wolfwoocl

[wolfwoocl]

@goldendivinewrath from (x)

He isn’t fast enough to hide his own wince as he looks away, clenching his left hand into a fist at his side and just as quickly jams that free hand away in his pockets because at least he can hide some small damn part of himself away. God knows he's transparent enough around Vash.

All the same, it hurts. Vash doesn’t seem at all surprised by the confession. 

Nicholas D. Wolfwood isn’t a better man than the corpses he has buried. He shouldn’t have expected better when he doesn’t deserve the consideration in the first place. 

“Ya really think that's what I want?”

The question he lobs back isn't an accusation so much as quiet resignation. He sighs softly into the night, mingling spiced smoke with the cool air as he taps away spent ashes to the ground far below. 

“I’m not like you, Tongari. I don't have all the time in the world.” 

If Vash were not here now, Nicholas would not have to choose, and the choice he will make is becoming increasingly clear to him with every passing day they spend in each other’s company. Time that could run out at any moment, assuming it ever belonged to him in the first place. 

“So don't give me that bullshit.” Vash could have made any attempt at all to drive him off instead of letting him stay. He isn't blind to that. 

#vash. #goldendivinewrath

[wolfwoocl]

It's impressive, really, how quickly the winds of the Humanoid Typhoon change. The transformation from hey, what about this to hey, what about that defies all expectations. Or at least it would, if they were talking about anyone else. 

“...Hmph.” 

Despite putting forth his best impression of: local priest, disgruntled and cranky, it doesn't quite make it all the way up his face. He's losing this war, slowly but surely. 

Sighing, Wolfwood bumps his imploring companion out of the way with an elbow to the ribs and thrusts a handful of crumpled double dollars onto the counter. 

“You'd think the guy has never eaten real food in his damn life…” he mutters without the slightest effort to lower his voice out of Vash’s hearing range. He’s not entirely sure that's possible if he did try, given Vash's preternatural ability to discern anything that isn't his own potential demise.

Cradled against the open window of his shirt as he rejoins Vash, of course, is a cinnamony-sweet prize. 

Another night resigning himself to the company of the stars and his bedroll. It's not all terrible, he supposes. Vash always gets that look on his face when anyone ever does anything nice for him. How anyone could be so happy when people do the bare minimum makes Vash the Stampede fascinating all on his own. 

No, no, he doesn't get immense pleasure out of anything like that. Not remotely close. Not a bit.

He holds the bag and its confections out at arm's length. Only for a second. Anticipating Vash's wiggly, sticky fingers, he pulls back just out of reach. “First off, Needle Noggin, donuts ain’t emergency food. Second, I'm doin’ this because I want to and not because of anythin’ that came out of your mouth just now.”

@wolfwoocl

"Sweet tooth's still right where it always is! Just making sure we don't ignore the practical things, you know?" Sort of. He does want to make sure they've got what they need, obviously, but he's also maybe offering options. Trying to show he's open to spending money on things they need. So maybe when it comes to things, say, one of them wants a lot--

Frowning dramatically as he is manhandled in the right direction, the pouting about his plan being disrupted and destroyed only lasts as long as it takes to get another whiff of what he'd smelled in the first place. "Over here!"

Does Vash really need to point out where he's going? No he does not, nor does he need to keep a steady-ish pace instead of just darting off like he wants to, but he is actually trying not to attract attention. And he ought to be rewarded for that, but nevermind. There's dough frying and it may not be donut-shaped, but it's just similar enough to make his mouth water and his eyes tear up because there's sugar and-- Is that cinnamon?

He whines watching freshly fried dough get tossed in cinnamon sugar but he keeps it quiet. Mostly. Tries to. He did say he was just checking things out, he did. And he doesn't want to lie to Wolfwood... too often. No, not really at all, but. Some things he can kind of get away with. Little things. Like with food. And alcohol. Because they're buddies and all.

They have an agreement, after all, and he does try to honor it without (verbal) complaint, weight slowly shifting from one foot to the other. He's got to last a full minute at least. "Don't suppose I could sell you on a convenient calorie-dense food in case of immediate emergency, huh?"

#vash. #goldendivinewrath

[wolfwoocl]

Can a man and an angel of God want the same thing?

