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you dress in all black, the middle of the summer,
you're smoother than you think, you rock that alex turner,
your style, your arms, wrapped in leather,
makes me want you forever,
Vash the Stampede, however ominous his moniker entails, likes to assume the role of a protector of people.
Because he can’t afford to be anything else but. There is no one on this ill-fated planet that even has the capacity to do what he does on a daily basis without plunging into death’s hands. Given the chance, even someone like Vash longs for a tranquil, idyllic life. While some people look up to him like he’s some kind of hero, Vash still shrinks away from the veneration. How can one be a hero when that’s the only option they’re fated with? How is he any different from those fated otherwise?
To Vash, a hero is someone whose choices are laid out in front of them in various forms of sacrifices, someone who then decides to opt for the most selfless option. Only then can their morale aptly be judged and evaluated between two extremes. His path, on the other hand, is limited to one. The other path is already occupied by his twin brother.
Truth be told, Vash thinks of himself as one of the biggest cowards to ever roam the planet, all because he can’t stand witnessing and experiencing pain and suffering. He especially does not fancy being on the receiving end of them either. Alas, that is the only choice he has. Otherwise, humanity will perish, succumbing to the harsh conditions of a planet they are alien to. With their breeding rate gradually becoming disproportionate to the number of surviving Plants, humans have resorted to various measures of tactics to ensure their own survival.
And Vash has seen it all unfold before his very eyes.
Which is why he has to step in; to intervene; to rip apart any conflicts by taking the position of a punching bag. No one has to know that healing Plants take so much of his energy. Under the worst circumstances, Vash has ended up in a five-month coma after restoring the health of three of his sisters. Even after regaining consciousness, his Plant markings didn’t fade for the following couple of months.
Yet he can’t stop; he shouldn’t.
Because that would mean leaving humans completely vulnerable.
That would mean shattering Rem’s hopes and dreams.
It would mean betraying her completely.
And so he protects people wherever he can.
Which is why, given the minute someone else steps into his shoes, Vash gets so completely thrown off his saddle that it takes him a while to regain his bearings.
Literally.
Granted, such occurrences don’t happen often. Otherwise, he may lose his composure completely – and wouldn’t that be the least elegant impression he’d ever offer to humanity? Of course, this isn’t to say that he takes pride in being the epitome of fortification. But the fact remains.
Point in case; when Nicholas D. Wolfwood shielded him against the onslaught of bullets from Livio on that sand-steamer. The man had admitted himself right into Vash’s shoes like he belonged there from the start.
Vash understands – by God, does he understand – the reason behind it. Starting with the reason the man joined him and the reporters trekking across the dunes in the first place. Nicholas may have jokingly told them they needed an extra set of hands to watch over them – even though they are all completely aware that Vash can bear all of that himself – but it doesn’t take Vash that long to figure out Nicholas’ motives lie beyond being a mere errand boy of Nai. Anyone with a shallow standpoint may perceive the whole charade as selfish, locked in duplicity, sustained only by brittle trust. But Vash has been on the receiving end of these types of relationships multiple times over, and has learned to distinguish between a genuine intent to hurt and being stripped of options.
Even if that involves being tangled in the wicked intricacies of Nai’s life.
It is exactly because of that that Nicholas can’t afford to let anything bad happen to Vash, not when that man is around to keep his eyes trained on him anyway. Yet, as soon as his attention is diverted somewhere else, even if it’s only for an hour, the bullets and knives find Vash’s body like they’re merely paying a bout of overdue suffering. And by the time Nicholas finds Vash in a bullet-ridden state, he’d grunt and curse and spit his cigarette on the ground, torn between chewing Vash out for being reckless and admonishing himself for being careless in his job.
That being said, his motives are clearly – supposedly – coordinated without taking into consideration Vash’s emotional state.
Why should he? Why would anyone, for that matter? It has never happened before, so there’s no reason it should start now. Besides, Vash has long since made peace with the fact that his well-being won’t have a significant impact on anyone – except maybe his twin, but even that is steeped within a self-centred goal. Still, he sees no reason why he himself should start caring either.
