrunch up and there's a hint of a dimple on his left side.
(Idly, he wonders if the same would be true of Knives, since he's come to the conclusion that they're mirrored. Seems hard to think of them as being two sides of the same coin, right until it isn't. Really creeps up on you, how similar they are.)
Vash slips away from him, gets settled in the bath, prosthetic danglin' over the edge so it won't get wet. Figures Vash decided it'd be more trouble than it's worth to take it off. It's a real beauty, as close to lost technology as they can get these days.
Wolfwood sidles up to the sink, takes the time to scrub Vash's blood from his hands. Thinks back to that drunken night once more, to Meryl stage whisperin' behind her hand about how insecure Vash seemed about the prosthetic, about the scars. Rolls it around in his head, tryin' to figure out if Vash trusts him enough to let him see these things, or if he's just too tired to fight back.
Either way, he looks like he's liable to fall asleep in the water, and while it'd be a pretty ironic way to go, drowning on a desert planet, Wolfwood's not gonna let that happen while he's around.
He sheds his blazer, rolls up his shirtsleeves, and grabs the cleanest looking wash cloth the inn has to offer. Kneels down next to the bath, which makes Vash crack one eye to study him carefully.
"Didn't seem like you were gettin' too much done by yourself," he says, cool and casual, dipping the cloth into the rapidly red-turning water.
It won't do too good of a job since the water's hardly clean anymore, but it'll help a mite. Wolfwood holds his breath as he wrings out the cloth, suddenly keenly aware that he's gonna wash Vash. A kind of closeness he hasn't had for years.
He starts with Vash's chest, covered in flaking dried blood. Couldn't go so far as to call his touch clinical or uncarin', but he hopes it's clear he's not doin' anything untoward. Works carefully over the curve of his breast, one of the few soft spots about him when he's all muscle and scar. It's small, all things considered, but strange to see contrasted against the other side, perfectly flat, shiny scar tissue under the cage of mesh over his heart.
(He knows Knives is built the same way, though it wouldn't be right to say they're built like women. They're plants, the same vestigial breasts and hairless bodies, almost featureless aside from the moles and freckles, like they're copyin’ humanity.)
All the while, he's watching Vash closely, tryin' to gauge what he's got permission to do.
Once again, he's struck by that earthy smell, though it's less like rot this time around. Damn near comforting, smells like fertile ground, like, well , the land near a geo-plant.
Sure, he's made his peace with the fact that Vash isn't human, but he always figured they were more alike than different. Now he's stuck tryin' to square away these new details; the way his flesh moves like it's got a mind of its own while it's healin', the scent of his body at work.
Vash leans forward, making it easier for him to wipe away the blood. Does so with a gentle touch, careful around the hole in his shoulder, though if the patchwork of scars are anything to go off of, Vash is someone who's better acquainted with pain than tenderness.
God above, he has no idea how much of it Vash can even feel. The nerve damage must be extensive, runnin' riot over his body. But whatever it is, it's enough for Vash to hum low down in his chest, and Wolfwood can feel the rumble of it through his hand against his back.
"The fuck were you thinking?" He mutters, tries his best not to sound angry, "You were gonna just slip away for five days? Wait to heal up and come back like nothin' happened?"
"Or…" It sounds guttural, strained, like the words are grinding against themselves inside of Vash, "Die."
"Or die?" Wolfwood echoes, "Great! All around great plan! You sure are keen to get yourself killed for someone who disapproves of suicide, good Lord."
He waits for some response, some biting retort, some kind of argument, anything. After a minute or so, where the silence weighs down the entire room, he sighs and figures Vash, in his typical fashion, has already pushed himself well beyond his limits.
Besides, he doesn't feel much like arguin' anyway. He's worried, that's the heart of it. And it's damn sad seeing Vash hang his head, halfway curled in on himself with his flesh'n'blood arm hugging his knees to his chest.
Wildwood sets the rag aside, trading it for a bar of soap, and works up a lather in his hands.
"Gonna get your hair for ya," he warns, doesn't want to catch him unawares.