Wolfwood watches out of the corner of his eye, convincing himself of a need not to look and looking all the same, because he invariably finds himself drawn back to that sad, hopeful smile every time. Especially because of that smile.

The fluttering behind his breast isn’t a part of his imagination. Neither is the weight of Vash leaning against him now, and he can’t tell which part of the tomas or the egg equation came first in this scenario. He says nothing about it, just like he says nothing about how he inches his hand back in, closer. Right up to the side of Vash’s leg with no room to spare for the desert chill.

“Mm.” Wolfwood casts a glance down. He can’t claim to be ignorant of why. The evidence is strewn across the desert, the remnants of ghost towns, the stares that leave no room for forgiveness, the graves they dug. Pondering is a luxury, but it’s nice to imagine. To imagine that they can ponder. Like Vash, he made his choice a long time ago. “Never heard of Opryton.” 

Maybe he passed through its streets without knowing; too busy seeking other prey. Wouldn’t be the first time, but then, expressly not thinking about people has gotten him this far.

“Music…Like the sort ya dance to?” 

Dancing is a nice thought. Wolfwood has a sudden awareness of the occasional tickle of blond hairs against his face and when did Vash get so close? Dancing with…Heat rises from his chest to the tips of his ears. He can’t even finish the thought.

“We could go dancin’ sometime. I’ve seen you move like you’ve got two left feet, Tongari.”   

Vash notices Wolfwood's lack of interest in sharing the water. The swirl, the agitation, the forgetting. It doesn't connect, not at first, not with everything else, not with the feeling of an arm behind his back, prickling almost-contact through layers of fabric and more fabric and isn't that interesting?

That's interesting.

It's interesting to the point that he shifts, deliberately easing some of the tension in his spine to make contact, flush lean to flush lean into the point of balance. It's strange. So odd. How natural it is, just like in the back of the transport - how easily he slips into sleep with the questionable priest-undertaker-gunman at his flank.

It's also odd how natural the crooked little smile on his face is. He does not realize it's there at first, looking down at the canteen once again in his hands.

"Um."

Making a sound of agreement at not having to bury anyone is Vash's first instinct. Rollo comes to mind. The breath of wind through rusted and hulking turbines groaned a dirge as they dug a grave in silence. He was so angry. So, so angry.

And mournful. And guilty. And that is neither here nor there, because he can be many things all at once, and there is a question even he cannot dodge, and there is a canteen of water in his hands.

Taking a deep sip buys him some time.

Not much, but beggars, choosers.

"I don't know," Vash says then, and it is perhaps one of the most honest exchanges they have had in their journey thus far. "Haven't given it a lot of thought, you know?"

Maybe that is a lie. Maybe that is a half-truth written in eyes cast out to the horizon, to the shapes in darkness against darkness, the shadows of mountains on the backdrop of stars and galactic arms.

Wandering is what he knows.

When would he really get time or a place to stop?

If he stops, people get to know him. People see that he does not age the way others do. The photo Meryl found, the question on Roberto's face, it was all so much all at once.

"Besides, seeing the sights isn't so bad. Have you ever been to Opryton? It's a town that's all about music, and there's so much of it."

#vash. #sixty-billion #and i'd do it again‚ beginning to end -- sixty-billion. #im shocked by the amount of yearning said no one ever

[wolfwoocl]

He can't flinch. He can't even flinch, and somewhere his brain oscillates between fear and fury while his pupils dilate in response to proximity.

"It's not like that."

That's a lie. It must have been written all over his face as soon as Knives brought up Vash, involuntary microexpressions that even Legato cannot effect with all his dexterity. None of that matters, anyway. Vash wouldn't feel that way about someone like him.

He won't let all of his work have been for nothing. Hopeland still stands, and so must he.

And despite his blatant transgressions, Knives hasn't killed him. Yet. He's still too useful.

"Yer never gonna change his mind. You want to understand Vash the Stampede? You have to do things his way."

❝ i haven’t done anything wrong aside of not playing the games to your rules. ❞

"Don't you know? That's the biggest crime of them all."

"I'm a particular sort of god, Punisher." He leans down to catch his chin, forcing him to look up from where Legato keeps him prone, studying the bloody face.