Perhaps this is the main culprit behind Vash completely losing his composure whenever Nicholas protects him.
The first time it happened on that sand-steamer, Vash spent so much time in his own head afterwards that Meryl thought he’d gone – as Roberto described it – “Plant-mode”.
He had tried so hard to brush it off, to hitch his pants back higher and plant his feet firmly on the ground. Try as he might, he would still find himself gradually seeking the man’s presence and trying to take shelter within his shadow, even if it’s only for a second. A self-indulgent behaviour for someone who has long since assumed the position of nothing but the protector of humanity. But then again, it’s not like Vash has been granted with that kind of luxury since the moment he and Nai crashed on this sand planet.
And Nicholas …
Well, perhaps Vash is growing delirious by the man’s presence alone. Feels himself slowly gravitating into him that at times he can’t discern the cause and effect. Perhaps they’re on a collision course, inevitably orbiting around one another like two black holes about to merge. Vash can’t seem to step away; what started as feeling intrigued has now resulted in getting a little too attached. Nicholas can’t step away either; it’s his job to stick by him.
And yet.
And yet.
Under rare circumstances, Vash lets himself give in to the belief that maybe, just maybe, Nicholas’ actions are actually based on genuine concern. He can’t help but ponder over it. How can he not, when he would catch flashes of distress crossing the man’s eyes whenever there’s an imminent threat? When the nicknames are replaced with hoarse cries of Vash’s actual name? When his weathered and callused hands would betray his scowl on the rare times they’re granted the luxury of finding a safe enough area to patch up Vash’s wounds? Worst yet, when those fingers would rake his hair with a tremble that mirrors the dread colouring his eyes and bringing their faces close, trying to make sure Vash hasn’t spaced out after losing a lot of blood.
Actions that do nothing to quell Vash’s delusions.
Which makes Vash feel awful, because they could easily be nothing but fantasies, exactly like how they’ve been orchestrated from the start.
Which makes Vash want to hide from him often, to find a secluded place to patch himself up, because that has been his way of life for over a century and a half. Who is he kidding? He doesn’t need anyone to look after him; that’s his own job, for fuck’s sake.
In any case, he’s already on long-term friends with bullets and knives and whatever piece of shrapnel clever enough to become a weapon embedding themselves into his skin. They hurt like hell, but he’s gotten used to the discomfort of extracting them with a mere pinch of his thumb and forefinger, to let his body rejuvenate and do the rest of the healing process. To the sting of alcohol washing away blood and grime. To the pricks of rusted needles as he stitches his skin together when his body isn’t quick enough to mend on its own.
Today, after some madman flaunted that he could behead Vash by oscillating his axe sideways, Vash considers himself lucky to receive a deep, gouging cut the width of his fingers all spread out only in the area below his right clavicle. Fortunately for everyone in the direct vicinity, Nicholas was not present to witness the whole fray, having gone off to restock on cigarettes while Roberto and Meryl searched for a decent motel. Per a scheduled fate, Vash got out of the fracas still breathing – barely even limped, since a cut that deep was nothing but the pinprick of a needle to him.
It’s nothing his body can’t handle. He has even managed to bite down his hisses for fear of rousing Nicholas, having stood in the dingy bathroom of their shared motel room for a solid 45 minutes now. Maybe the most strenuous task for today is keeping the attention of his companions away from him throughout the entire evening, making sure their eyes don’t linger too long on him to start noticing things.
Especially Nicholas.
Of course, just when Vash starts to believe he succeeded in that department, the door to the bathroom creaks open.
True to style, a bleary-eyed Nicholas stands in the doorway, squinting under the warm fluorescent light, hair all mussed up on one side as he scratches his belly. It’s a goofy look on someone who spends his mornings and afternoons hissing and scowling at people.
Vash, shirtless, covertly moves closer to the mirror above the sink to hide the sight of his front body, partly glad that he has at least rinsed the blood.
“Oh, needle-noggin,” Nicholas grunts, rubbing his eye. It’s probably way past 2 A.M. “Yer usin’ the toilet?”