Vash makes a low sound, nothing more'n a sign that he heard, that he understood.
So Wolfwood tangles his fingers in Vash's hair, workin' the suds into his scalp in little circles. And he's lavishin' attention into gettin' all the grime and gore outta his hair--admittedly, his heart stopped for a minute when he first saw it wet-looking from the grease, coated in a sheen of dust and cobwebs, blond lookin' almost black-- but, thank the Lord above, it's washin' out alright, soap gone gray around his hands.
And maybe there's a little more of the true black than there was before, but he can't rightly tell if it's true or just his fear rearin' its ugly head.
Doesn't matter much, only thing that matters is how Vash's started humming again.
"You're an awful lotta trouble," Wolfwood sighs, "You're damn lucky you're cute."
Vash tips his head back, batting his eyes up at Wolfwood as if to say you really think so? All coy and playful, and he'd love to pick apart all the things Vash still does when he's like this, since they must be the real core of him, the foundation that he's built his outer face upon.
And then, Vash grimaces, squeezing his eyes shut from where the soap's run down into them.
"Serves you right, Spikey," he says, all gentle, no bite to it.
He'd be awful glad if God would strike him dead here and now, might not've made up for the blood on his hands, but at least he'd go out in the midst of something gentle.
"Keep your eyes shut," he adds, "Gonna rinse you off."
And he pulls the plug, might've worried about Vash catching a chill, but he's runnin' hot right now and it's awful hard to catch a chill in a world like this. Besides, Wolfwood's got the faucet running again, catching the warm water in his cupped hands before carrying it to pour over Vash's head.
Damn near feels like a baptism, though the truth of it is that he's a no good, wretched wreck of a priest and he's got no right to be doin' much of anything clerical. Still, it makes him smirk, makes him chuckle under his breath.
Vash makes a little questioning sound, eyes still closed, still trusting him so completely.
"Just was thinkin' it feels like I oughta be sayin' a christenin' prayer right about now."
Vash smiles, this somber half-crescent smile, head tipped back and lookin' up at him like he's all there is in the world. Makes Wolfwood flush, tips of his ears burning, and he's glad Vash can't see him like this. Long gone are the days of self-flagellation, but he still feels like he oughta do penance for the desperate want this is kindling inside of him.
He chokes the desire down, grabs the now-stained rag once more and wrings it out. Sets to work wiping away the lingerin' rivulets of rust colored water from Vash's skin.
The hole in his shoulder's still bleedin' but it's slowed down a mite, just a single line of red rolling over the curve of his back, thinned by the water.
"Wish we had some gauze, hell, even just bandages," he mutters.
Vash shrugs, as if to say oh well, or it happens to the best of us. Then, he grips the edge of the bath, holding on so tight his knuckles go white from the effort, tries to push himself up.
"Hey, hey," Wolfwood says, sternly, "Lemme help you."
He gets to his feet, tries not to pay any mind to how his joints creak. He's gettin' old, at least for someone in his profession and with no thanks to Eye of Michael; it won't be long before his body stops bein' able to handle the hell he puts it through.
Once he's upright, he adds, "Ready?"
Vash nods, though his jaw's set, teeth ground together, like he's bracing for whatever pain it's gonna bring him.
And Wolfwood crouches slightly, enough to loop his arms under Vash's and hoist him up. They're pressed chest to chest, and he's struck once more with the thought that Vash is too damn bony.
He keeps one arm slung across Vash's back, hand planted firmly on his hip, and turns away, offering Vash enough space to step outta the bath.
His fingers dig into Wolfwood's shoulder and he grimaces as he takes a step, the movement stirring up fresh blood from the hole in his thigh. Though it's smaller now, Wolfwood notes.
Vash puts his weight down on the leg tentatively, leaves Wolfwood half scared it'll crumple underneath him, but it holds. The second step's easier for the both of them, and Vash pauses, lettin' the water pool around his bare feet. Once Wolfwood's certain Vash can stand alright on his own, he lets go, pulls back kinda hesitant-like.