"But then, you'd rather worship at my brother's altar, wouldn't you?" His finger taps against his cheek before he lets go with a sigh. "I can be generous, Punisher. Bring him to me, ensure he comes back to where he belongs and I'll let him have you. And maybe I won't even break you first."

#millionsnife #knives.

[wolfwoocl]

“That’s stupid,” Wolfwood counters immediately with a flash of teeth. “I’m not–” I can’t “--C’mon, that’s not fair. You know I’d still come for ya, Tongari. I’m not goin’ anywhere without ya.” For as long as he knew Vash was still out there, somewhere, somewhere he could still reach, somewhere he could find, alive, because considering anything less than that doesn’t bear thinking about. They both have so much to do, but if anyone stands a chance in achieving anything on this Godforsaken planet, it’s Vash the Stampede.

He scowls and jerks his gaze away and down to the scattered pebbles at his feet with his fists curled tightly into his sleeves. So maybe Vash doesn’t age all these one hundred fifty years or the next, or even the next century after that, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s seen Vash bleed, spilled his own blood like any other man. If he can bleed, he can die. 

“Yeah, well, I’m used to it,” he drawls, stepping up beside the sidecar. 

God, he needs a smoke. Wolfwood breathes out a low sigh and starts fishing in his pockets. “You aren’t the only one who’s gone through the blender and come out the other side.” 

Sleight of hand, click, click, hss, produces a short-lived mote of flame to light up the cigarette caught between his lips. He puts both hands on Vash’s shoulders, making eye contact, then slides both hands down under his armpits to bodily lift Vash out of the sidecar. 

“Alright, up y’go.” Wolfwood moves his hand down the span of Vash’s back, coming to a rest at the small of it before looping around his waist properly to support his weight. 

“Just…” 

Frustrated, Wolfwood scruffs at the already-mussed hair at his nape, then plucks the cigarette from his lips in time to bury his face into the crook of Vash’s neck and breathes in the scent of him, grounds himself in the warmth of pale skin touched to his lips. There, he notices for the first time that Vash’s hair has darkened at the roots, and something about the color bothers him in a way he cannot put into words.

“You forgive them when they’d sooner put you in the dirt. You help them even if they don’t deserve it. You try, even if they’re not worth the effort, all of this, all on your own, and–” He pulls back, holding Vash’s gaze and willing him to understand for once in his damn life.

“...I wish you wouldn’t.”

Maybe he’s selfish for that, maybe he’s greedy for wanting Vash not to give parts of himself away so freely.  

“You can’t save everyone, Vash.”

Vash knows there's no use hiding his feelings from Wolfwood anymore—they've had this discussion so many times that if he tried now it'd be an insult. The resulting conflict in his mind between the desire to hide away and the need to flay open his own ribcage for his partner has him burying his head further into the sidecar, hands pushing it down, trying to silence the internal voices. He spent the entire ride like this, not bothering to put his goggles on, and yet he still doesn't have a good response.

Wolfwood was on death's door. One foot in death's door.

"I should be the one asking you that," Vash murmurs, monotonous. Serum sticks to his lips like bile that he can't just rinse away in the sink. The memory of Wolfwood's breath fading plays on loop. It's the things like this that make Vash remember why he runs.

Wolfwood would be in more danger if he ran. He'd be searching for him on his own, trying desperately to overtake the hundreds of bounty hunters seeking sixty billion double dollars. Here, Vash can protect him. He should be able to protect him. He... failed.

If Wolfwood were an average human, he'd be dead. If he didn't have serum, if he couldn't regenerate, he'd...

Taking a deep breath and a heavy exhale, Vash thrusts his head back up, making the loose blond strands over his brow bounce. He can't look Wolfwood in the eye yet, but he takes the offered arm and stumbles out of his seat.

...Perhaps it was too optimistic thinking that he had the energy to stand by now. His legs feel like jelly; he nearly collapses, instead choosing to cling to Wolfwood like a heavy weight. Vash can't help the groan that escapes his throat.

"If people like them capture me? I could get myself away from them, no problem." His voice rasps with fatigue and emotion, unnatural for the outlaw. "If someone like Knives, or someone working for him," he continues, disrespecting the irony of mentioning Wolfwood's ex-employer, "If anyone like that captures me—you run. You run, you save yourself, you save whoever you can on the way out—and... and I..."