“I’m—” Vash realises that Nicholas is still adjusting his eyes under the light. “I was – brushing my teeth.”
“A’ight,” he grunts noncommittally. “Imma take a piss. S’cuse me.”
The man shuffles towards the toilet near the corner of the wall, back turned to Vash, and gets down to business.
Holding his breath, Vash turns on the faucet, hoping the running water will distract the still-sleepy Nicholas further. He’s almost done stitching himself up.
Now, see, the flaw in Vash’s plans is that he fails to consider that maybe his friend over there may need to wash his hands after using the toilet. Which is why he startles when he finds Nicholas’ reflection close behind him upon looking up at the mirror.
Apparently, the sight of a bloodstained needle and threads is enough to awaken the man.
Well, as awake as anyone can be at this hour, if the sudden furrow of Nicholas’ eyebrows and further squinting of his eyes serve any indication. Clearly, his eyes have zeroed in on the new stitches below Vash’s clavicle.
“S’that, needle-noggin?” he asks, because that’s the only coherent question he can muster.
“Just a cut,” Vash goes for the frank answer. “Nothing major.”
“Lemme see—”
“Go back to sleep, Wolfwood,” Vash softly says. “I got it.”
Nicholas tilts his head with a stubborn set of his jaw. “Not ‘til you tell me what happened first,”
Vash sighs. “Does it matter right now?”
Nicholas takes quite some time to mull it over his head, so Vash takes the opportunity to finish the stitches. But soon a hand rests loosely on his waist, as if trying to turn Vash around. Yet it hardly contains force.
Instead, the man rests his forehead on the nape of Vash’s neck, causing Vash to halt his movements altogether. “Yer really makin’ this harder, aren’t you?”
Resisting the urge to actually turn around, Vash fixes his attention on the tanned hand on his fair, patchy, unsightly waist. To be fair, Nicholas touching him isn’t anything new, even if it sometimes draws curious glances from the two journalists. There’s a grey line they have both crossed over the few weeks they’ve been travelling together, but neither of them has made any attempt to acknowledge it.
“Wolfwood, I’m used to stitching myself—”
“Not that,” Nicholas’ breath is hot across his bare skin. “Yer always tryna avoid me when yer in trouble.”
A chuckle grates itself out of Vash’s throat. “Because you keep yelling at me?”
At this, the man scoffs. “‘Cause yer bein’ an idiot,” he remarks. “Imagine bein’ pretty and stupid. Can’t be me.”
Vash runs his bold, dumb mouth, “I didn’t realise how deep your concern gets.”
Which in itself warrants a deeper furrow of Nicholas’ eyebrows, whatever flicker of humour quickly diffusing into the taut line of his mouth. Once again, the man looks momentarily stumped. “Tha’s the problem, ain’t it, spikey?”
“What?”
Nicholas buries his face further into his back, breath trembling. “I do care,” he whispers. “Maybe too much. Fuck am I s’pposed to do w’that, blondie?”
Last he checked, Nicholas had gone to bed sober. The drink they got from the bar wasn’t strong enough to last an hour. So why is Vash’s heart suddenly thumping loudly against his chest? “Go back to bed, Wolfwood,” Vash repeats.
“You gonna take up the bathroom all night, then, needles?”
“Of course not,” Vash laughs. Brazenly, he adds, “If you want me to join you in bed so much, just ask.”
He feels the stutter of a breath against his bare skin. “Listen, sunshine, you better be glad I’m fuckin’ tired right now,” he grunts. “Soon as it’s ass crack o’ dawn, m’gonna chew your pretty lil’ ass off for hidin’ in here.”
Despite his half-hearted threat, Nicholas wraps his other hand around Vash’s middle. Maybe the frosty night air is getting to them. “C’mon, Vash, lemme have a look,” Nicholas taps Vash’s waist in permission.
Suddenly a fool for the sound of his own name curling out of Nicholas’ lips, Vash turns so now the back of his hip is resting against the edge of the porcelain sink. He is immediately pinned by eyes that are very much awake at this point, flickering towards the freshly stitched wound. “Rate it out of 10?” Vash offers with a half-hearted grin.
