Archive of Our Own ^beta

An hour later, Vash could still feel it clear as day.

“Nice goin’, tongari! You finally kicked up a typhoon big enough to rival your namesake.”

Vash hadn’t been exactly sure where Wolfwood’s voice was coming from at the time. He’d yet to process the impact of biting more than dust – dust, dust, more dust, and then brick marred his tongue. Even slower came the realization that the adobe crater above his head was vaguely him -shaped, down to the prosthetic that now lay severed in the sand.

“C’mon, we gotta get moving.”

Motes and clods of dust swirled in the tempest. Vash blinked as Wolfwood’s voice rang, a disjointed radio frequency abuzz in his ears. He became aware that his entire body throbbed , hinges and bolts nipped down deep along his scars. As dust began to settle across him, he searched for the black-clad priest, puzzled by the absence of the ripe stench of nicotine.

“You hear me? Up here, idiot.”

Vash forced himself to lurch on his hand and knees as the ringing grew louder. Dust crusted his cheeks as sand slid from his hair. He sneezed, and that sent the whole world around on its axis. He blinked, searching through the sandstorm as fingers curled through dirty blonde hair, inching his neck skyward.

“Need a hand?”

Wolfwood offered a cheeky smirk, brandishing the prosthetic like a showman. Vash watched as the boney fingers unraveled, grotesque without the simulated muscles to control movement. His stomach clenched in disgust.

More than anything, he felt the hand against his scalp, warm, firm, reassuring, and in this state, he wondered why wouldn’t it be Wolfwood to smash him through that wall instead. At least he might be somewhat gentler.

That thought evaporated when Wolfwood began wagging the appendage, wrist shimmying at all the wrong angles.

He fought back a grimace, and forced a watered down smile.

“My right hand, man!” Even though it was his left. Wolfwood had a funny way of making his brain not work, and the impact wasn’t helping.

Wolfwood snickered. “That’s terrible.”

“You started it. … Can I have it back?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

Vash jammed the arm into its socket with a hiss, fighting back watering eyes as his nerves lit up like livewires. A shiver leapt down his spine as he flexed wavering fingers. Bile rose in his throat. It never got any easier, did it?

“C’mon. Up and at ‘em. Let’s make tracks before they realize your spine’s not snapped in half.”

All at once came the inferno of touch .

Rigid as a corpse and limp as a ragdoll, Vash’s eyes went wide as Wolfwood hoisted him to his feet. Two hands tucked up under his arms, glancing over the ribs caging a startled gasp. Vash hardly remembered to plant his feet, heels dug into the sand like it might swallow him whole for Wolfwood to drag up again .

“Vash?”

He jerked, mustering a smile as crooked as his askew glasses. “Yeah?”

“You okay? That was a harder hit than usual.”

Like radar, Vash noticed those hands lingering, ready to steady at a moment’s notice. Deliriously, he half wished they would. Pain was creeping in at every angle. His neck felt stiff as cement, certain his back was blossoming into a rotten painting. Nausea nipped at him, nerves singing at the linkage between metal and flesh, yet to settle.

“Let’s get back to Meryl before she yells at me for worrying her.”

Wolfwood frowned at the nonanswer, but obliged. Vash didn’t give him the opportunity to pry, hiding a limp under a cheerful skip down a back alley that would surely lead to the van, and thus, a break .

That didn’t mean Vash wasn’t aware of the dark eyes analyzing every mismatched movement and every choked down whimper as Meryl smeared the dirt and grime off his face and hands before he was allowed into the cab.

Her hands felt so different.

Small, petite, the only blemish being the bump on her right ring finger from holding her pencil too tightly. Colder, but still warmer than the desert moons rising fast above their heads.

She worked in careful, deliberate circles. Not a drop of water would go to waste cleaning him off. Vash wasn’t sure why she insisted, why she even threw a fit considering the two smokers stinking up the rover, but she had. Now, here he was, in a trance as the cloth glided over his face like a dream.

“You need to be more careful,” she snapped.

Vash smiled meekly from the spare tire as she dumped water across a cloth. His back ached. His head throbbed. His arm felt twisted into knots, but he was too afraid to take it off and see which nerve was pinched. Too conscious of the distance to the next town to ask Meryl for a painkiller.

“I’m sorry.”

Vash swallowed, eyes wide as Meryl slipped a thumb beneath his chin. His mouth zipped shut as she turned his cheek, dabbing at a patch of crusted blood before realizing it wasn’t a wound. She scrubbed in small, dainty circles, brow furrowed, pouting.

“I don’t want more apologies. I want you to do what I ask.”

“Yes, Meryl…” he smiled.

“Good.”

“Hey, it could be worse!” he tried. “I could have exploded like a–”

Vash met her eye and forced himself to sit up straight, to not shirk against the rover. How could something so small be so terrifying ? Up close, he could see the lilac in her dark eyes, bending silver under the moons. It was so difficult to pretend when her gaze gutted him like a knife. Vash swore she saw through every layer, almost as if she’d known him for lifetimes instead of months.