'I'll figure it out.'

"I'm over a century and a half old, I've been doing this for so long that it's all I know—I'd... I'd be fine."

The people who'd nearly laid them low today were unrelated to his brother, but, naturally, the issue would go thought of but unspoken otherwise.

"Wolfwood, you almost died," Vash emphasizes, exhausted, "This is exactly what I was afraid of happening when we officially became partners." Partners in both definitions of the term.

It goes unnoticed, but the coarse black hair marking the shaved sides of his head seems to creep further and further up, bit by bit.

#vash. #typhoonvash #and i've already put my faith in how you saw fit -- typhoonvash. #didnt know where i was going with this at first but it sure went

[wolfwoocl]

@millionsnife

“See you ‘round, map man.” Knives surely won’t uncover anything insidious that they have to worry about later. “Not that you have any obligation to tell me what ya find, but…I’d appreciate it.”

A bit of awkwardness is not the worst social transgression he’s forgiven (blowing up the transformer feeding power to the bakery is just about at the top of that list). While he isn’t exactly jumping for joy, Wolfwood can’t help that the reservations furrowed into his brow subside as Vash…does his best. 

“Really twistin’ my arm, aren’t ya?” Wolfwood tuts against the roof of his mouth with a sigh. It wouldn’t even be honest if he tried to say that he wasn’t interested. He came all this way after all, even if it was with some insistence from Vash’s totally normal brother. “...Yeah. Wouldn’t mind grabbin’ a bite with you sometime, Spiky.”

Dinner date with a Plant. He can do that. Happens to everybody at least once in their life. Wolfwood pats around his back pocket until he pulls out a single business card.

“Yeah, I know you’ve already got my number.” He doesn’t press for Vash’s phone number, given that Vash already looks skittish enough about attempting any of this in the first place. Nevertheless, Wolfwood slips the square of paper between Vash’s fingers. “You can save all your smooth talkin’ for the date, alright? Woulda preferred giving you a handwritten one myself, but that plan went out the window a while back,” he grins. 

Feels more official, this way. 

There’s more between the brothers that go unsaid than Wolfwood can clearly follow. Plant stuff, he figures. Flicker, pop, glow. Is there a word for the Plant equivalent of a cat fight? His eyes dart between them. The weird smile that doesn’t quite reach Vash’s eyes has been scrawled on more for Vash’s own benefit than theirs. It certainly isn’t fooling him. 

“Think I remember the way out.” He doesn’t need to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong. After the umpteenth attempt to hammer that thought into his brain, it might actually stick at some point. Besides, he has enough of his own problems. 

“We were just chattin’ about his work, Blondie. Not much of a map man myself, I’m ‘fraid, but I’ve got a pair of eyes good enough to recognize talent when I see it.”

Weird. He swears the room was a shade warmer a few seconds ago. Wolfwood clears his throat and attempts to switch gears into another topic. 

“Guess it’s not so bad if you haven’t been able to get out. You’ve heard, right?” Wolfwood pauses with an awareness. Vash is just enough of a shut-in that he might not have. He sends a  measuring glance back at Knives again before proceeding and regretting his choice immediately. What a God awful choice. His mouth still seems to be moving of its own accord. All the labcoats wandering around, noses buried in their clipboards while all he’s had to work on is hearsay. The opportunity to learn more is too good to pass up.

“Some kinda sickness goin’ around. Only read about it in letters, maybe your brother here has heard more about it since he gets around. Seems like the SEEDS guys are tryin’ to keep it hush hush, but that always leads to conspiracy bullshit.”

While most towns were reasonably interconnected by a network of steamer traffic, the desert still presented its own challenges for the lone traveler. Going back is harder once you’ve gone. But for Knives…

“Maybe you’ve seen the sickness firsthand. Any truth to it?”

#typhoonvash #vash. #knives. #millionsnife #take me to a place i believe in -- typhoonvash (27).