“Negative 10,” Nicholas comments in a beat. “Sloppy job. Could’ve used a less conspicuous thread – is that how you finish it? Who taught you, a worm? Did you even clean that needle? Jesus.”
Vash can’t help the silent laughter shaking through his shoulders. “What are you, some kind of medical aid connoisseur?”
“You’d be surprised, needle-noggin,” Nicholas huffs, bringing up his hand to brush the pad of his fingers down the ribbed texture of Vash’s newly stitched skin. They’re so close together; Nicholas is practically bracketed between Vash’s legs, his other hand braced against the edge of the sink.
Vash watches as Nicholas’ eyes roam his bare chest, eyebrows knitting and unwinding, taking in the mangled state of his torso and abdomen. The absence of irritation that would normally drape over his features is what captures Vash’s attention the most, for now the slight downturn of his lips conveys dismay more than anything.
He can hear the almost inaudible sigh escaping through Nicholas’ parted lips. Where the man’s hand is still resting on Vash’ waist, his fingers twitch against his skin, thumb caressing over an age-old scar that has found itself home around his abdomen. Vash suppresses the urge to trace his finger down the slope of Nicholas’ nose; to brush his fringe over his head; to hold him in return. Hazily, he wonders whether Nicholas’ stubble will make his jaw itch if—
“Nicholas,”
The man flickers his gaze to Vash’s face, eyebrows releasing their tension altogether. “Hm?”
“Don’t you wanna go back to bed?”
“Not while I’m wide awake, no thanks to you,” Nicholas jabs Vash’s sternum to drive home his point. “And it’s funny you keep askin’ me that, spikey. What, you don’t want this hot stuff around while you’re busying yourself in here, hm?”
It is exactly because of Nicholas D. Wolfwood’s unwarranted confidence in the wee hours of the morning that makes Vash’s heart perform acrobatics in his chest. “Because I woke you up, and I feel bad for keeping you here,” he admits.
“One; my bladder woke me up,” Nicholas lifts a forefinger. “Two; what if I want to stay here?”
“It’s not an ideal place to be at this hour,”
“By that logic, shouldn’t you be in bed, needles?”
Touche.
“‘Cause if you stand here any longer, I might actually kiss you,” Vash confesses in a single breath, surprising even himself for being that frank. And because Vash isn’t a coward who would easily fold under the barrage of charisma from a dark handsome chain smoker, he adds, “Seriously, Wolfwood. I’m giving you 10 seconds.”
Nicholas blinks at him slowly, expression unreadable. The countdown starts before the man opens his mouth, “You mean you haven’t picked up the hint since day one?”
Vash fires back, equally confident. “You call threats flirting?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t realise you’d like a premium-class treatment from a bastard, of all people,” Nicholas gets closer to his face. “What would that be, angel? Either we keep up the pretence or secure a ride to utter damnation while living in a far-fetched fantasy neither of us can have?”
Vash is rendered breathless at the narrowing proximity between their bodies. “The second one?”
“All aboard.”
And then Nicholas is surging forward and kissing him square on the mouth, pulling Vash closer by the waist so now their chests are pressed flush together. Taken by utter surprise, Vash parts his mouth to breathe, but Nicholas is already chasing it with his own, teeth grazing his bottom lip in the process. Spine suddenly flaring hot, Vash succumbs to the heat of Nicholas’ mouth, sighing when he feels the man’s palm slide up his abdomen and nestle his fingers on his collarbone.
Vash’s prosthetic hand finds its way to Nicholas' chest and places his palm there, keeping the man at bay as Vash pulls back. A whine begins to rumble from the back of Nicholas’ throat, lips still puckered. “Sorry,” Vash simpers. “I haven’t brushed my teeth.”
Nicholas does not look impressed. “You chickenin’ out, needle-noggin?” he lifts an eyebrow, sneering. “Legendary outlaw, the one and only ace gunman Vash the Stampede, chickening out ‘cause some bastard made a move on him at ass o`clock in the mornin’?”
