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Wolfwood’s meagre hope that Vash might not be in upon his return to their shared hotel room is quashed the second he opens the door. If it weren’t for the red jacket slung over the back of the desk chair, or the boots askew on the carpet, then certainly the sight of the blond gunman himself would be a dead giveaway. He’s splayed out across the single bed, reading yesterday’s news with his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, his hair down and slightly damp. Ready for bed, but wide awake, despite the hour.
It’s obvious right away why Vash stayed awake; he perks up when their eyes meet, tossing the newspaper aside. “There you are! Kept you out late this time, I was thinking about if I’d have to go after you.”
Wolfwood averts his gaze. Vash’s eyes are bright blue green and wildly sincere in a way that makes them hard to meet ordinarily, forget about right now. What he needs—in lieu of Vash’s eyes on him—is a long, hot shower, a cigarette, and a drink. It’s the only thing he’s ever in the mood for during times like this, finishing the long shlup back from a Gung Ho Gun meeting to the man he was assigned to betray.
His skin is crawling. Wolfwood feels—gross, though it’s rare that he ever doesn’t feel gross these days. Setting down his cross and shrugging off his blazer doesn’t particularly help. Nor does washing his hands and splashing water on his face. Wolfwood eyes the shower, but ultimately decides against it, on the grounds that he’d just be wasting water when it probably wouldn’t do anything for him right now, then skips out on looking for alcohol for the same reason. He washes his hands again. Gives his head another dunk. Slinks onto the balcony for a cigarette.
Vash is still on the bed when Wolfwood returns to the room, having smoked three. The newspaper has returned to his hand, but he obviously isn’t reading it. His eyes aren’t moving. His legs, kicked up on the mattress behind him, are very still. He’s poised, taut, and nowhere near as subtle as he thinks he is; he must think Wolfwood is hiding an injury or something.
I’m fine. The grunt sticks in Wolfwood’s throat and refuses to unstick so he can alleviate Vash’s (unjust) concern. It’s a lie, after all. Wolfwood can do it, has done it, will again, but hates to, particularly with Vash… and in the aftermath of these meetings it only feels that much more egregious, like a second silver-tipped blade he’s sliding clean between Vash’s shoulder blades, just another chip on another teetering stack. Vash is lying there and worrying about him, had been worrying about him already, meanwhile all Wolfwood was doing was colluding with his worst enemies and sneaking around in the dark like a rat with something to hide.
Which isn’t inaccurate. He does have something to hide. Sometimes it does make Wolfwood feel sort of… rodent-like. Right now he just feels unambiguously gross, though, a little sticky. So he enters the bathroom and washes his hands again, drags the water down his face, then reluctantly steps back into the bedroom.
He’s two steps in when Vash suddenly appears in front of him—probably, had been standing in front of the doorway all along, and Wolfwood’s just too in his own head to have notices. Wolfwood jolts, and opens his mouth to chastise Vash for being sneaky, but Vash grabs his wrists before he can speak, turning his hands over to study his palms.
“Maybe lay off on the washing for tonight,” Vash suggests, at length. “You’re going to dry out your skin.”
You noticed? is what Wolfwood opens his mouth again to ask, before promptly shutting himself up. Of course he noticed. Wolfwood washed his hands three times within the span of fifteen minutes. He probably would’ve done more, left to his own devices, but now Vash is holding onto him and Wolfwood couldn’t whirl back for another go even if he wanted to. Which he does. Want to, that is. Particularly with Vash’s hands on him, Wolfwood can’t shake the feeling of being unclean; the sort of thing he really ought to bathe over, if only so as not to sully Vash’s fingertips.
He shifts his weight, instead. Swallows. His mouth keeps opening and closing and nothing keeps coming out. Idly Wolfwood wonders if that meeting just—sucked the voice from his throat, if that’s something Legato Bluesummers is capable of. Or Knives. Knives who makes hundreds disappear with a snap of his fingers… Surely he could figure out a way to fry Wolfwood’s vocal chords from afar.
Of course, he doesn’t have to go to such lengths. Wolfwood’s guilt alone will do that. He stares down at his palms, which are still facing upwards. Vash carefully releases him, and his hands drop down to his sides, and Wolfwood’s gaze follow them instead. His chest aches. Apparently no matter how gross he feels, he can still want Vash to touch him twice as much—which only compounds the feeling of being disgusting, of selfish, but it doesn’t stop Wolfwood from latching onto his sleeve before he can pull away.