[wolfwoocl]

Sure, he has to work damn hard for it, but he can keep up with Vash the Stampede. He offers no complaints when Vash nearly squeezes the life out of him a second time. This is a particular flavor of fear that Nicholas has come to be well-acquainted with, and the sound of it resonates through him. Fear and love, so much of it, so overwhelming that Wolfwood can’t find his words in time before the thrust of Vash’s wings jettisons them into the air.

Forgetting all remaining scraps of his dignity, Wolfwood finds himself clinging to the front of Vash’s shirt as the town grows smaller beneath them and debris caught in the Humanoid Typhoon’s wake breaks through windows and sends the gathered crowd scurrying for cover.

Vash has heard plenty of his rants, tirades over wanton recklessness and self-sacrifice. They get into these situations over and over again and Wolfwood has forgotten the importance of his own life more than once. More than willingly. 

He isn’t stupid. His own hypocrisy tastes like the serum lingering in the back of his throat.

Later, when bullets aren’t whizzing past their ears, when he isn’t busy weaving around loose pockets of sand and boulders on a motorcycle with precious cargo he can think on it properly.

Wolfwood does not slow their pace until he is certain that no solar carriages have followed them out into the desert. Nothing but worms overhead in the dying sunlight and a field of sandrock that might offer refuge from the elements. A good as place as any to stop.

Unfortunately, the first thing out of his mouth as they pull into a sheltering alcove isn’t an apology. 

“We can’t keep doin’ this shit, Needle-noggin. What if they finally catch you? What if–” They’ve seen what happens to Plants in human care, good and bad. They’ve seen what Vash is capable of, what people think he’s capable of, what they would do if they finally caught the legendary Vash the Stampede, and Nicholas thinks nothing of doing everything humanly possible in his power to keep that from happening. 

He climbs out of the saddle, moving to help Vash out of the sidecar. 

“How’re you holdin’ up?”

Vash's purple eyes scan Wolfwood's one last time, analyzing him as if to make sure he's really here—really standing. As the first bullets begin to break through the top of their vine-like shelter, the blond trembles slightly, then can't help himself as he latches to Wolfwood for a tight hug. There's no time for crying, no time for snuggling, apologizing, or thanking; they're running out of time to make a break for it, and Vash knows it.

As he presses Wolfwood to his chest, concerned Plantsong in a minor chord rings deep and hollow at a frequency only he can hear. There's no need for a translator to know what Vash is 'singing' about—worriedscaredthoughtyoudiedneverdothatagain.

iloveyouiloveyouiloveyouiloveyou

The Independent's arms shift as he lifts Wolfwood with ease. His face tenses, he closes his eyes once more before they open a brilliant, glowing violet. Thick vines that sprouted from his back begin to unravel and drop their flowers; the flowers fall lifeless to the ground, ashy and black.

Wings unfurl around him in a shockwave that knocks many of the gunmen and women down forcefully. Debris collected from the ground and crumbling infrastructure collects around the wings, seemingly in a gravity-defying field that surrounds them.

More vines that had burrowed into the earth for stability now launch the duo into the sky, giving Vash the boost he needs to fly.

It's freeing, being up this high. Part of him wishes it could stay like this forever. Free, not a thing to worry about other than worms flying in your face and when the next pitstop is.

Unfortunately, he's not capable of full flight—yet—so their tour of the town's airspace is more of a glide than a real flight. He hopes it suffices. Shots continue to fire from below them, but Vash doesn't care. They only make the Plant cradle Wolfwood tighter, as though the gravity field won't catch most of the bullets anyway.

He crosses the entire town like this—'Angelina is nearby,' was perhaps a stretch of the truth—and gives them plenty of time before the whole town catches up to him. As much as it wounds him to escape a conflict without solving it, Vash thinks that both sides uniting due to their hatred of Vash the Stampede is probably a good start to a friendship.

Vash comes to a running stop, braking on his heels and placing Wolfwood on his seat gently. He takes the Punisher and puts it in the sidecar, then worries his lip, looking behind them at where the crowd would come from if they kept up the chase.

Part of him wants to tell Wolfwood to run and never look back.

He wouldn't listen.

Energy fully spent, the wings crumble to dust and Vash stumbles, almost crashing to the ground with the debris around them. Knowing his limits, and knowing that he does not want either of them to die in a stray fight that neither of them had any business being involved with, the blond crumples into the sidecar in front of Wolfwood's cross, holding his head between his lanky knees.