“No, not that! I really haven’t!” Vash laughs, sliding his hand over Nicholas’ shoulder in reassurance, glad that Nicholas’ dumb teasing managed to disseminate the budding tension from the pit of his stomach. He’d turn into jelly otherwise. Some ace gunman that he is. “Do you even know what a chicken is, Wolfwood?”
Which earns a smug scoff from the man in question. “Like a devolved thomas, right? Just ‘cause I didn’t finish fourth grade doesn’t mean I ain’t never heard of a chicken, spikey.”
“I still need to brush my teeth,”
“You know I’ll take you in any state, gorgeous,” Nicholas sidles closer with a smirk.
Torn between breaking out into a burst of laughter and hiding his entire face, Vash utters, “That’s kind of a dangerous line to cross,”
“I eat danger for breakfast and dinner. Big deal,” Nicholas shrugs. “Fine. Go brush your stupid straight teeth. Lord knows my own mouth smells like a rotten corpse.”
Vash goes cheeky. “I’ll take you in any state too, Nicholas,”
The man’s eyes widen briefly at the remark, his ears turning a darker shade of maroon before forcing Vash around to face the sink. “Brush!”
Grinning, Vash does as told – or as intended. Despite furiously blushing, Nicholas remains plastered across Vash’s back, resolving instead to circle his arms back around Vash’s middle – firmly this time. His mouth finds the dip between Vash’s shoulder blades and presses it there.
But the man grows impatient just as Vash is brushing his tongue. With yet another grunt, Nicholas turns Vash around and kisses him on his foam-filled mouth, causing Vash to swallow the rest of his toothpaste as Nicholas crowds him against the sink, hand braced on the small of his back.
Letting the motel-issued toothbrush clatter into the sink, Vash wounds his fingers into Nicholas’ mussed hair and tugs, drawing a solid whine this time. He angles his head, letting Nicholas deepen the kiss with a renewed sigh, thinking that maybe this isn’t the worst idea he’s had with someone who’s equally doomed in the long run. That maybe, if he lets himself have this – even just this moment – at least he won’t have bitter regrets over lost opportunities no matter how bleak the future may present itself.
So Vash gathers Nicholas close as the man leaves open-mouthed kisses on his chin and along his underjaw, catching Vash’s earring between his lips in a gentle tug, planting a kiss on the shell of his ear before travelling further down his throat. A pleasant buzz would follow suit, simmering just above his skin before it is doused by the caress of a palm, the press of a callused finger. The voice of reason at the back of Vash’s head, the very one that has hindered Vash from indulging in something for the sake of it, the one that steers him right into the path of pragmatism, has become no more than an echo.
“Nick …” Vash screws his eyes shut when he feels teeth drag over his collarbone, sighing at the tongue that laps in their wake.
“M’busy.”
Vash’s hands slide down Nicholas’ arms, gripping his biceps as the man cups his jaw in one hand and catches his lips in a searing kiss once more. Brain foggy, Vash murmurs against his mouth, “We really should head to bed.”
Nicholas hums. “Anything you want, angel.”
They make it to Vash’s bed approximately 17 minutes later. He can’t tell. He’s way over cloud nine to set his brain into a coherent motion. Though, in his defence, removing his prosthetic while a man was busy peppering kisses all over his back and shoulders and biting his earlobe was not an easy task. Not when he was constantly reduced into a giggling mess when said man fired some of his brazenly cheeky remarks.
Through an unspoken consensus, Nicholas’ bed near the door is left to its own devices as the man slips beneath the covers next to Vash, not wasting another second to enfold one arm around his waist. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that, needles,” he murmurs in the darkness, folding his elbow on the pillow and propping his head over it. “You and your stupid pretty smile and big beautiful eyes and big ass heart. C’mon, take a guess.”
Vash chuckles. “Right now? Really?”
“Did you hear me stutter, sunshine?”
“Okay, um … I don’t know, Wolfwood,” Vash tells him earnestly. “Normally I assume people want to shoot me first.”
“So modest,”
“Just a fact!”
“Well, I’ll tell ya anyway,” Nicholas adjusts his head more comfortably so his eyes are levelled with Vash’s. “See, it’s your fault that you said I got the eyes of a good guy.”