Still, he tried.

Tried until she popped open the first aid kit and forced two painkillers on his tongue, ready to jam them down if he fought her on it a moment longer. What was with his friends bullying him so much, huh?

Under the tidal wave of pills, Vash didn’t have to pretend when his eyelids grew heavy and the multitude of stars went blurry. But the damn pills weren’t doing their jobs if he still felt this much.

Fingers woven through dirty locks. Hooked beneath the arms, ghosting over ribs. A thumb notched under his chin. Careful, methodical circles across his face and hand.

He could still feel them, a warm, distant pressure against his body.

Why couldn’t he shake them? Why were they clinging to him like ghosts of the past?

Why did he crave to feel the full pressure again?

Vash brought a knee to his chest as he slid his hands beneath his coat. It smelled of sweat and blood, but Meryl didn’t need to know about the scabbed over scrapes. Chin perched atop his knee, he closed his eyes. If he focused hard enough, he could feel the cool pad of her thumb. Content, he hugged himself, fingers laced to his ribs as if Wolfwood had decided he needed that support after all. Vash thought he could imagine the calluses hardening his palm and knuckles – in the joints, at the base of his fingers from wielding the Punisher.

He held himself a little tighter to keep himself from confirming his suspicions.

In the front seat, Meryl dialed the radio to a soft rock station as Roberto lit another cigarette. Vash heard the lighter click as smoke filled the cab. Broad treads rolled over sand with a steady crunch, devouring the journey. 

Relaxing, Vash glanced towards Wolfwood, half expecting the man to lean up and bully Roberto into forking over a light.

Vash nearly yelped when he noticed those dark eyes on him, cutting him up with a scalpel.

He ripped his hands away, slouched down into the threadbare cushions as if his back were a distant memory. Vash flipped up his hood. Attention handed over to the moon, to anywhere other than Wolfwood and the certain accusation, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the cold desert night.

Vash stirred to warmth from every direction, pressure cradling him from every angle.

Did they make it to the next town…? Who dragged him inside? Wolfwood? How’d he carry Vash and the Punisher…? How hard did he sleep to doze through the certain chaos of Meryl badgering the innkeep for a lower price, insisting the red-coated blonde was anything but a human natural disaster.

“... should be in town by noon.”

“Mm.”

“Is he still asleep?”

“Looks like it.”

Vash shifted as a voice rumbled against his cheek, tilted away from the disturbance. What kind of pillow talked ? A pretty bad one, he’d have to say. He restrained himself from politely asking it to quiet down when a new sound thrummed against his ear.

Bump-ba-bump. Bump-ba-bump .

What pillow had a heart–

Oh, hell .

Vash didn’t need to open his eyes. The smell of smoke and gunpowder and manufactured strawberry flavor hit him as hard as he hit that wall.

“... Are you sure he’s alright?”

“It was a bad hit, but he walked it off well enough. He’s been acting a bit funny. Don’t know if he smashed his head or not.”

Meryl scoffed. “ Funny .”

“Funnier than usual. Less circus and more standup.”

“What does that even mean ?”

Wolfwood paused, spewing smoke like exhaust. Vash felt him form the words, a rumble of thunder that raised the hair on his arms, only to settle like mist.

Instead, he shrugged.

Meryl scoffed, and changed the station again . Back to the news. Apparently, this time, Vash was vain enough to ruin an art installation by planting his shape into the mural.

Wolfwood’s breath rumbled against his cheek like a cat’s content purr. He expected his lungs to rasp, but they purred . Vash paled, shrinking into his hood. Around him, the pressure began to rearrange itself. The chin perched atop his head lifted to blow out smoke, tapping off ash through the window. Slowly, Wolfwood’s arm joined its twin draped over his shoulders, hands clasped as if brandishing a sword, as if daring something to come near. A leg hugged his waist, the other dropped to the floor.

Vash suddenly felt very small.

Vash felt his heart sputter as he balled a fist, only to get a handful of black fabric, fingers drifting towards warm skin. Wolfwood seized, but relaxed in an instant. He breached the pocket beside Wolfwood’s lapel, still as he felt the round lens of his glasses tucked alongside the square black frames.

Shit. Shit shit shit shitshit shit .

How the hell… how the hell did he worm his way out of this ?

Why was he on Wolfwood to begin with ?

Vash parted an eye, just barely, taking in the haze of the cabin. Dawn bled across the parfait sky, stars winking out one by one. Up front, news buzzed over the radio. Roberto was asleep, propped up on the window. Meryl drove on, glancing in the rearview mirror–

Eye snapped shut, he racked his mind for an escape.

Best to… to escape how he got over here. Asleep. Yes. Precisely. Exactly. Because it’s not like Wolfwood pulled him over here or anything.

Oh, be the star actor you’re supposed to be, Vash.

A slurry of addled words slipped through his lips. Something about donuts seemed convincing enough. Vash felt Meryl roll her eyes. He grumbled, brow furrowed, and gently braced his palm against Wolfwood’s steady… rolling… gentle heartbeat.