"Don't have anythin' for you to wear, I'm afraid. I wasn't exactly thinkin' I'd have to scrub you down before bringin' you back to the girls."
Vash just waves his hand, nevermind.
Stubborn as ever, he's out the door before Wolfwood can even tell him to be careful. Trails after him, hoping he'll have enough sense not to try and make a run for it while naked as the day he was born, but that might be givin' him too much credit.
And, thank Heavens, he's just crouched in front of his disgusting, grimy, jacket. Figures he's finally settled down enough to accept that Wolfwood's not givin' up on him too easy, which makes his job a lot simpler. Though it's awful strange seeing him rifle through the inner pockets, hunched over it like it's a corpse he's scavenging.
But he finds whatever he's lookin' for, drops the jacket and makes his way over to the bed, spreadin' out the spoils of his hunt over the bedspread. There's a small bundle of clothes; a roll of bandages, cloth ones, Wolfwood notes, stained with old blood at that; some tubes of ointment, probably antibacterials and antibiotics.
He'd offer to help, but he doesn't want to push his luck, can't help but conjure up the picture of a cornered animal. Vash might be playin' along, rollin' over to show his belly, but everyone's got a limit. So he'll pull back a little, give him some space and show that he trusts him enough not to crowd him.
And he watches Vash while he uncaps one of the ointments, squeezes a bit onto his fingers, and dabs it along the raw skin bordering the hole in his thigh, tongue poking out between his lips. Always seems to do that when he's focusin' real hard, might not even realize it's something that he does.
"Might do you some good to close up the hole a mite," Wolfwood offers.
Vash waves his hand, first two fingers shining red and slick from his work, dismissively.
Makes sense that he looks the way he does if he doesn't even bother to keep his wounds closed up, makin' it easier for the flesh to grow together. It's impressive, truly, leaves you awestruck just lookin' at him. There's this organic kinda beauty to it, no harsh angles, all curved and rippling, the oldest scars in white, the newest in angry red. He's been patched back together in ways Wolfwood's never even seen before, mended over and over like a treasured quilt you just can't let wear through.
He's starin' and he knows it. Gets caught red handed too, Vash flashes him an apologetic look over his shoulder, like he's gotta make up for the mere act of bein' undressed.
"Ain't like that," Wolfwood says, cool and easy, "I gotta strong stomach, takes more'n some scars to scare me off."
But he doesn't wanna admit the other half of it, the shape of his want, the need reachin' a fever pitch inside him.
Vash nods, just a little, and turns his focus back to tendin' his wounds. Sets to wrappin' one of the bandages around his thigh until the bloom of red from the hole is covered up entirely. Then, he pins it in place and moves onto his shoulder.
Wolfwood knows from experience how hard wrappin' your own shoulder can be, "You want some help with the bandages?"
And Vash hangs his head, arms going slack at his sides, an admission of defeat, waving his white flag in surrender. So Wolfwood sidles up behind him, holds his breath 'cos of how close they are. He takes one of the bandages from Vash, makin' note of the blood caked under his fingernails.
Hasn't spent as much time around him as the girls, but he's willing to take their word for it when they say he's usually pretty neurotic about keepin' himself well groomed.
From what Wolfwood's seen of him, he's always been a touch pale, likely owin' to how he's covered head to toe more often than not, but his skin looks downright waxy right about now.
"You sure you're gonna be okay?" He asks, though he really means somethin' more like you sure you're not sick? You sure you're still healin' like you used to?
Vash makes a noncommittal sound, less of an answer than Wolfwood would've liked. But he's here at least, might be nothin' more'n a human but he'll do his damnedest to keep Vash in one piece. Brings a wry little smile to his face, the idea that he's playin' guardian angel to the closest thing to divinity they've got.
(If --and it's a big if--Vash is a tried and true, honest to God angel , some divine messenger sent down to earth, then they're just as shit outta luck as humanity is.)
(For all the things he's seen and done in his day, nothing's rattled his faith quite like this revelation.)