It’s Vash’s turn to blink now, not quite digesting the impact those words have on a man. He was only being truthful, after all. “Oh,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”
Nicholas clicks his tongue. “Sure, like it’s your fault I was put here in the first place,” he huffs. “I know you already figured me out, Vash. Doesn’t mean I genuinely don’t wanna keep you outta harm’s way, you hear? You’re a big doofus with a big target on your ass, but … would it be so bad to have me look out for you?”
And oh is that sudden sting behind his eyelids a threat to the pooling of tears in his eyes? Vash feels his throat constrict hotly, not trusting himself to offer a verbal response without choking. So in an attempt to even out his breathing, Vash sniffs instead.
Before Nicholas can react to the display of vulnerability, Vash buries his face into the fabric of his soft cotton shirt, inhaling his ever-present scent of smoke and gunpowder like this is the only time he can indulge. “You good, angel?” Nicholas asks softly, rubbing his spine soothingly.
Vash nods, shakes his head, shrugs. “Thank you, Wolfwood.”
A soft snort comes out of the man’s throat. “What am I gonna do with you, Vash …”
*
Come morning, Vash finds himself entangled with Nicholas’ limbs; legs thrown over hips, arms slipped beneath shirts and curled over backs, hair tickling jaws. It’s going to take a while to crack his bones back into place. Otherwise, he’s content to pretend that they have the rest of eternity together.
Being the first to rouse, Vash spends at least half an hour watching Nicholas snore softly beside him, feeling his smile crook stupidly because isn’t this one of the most beautiful people he’s ever had the grace to be close with? Gone are the tensions and lines of worry that would usually weigh those dark eyebrows in his waking moments. His lips, normally drawn in a taut frown in his waking hours, are smoothened out by the slumber that has overtaken him, so now they rest, content in what appears to be the ghost of a smile.
Nicholas isn’t a very smiley person to begin with – not when he’s under heavy scrutiny anyway – but by God if his smile isn’t one of the most genuine expressions Vash has ever seen.
Absentmindedly, Vash traces the pad of his thumb on Nicholas’ bottom lip, then slides his forefinger down the slope of the man’s nose, wanting so badly to place a chaste kiss there. He doesn’t realise Nicholas has woken up until those lips pucker to peck Vash’s thumb.
Flustered, Vash makes to retract his hand, but Nicholas clasps his wrist and holds it in place. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he rumbles, voice dropping an octave, eyes still leaden with sleep. “I wouldn’t mind a wake-up kiss or two.”
Vash blushes harder. “Can’t we sleep in more?”
“You know I’d love to, darlin’,” Nicholas parts Vash’s fingers to kiss his palm, still with his eyes closed. “But we’ve got a long day ahead of us.”
“Already?” Vash can’t help but whine. God, what has become of him?
“Unfortunately.”
Nicholas shifts, making to get up, but Vash locks his knee around one of his legs. “Stay?” he asks. “20 minutes?”
“10.”
“15.”
Nicholas groans noncommittally, resting his whole weight back on the bed. “Using your pretty privilege to lure a man to bed,” he grumbles, taking the initiative to gather Vash closer. “How low of you, Stampede.”
Vash merely grins, happy and stupid. “You said it, not me,” he chuckles, prompting Nicholas to crack open one of his eyes and aim a feeble glare at him.
“C’mere, you.”
Growing pliant – Nicholas, oh Nicholas, what are you doing to me? – Vash lets Nicholas manhandle him right on his back with a strength so unforeseen for someone who’s still buoyed with sleep. He is hardly spared a moment to blink before Nicholas’ mouth is roaming his shoulders and chest, his kisses wet and loud that Vash can’t help but giggle. Apparently unsatisfied, Nicholas throws one leg around Vash’s hip and straddles him in place, bequeathing murmurs of adulation all over his scarred and mangled skin.
“So beautiful …” he mouths the skin over his sternum. “How are you real … you angel … you beautiful angel …”
Vash may actually cry.