Vash pushed to rise, hating how remiss it felt to leave it.

“Easy, tongari…”

That horrible, awful, cruel warm hand brushed across his cheek. Vash froze, breath caught in his throat. Wolfwood brushed his temple, coaxing him back down.

Against. Him?

“There ya go.”

How hurt did they think he was–

Deft fingers flicked across his undercut before loping into blonde locks, ambling across his scalp with the tenacity of a curious drunk, flicking off crusts of dried blood from his undercut.

Vash whimpered .

“... Are you sure he–” Meryl’s voice hitched an octave.

“He needs to sleep it off. I think. … So do you. When do you want me to drive?”

“You can’t move him now .”

Were they still talking about him…? That seemed stupid. They knew he’d be fine. Eventually. Wasn’t he always fine? He tried to be… It wasn’t as if he had a right to be any other way considering…

Wolfwood rested his chin atop his head with a sigh. Vash tucked himself a little deeper before remembering he was supposed to be lunging the other direction. But… Wolfwood was solid. Something to… to hold onto.

Vash tightened his grip. The priest frowned as Vash relented, to… to what ? Desperation? Loneliness ? He was hurt. Yes, yes, he was still hurt, but the pain buzzed at the back of his mind like an irksome insect. Vash hated being left alone to spit out the bullets and tie his own sutures, but he wasn’t glued to Wolfwood for that . 

He was stuck for another reason, likely related to the perfect pulse of his heartbeat against his cheek and the purr of his breath.

Wolfwood smoothed down a flick of unruly hair, hood slid down to Vash’s flushed neck. “Apparently not.”

“He tried to move and you –” Meryl’s voice lilted into a song.

“Shut up and drive, pipsqueak.”

Meryl snickered as Wolfwood sank down, muttering to himself. Rearranged, Vash became aware that not only was he on Wolfwood, he was plastered to Wolfwood. Worst of all, their angles slid right together. Did Wolfwood notice the metal bits and bobs jabbing at him, the grate across his heart surely gouging into his side? He didn’t seem to. It was better that way.

Better that all Vash’s sharp lines melted and aligned against Wolfwood’s sturdy form, close enough to practically taste the smoke that clung to him like a shroud.

A ridiculous thought sprang to mind, that he might like to air out the smoke and see what lay beneath.

And he was warm . So warm. Very, very warm. Like a blanket from better times. The Before Times when he was small and innocent, before someone smeared the blood and grease across his palms and labeled him for what he was – the accomplice . 

Wolfwood shifted and a wave of guilt lurched over him as he followed the movement, a moth to the flame, plant to the sun. He must not have done it right, as if he ever did, because Wolfwood was handling him, avoiding his bruised back, placing him just where he wanted him. Vash sunk into that spot obediently as quick fingers skimmed his ribs.

Caught on the grate and lingered. Vash stilled, throat gone dry, as Wolfwood poked at the raised edge sunk into flesh. Why was he doing this? Why was he tracing the corrugated metal, cross hatching the steel until…

Until his palm rested across it and a pained sigh slipped out behind a cloud of smoke.

Oh .

Vash turned against Wolfwood’s arms with a muffled whine. Too much. That was too much . Too much in the way Vash suddenly wanted to wrench it off his chest and have that callused, rough palm grace over the multitude of scars hidden beneath it. That was it. He was going to the other side of the car, he was going to lay there , and he was not going to miss Wolfwood or the heartbeast Vash was greedy enough to bury himself in when he so selfishly buried his own.

Vash didn’t make it more than three inches. Why?

It probably had something to do with how Wolfwood cradled his head, nose notched to his forehead as Meryl slammed the brakes. Vash’s eyes nearly snapped open as Wolfwood’s heart skipped and sprinted. Silence fell until Roberto jerked awake, sputtering about Meryl’s license needing to be revoked immediately .

“Wha… Is he–?”

“I’m going to find a doctor when we get to–”

“Calm down, newbie. Here , let me drive.”

There was a shuffle of doors and rocking as Vash began to float with the motion of the worried thumb massaging his temple. The back seat dipped under an additional weight. Vash curled into himself, away from it, and into the warmth, terrified someone might take him away. Wolfwood tightened his hold, right over his ribs, as a third, small hand gripped his shoulder.

“Can you raise his collar? I want to see if there are bruises…”

“He’s gonna wake up.”

“So?”

“You want him spouting off now ?”

Vash slouched deeper, cheek squished against Wolfwood’s collarbone, oblivious to the protective voices he was sandwiched between. He felt warmer, heating up as they bickered above him. 

To move Vash, or not to move Vash, for that was the question. It wasn’t a long debate, skidding off the tracks the moment that Wolfwood dug in his heels and said looking now would be wrong .

All said with his palm closed over the grate, the final line of defense.

Ah .

That was fine… It was all fine.

It was just nice to be held, even if he didn’t deserve it.