But there's no time to get lost in his thoughts, not when Vash is here, right in front of him with his head bowed. Wolfwood holds the end of the bandage in place, fingers restin' on Vash's shoulder. Then, he starts winding it around, down under Vash's armpit, then up over his shoulder, again and again until the wound's covered.
And once he runs out of fabric, Vash already has a pin ready, like he knew right when it would happen.
"Thanks," Wolfwood mutters, pins it in place.
He can still feel the heat burnin' off of Vash, that clean heat of a sun-baked stone. He'd be more worried if Vash was drenched in sweat, if he was trembling, eyes glazed over, but he seems lucid enough.
So he backs off, gives Vash space enough to get dressed. That is, 'til he sees Vash holdin' up a long sleeved shirt, like he's really gonna wear that in the musty warmth of their room.
"Lord, Spikey, you don't have to do that. You're burnin' up as is, an' I don't care what you look like."
Though he's half convinced that Vash is tryin' to hide the scars from himself as much as he's tryin' to hide 'em from Wolfwood.
Vash grumbles to himself, wordlessly, but it's more for show than anythin'. Playing the role he's assigned himself. And, without so much as exchangin' any more words, they come to a compromise: Vash sets the shirt aside and pulls on a loose pair of pants, fabric worn soft and thin, tied with a drawstring 'round the waist.
Then, Vash slides a brace up his leg, fastening it around his knee. Wraps another one 'round his right wrist, with an ease that says he's practiced at this. Probably wears them most of the time, Wolfwood figures, can't see 'em under all the light armor and belts he wears.
There's somethin' about it, about seein' him with his hair down, bandaged up and bracing his weaker spots, that feels more intrusive than just seein' him naked. Makes Wolfwood feel like he wasn't meant to see it, even though he plainly was, since Vash isn't puttin' up a fight or nothin'.
After he's happy with the braces, Vash gathers up his supplies, sets them on the bedside table before crawling into bed. Curls up on his side, back against the wall, with his eyes half lidded, looks like he's already liable to fall asleep.
"Gonna let the girls know we're alright," he says, nice and easy, "You gonna be here when I come back? 'Cos if you go out the window and I hafta drag your scrawny ass back here, I'm not gonna be happy."
Vash doesn't open his eyes, just holds up a thumbs up, then shoos Wolfwood along. Wolfwood nods and slips out, trusting Vash once more.
And anyway, so far out of the two of them, he's been the one that's been buildin' the whole partnership on lies, but he can't quite tell Vash sorry, I'm actually here because I'm watching you for your brother to make sure his lackeys don't actually kill you. Still, he thinks maybe Vash knows, but he won't test that theory since he's quite fond of keepin' his head attached to his shoulders. Not that Vash would kill him, no, but he'd drive him away and then Knives would do the killing.
It's best to keep up the illusion. Not bring it up until it's unavoidable, 'specially 'cos he couldn't handle breaking Vash's heart like that. Even if he knows already, it's a different thing to say it out loud, makes it real.
Feels like they're always runnin' outta time. Sighs as he makes his way down the hall, fingers itchin' for a cigarette but they're in his suit-coat which is back in the room with Vash. Won't go back without sendin' his message 'cos he doesn't wanna give Vash the wrong idea, might make him think Wolfwood didn't trust him alone for more'n a few minutes.
It's alright. He grits his teeth, tells himself he can smoke out the window when he comes back from the lobby. Milly's been tryin' to get him to quit, but he's got few enough pleasures in this life as it is. She's a sweet girl, sweeter than he deserves.
When he rounds the corner into the lobby, the clerk catches sight of him, eyes goin' wide with fear for a few seconds before he catches himself.
"How, uh, how can I help you?"
Wolfwood sidles up to the counter, leans against it and smiles wide, "Sorry 'bout my pal. He had a little too much to drink. Lost track of him last night and found him still three sheets to the wind on someone's porch today."
The clerk gives him a look, the kind that says I think you're fulla shit, one eyebrow raised, eyes kinda narrowed.
"Y'see, he's not usually like that. Got in a fight the other day and ran off, his girl's been worried sick about him. Sent me t'go find him and bring his sorry ass home," he sighs wearily, the best lies are the ones that are true enough.