“15 minutes, you said?” Nicholas props his chin over his chest, his gaze tender and loving. It makes Vash wonder what else he has missed during all those times Nicholas hid his eyes behind his maroon shades. “I’ll give you 15 minutes.”
*
Vash squirms under Roberto and Meryl’s critical gaze all throughout breakfast.
Nicholas, meanwhile, is either completely unaware or simply that good of an actor. Vash puts his almost non-existent money towards the latter, given everything that has transpired that led up to last night. Or maybe Nicholas ruffling his hair and addressing him with oddly endearing nicknames – typical Nicholas D. Wolfwood activities that have been implemented since the worm belly incident – have been the hints he was referring to. Maybe Vash is the weird fool who is unaware after all.
Granted, he manages to evade any potential conversation centred around him until it’s time to pack their belongings at the back of Meryl’s jeep. While Nicholas is off smoking a whole chimney at the back of the motel, Roberto and Meryl confront Vash just as he finishes loading his duffel bag.
“Strong drink?” Roberto grunts, jerking his way in the general direction of a certain Punisher.
“Wha— oh!” Vash lets out a nervous chuckle. “Not really. We only had a bottle between us hours before we called it a night.”
“Then the hell is wrong with your Wolfwood?”
My— “Huh?”
“Guy looks shitfaced,” Roberto releases an amused scoff.
“What happened.” Comes Meryl’s very much unamused tone. “If he’s gonna start singing and smoking again ‘cause you two thought it was a good idea to have a party at 4 in the morning, I’m gonna have to tie him up in that mobile office.”
Alarmed, Vash waves his hands at her. “No tying people up please and thank you!” he says with a grimace. “He doesn’t have a hangover, I promise!”
“Oh, I don’t know, he’s not usually this chirpy sober, is he?” Meryl squints at him.
Roberto goes right to it. “You two bone?”
Meryl’s eyebrows raise so high they disappear into the hem of his beret, while Vash starts spluttering, cheeks and ears heating up. “Wha— No! No? … Not like that? I mean – not ... really …?”
“Huh.”
Vash purses his lips. “Am I gonna be in trouble?”
Meryl snorts, shaking her head with a small laugh. “No, silly,” she pats his arm before her steely gaze returns. “I just need to know what I’m dealing with right now. Is he gonna behave? I understand if he’s drunk, Mr Vash. Sober, though? Flirting in broad daylight like no one else is around?”
With a sigh, Vash mumbles, “ItoldhimIwannakisshimbutnowIthinkIbrokehim.”
To his surprise, Roberto barks out laughter. “Well done, Vash the Stampede,” he claps thrice, then moves to clap Vash across one shoulder. “You’ve managed to make him more insufferable than he already is. That’s a feat.”
Vash silently agrees, but he’s no more a fool than Nicholas is. So who is he to judge?
Speak of the devil, he hears the shout of his nickname (fortunately, it’s one of the iterations of his head) before Nicholas’ arm is slung across his shoulders. “Saw some o’ your famous posters back there,” he grunts, a half-smoked cigarette perched on his lips. “C’mon, chop chop, b’fore they realise there’s a Humanoid Typhoon in their midst.”
Effectively stirred into the backseat, Vash promptly ignores the two journalists’ watchful eyes. Instead, he lets a smile slide onto his lips, as if to say We’ll behave.
Nicholas, sitting closer than before, lets their knees knock together as Meryl starts the engine. “Y’good, Vash?” he whispers, peering at him from beneath his eyelashes with a genuine concern. At this angle, Vash can see those beautiful brown eyes behind his shades.
“I am,” Vash replies easily. When Nicholas cocks a sceptical eyebrow, Vash grins. “I really am.”
Nicholas hums, before leaning back and making himself comfortable. “Just makin’ sure,” he says.
Vash reaches out and places his hand on top of Nicholas’. “Thank you, Wolfwood,” he smiles. “I appreciate it.”
Which earns a lopsided smile from the man himself. A really goofy look on him. Vash likes it. “Good,” he nods. “That’s good.”
Good.
Maybe Nicholas D. Wolfwood isn’t the worst idea Vash has ever had.