“Wolfwood.” Vash’s voice is hushed, now; gentle. His eyes are half-lidded. “Did something happen?”
Wolfwood shakes his head, no. Nothing. Only the same thing that always happens, and Wolfwood’s just in a mood about it because—because—well. Who can say, really? It’s not like anything particularly guilt-inducing happened tonight. It’s just the act of lying to Vash over and over that starts to get exhausting, and here Vash is, still caring about him so much.
No… that isn’t Wolfwood’s problem. He’ll accept Vash’s love as a part of the territory. Set-dressing. What makes Wolfwood so miserable is that it isn’t enough for him, the little clutch of Vash’s sleeve between his knuckles, the weight of his gaze. Even Wolfwood’s name in Vash’s low, rich voice just isn’t enough to satisfy his greed. Wolfwood twitches his fingers, wants to step back, then closes the small distance between them and pulls Vash in tight by the waist.
“Oh!” Vash’s exclamation is small, still pretty quiet. His hands fall to Wolfwood’s back, slide along his shoulder blades, then come to cup at his neck. “Hey, it’s okay… Whatever happened, you don’t have to talk about it? Um.” His fingers drum against the back of Wolfwood’s neck, a light, barely-there sensation that makes Wolfwood shudder. “Should I have come looking for you?”
“No,” Wolfwood mumbles. He burrows his face in against Vash’s shoulder.
“Mm, okay, well,” Vash shifts a little, almost squirms, but doesn’t try to pull back, “okay.” His fingers lace together over Wolfwood’s nape. “...Do you want to lay down? Maybe get something to eat? I’m sure something’s open right now, I can run and—”
“No,” says Wolfwood again, with more urgency this time. He squeezes Vash in even closer. He smells good, like the fruity conditioner he uses, and he’s wearing a loose sweatshirt, something much softer than his usual combination of under armour and the leather duster. He’s just an inch shorter than Wolfwood, still able to comfortably fit his arms over Wolfwood’s shoulders without getting onto his toes. Absurdly warm, right now. Although that’s probably just because he’s been lounging around on a bed. “Stay. Please.”
“...Okay,” Vash repeats, albeit much quieter this time. “Of course, I won’t go anywhere.” He tucks his arms a bit more snugly around Wolfwood. It’s nice, but it still isn’t enough. Wolfwood could squeeze the breath out of him and it still wouldn’t be enough. Feels like what he needs is to melt into Vash’s skin, stay pressed up against him permanently, which isn’t a thought that makes Wolfwood feel any less gross to have, but it’s at least a comforting mental image. He hooks his chin over Vash’s shoulder and breathes into his hair, shuts his eyes.
Vash’s hands slide along his spine.
“I still don’t really understand,” Vash murmurs, “but you can take as long as you need, okay? I don’t mind.”
He wouldn’t. Damn idiot never met a tortured soul he didn’t want to fix. He’d bleed himself dry if someone needed him to—and hell, Wolfwood usually knows better, usually tries so hard not to be one of those people who Vash is slipping through cracks to satisfy…
But he just. Not right now. Wolfwood squeezes him a little tighter.
Vash’s hand moves from the back of his neck to his cheek, cupping gently. “You must be exhausted,” he murmurs. “Let’s go take a seat, yeah? I won’t let go of you.”
Wolfwood hums vague affirmation. Vash could frankly walk him right off the balcony right now and he probably wouldn’t notice. He is taken, instead, in the direction of the bed as promised, and led to lie down on it; Vash stays pressed up against him the whole time, and Wolfwood snuggles in close when they’re on their sides despite the knowledge that he’s still wearing his shoes and his belt, that he ought to go through the motions of getting ready for bed.
He will. He will, just, later. When his chest feels a little lighter.
“Any else I can do for you right now, Padre?” Vash whispers. He’s always the sweetest when Wolfwood needs it the most. Wolfwood shakes his head and shuts his eyes.
“Just stay.”
“Not going anywhere,” Vash promises, and Wolfwood wishes he could write it off as a lie—but he knows that Vash means it, and that’s probably the worst part.