"Must've been some fight," the clerk shakes his head, but they're gettin' somewhere if he's even talking.
"Not really, he's just a bit of a bleedin' heart, y'know? Thinks everything's the end of the world," Wolfwood gives another smile, "Anyway, I wanna send a 'gram to his girl, let her know we're alright. Gonna bring him home soon as he's fit to travel."
"Well, if she's willing to do all that, she's gotta have the patience of a saint," the clerk laughs, "Once he's sobered up a bit, you should tell him to marry her before his luck runs out!"
Wolfwood props his chin up on his hand, "You're tellin' me!"
"So where am I sending this message for ya?"
"Texarkana Port, she's got a room above the bar."
"Think I know the place," the clerk says, though there's only one bar in Texarkana Port, not even big enough to have a proper inn.
But there's bound to be a 'graph operator somewhere in the port. Plenty'a bars have 'em these days, not just inns; makes for an easy extra bit of cash and the port's a hotspot for trade.
The clerk looks through his directory, mumbling to himself as he scans through the pages, "Alright, I got it. What's the message?"
They charge by the letter for the 'grams and he doesn't wanna pay through the nose so Wolfwood settles on a simple one:
HE'S SAFE STOP C U SOON STOP
Counts out his cash, even throws in a tip to make sure the clerk sends it in a timely fashion. Things are a little more professional if you're dealin' with an operator from a 'graph office, but there aren't too many of those the further you get from the main cities.
"Thanks," Wolfwood tips a nod to the clerk, "Lemme know if you get anythin' back, alright?"
He's not holdin' his breath, though. Figures he'll hole up in their room and see if he gets lucky. Just hopes the girls are there to get the message, haven't done anything stupid like goin' off to try an' meet 'em halfway.
They're smarter than people give 'em credit for, but concern makes you thoughtless. Especially when you're holed up on the shore of a sea, worryin' someone you care about mighta took one wrong step and ended up buried under the ever changin' waves of sand.
(He's heard tell of seas of water, passed down from generation to generation from the very first days after the great fall, and those almost scare him more than the seas they've got. Can't imagine water as far as the eye can see, strong enough to wear the rocks into sand.)
He's gotten too close. Done what he was ‘sposed to, but he didn't count on gettin’ tangled up with the girls as well. They don't deserve any of the pain he's gonna bring ‘em, but they're too damn stubborn. Won't listen to Vash when he tells them to keep their distance for their own sake.
Lord above, he really needs a smoke.
Vash is asleep when he gets back to the room. Overall, he trusts Spikey an awful lot, would trust him with his life if it came down to it, but Wolfwood's still relieved to see he didn't make another one of his great escapes.
He digs his smokes and matches outta his blazer’s pocket and drags the beat up, rickety chair over to the window. Sits leanin’ up against the windowsill and lights a match on the rough wood.
It's dark out, air’s nice’n’cool when he opens the window and sucks in a deep breath of it. Didn't realize how much the room smelled of growth, of rot, until he got some fresh air.
God knows things won't stay calm for too long, but he's sure as shit gonna savor the moments like this. He can count the times where he got half a chance to catch his breath on one damn hand.
Wolfwood ashes the cigarette out the window, lookin’ back to check on Vash every once in awhile. Feels like he's keepin’ a vigil, even though Vash is alive and well.
He focuses on the rise and fall of Vash’s chest, hard to make out in the low light ‘specially with him curled up. Can't tell if he's even really seein’ it happen, but it makes Wolfwood feel better nonetheless. It's rhythmic, damn near hypnotizing, almost feels like he can hear Vash’s heartbeat.
Can't hardly keep his eyes open. Figures he oughta stop fighting it sooner rather than later. The cigarette’s smoked down far enough to burn his fingers, so he stubs it out on the windowsill. Debates gettin’ in bed with Spikey, but he doesn't make it that far.
Wolfwood’s eyes slip shut, still seated at the window, slumped against the sill. He dreams of a woman with kind eyes and two boys leading him along, hand in hand with each of them.