#typhoonvash #vash. #and i've already put my faith in how you saw fit -- typhoonvash.

[wolfwoocl]

“Mm, don’t give me any funny ideas.” Retrieved from his pocket, his lighter glints brightly in the light of the suns as it dances between his fingers. If Vash misses the flash of his grin when he turns his head away, so be it. He doesn’t need an excuse to cup his hand against the side of his mouth to keep the errant breeze from snuffing out his lighter as he lifts it to the end of the unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. 

The turn of his sparkwheel barely clicks past the count of two before the force of a humanoid typhoon draws him away from his task.

“Woah, hey–!”

Vash pulls, and he goes, step over step.

“The hell happened to yer sweet tooth?” he grumbles, resisting the blatant distraction laid out before them. Not exactly the sort of sparklies and goodies he thought would have attracted Vash’s attention, but he can appreciate simple utility. Or maybe this is just a clever diversion, softening him up before bashing him over the head with cuteness aggression.

“Pan’s good long as we keep takin’ care of it.” 

Wolfwood squints at the brushed metal surface of a set of plain spoons. Spoons are spoons. They do have a tendency to get lost with all the moving they do around, but they don’t need replacing at this very moment. He isn’t even going to consider the fork. Platters and serving trays are too impractical. His eyes linger a second longer on a spatula than the rest.

Why is he even entertaining the possibility of buying more cookware? 

They don’t need most of it when what they already have gets them by just fine. Wolfwood palms Vash by the back of his head and points him in the direction of the bakery front. Whatever Vash is scheming, he isn’t going to fall for it.

“C’mon, you ditz. Don’t need anythin' here.”

@wolfwoocl

He's pleased to see that he doesn't need to maintain the wide-eyed pathetic look for too long, though Vash might be accused of it being a default expression. It's nice to have the pressure off even if Wolfwood isn't all that heavy, taking a deep breath only to end in a sigh of relief.

There's a minuscule, barely existent pause at the hand offered to him before taking it with a wide smile. He's not surprised, it's just... it indicates Wolfwood's in a pretty decent mood, as far as his knowledge of the man goes. It bodes well for taking advantage, sure, but he's also a little bit loathe to push his luck. Or push in any direction that might erase the good mood, because that? Is almost as precious and rare as discounted pastries.

"Not until you find a way to charge for smells." The accusation holds no actual heat, not when he's already fighting to hold back another smile as he brushes sand off his coat. Counting away seconds of imaginary patience. Yeah, that's enough. "Come on, come on!"

He doesn't mean to grab hold of Wolfwood's hand and pull him along, really. It just kind of happens, like Vash would argue that most things do in his life, and he isn't even leading them directly to the confections! At first. There's some worm being slow-roasted with spices he might not actually be all that familiar with, which is a little bit exciting and interesting in itself, but it's not far from that where his attention is caught by a variety of shiny objects and slightly beaten-up cookware. Huh. "Do we need another pan? Spoons? A comically large fork?"

#vash. #goldendivinewrath #tfw you didnt know you were traveling with a magpie

[wolfwoocl]

There’s more between the brothers that go unsaid than Wolfwood can clearly follow. Plant stuff, he figures. Flicker, pop, glow. Is there a word for the Plant equivalent of a cat fight? His eyes dart between them. The weird smile that doesn’t quite reach Vash’s eyes has been scrawled on more for Vash’s own benefit than theirs. It certainly isn’t fooling him. 

“Think I remember the way out.” He doesn’t need to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong. After the umpteenth attempt to hammer that thought into his brain, it might actually stick at some point. Besides, he has enough of his own problems. 

“We were just chattin’ about his work, Blondie. Not much of a map man myself, I’m ‘fraid, but I’ve got a pair of eyes good enough to recognize talent when I see it.”

Weird. He swears the room was a shade warmer a few seconds ago. Wolfwood clears his throat and attempts to switch gears into another topic. 

“Guess it’s not so bad if you haven’t been able to get out. You’ve heard, right?” Wolfwood pauses with an awareness. Vash is just enough of a shut-in that he might not have. He sends a  measuring glance back at Knives again before proceeding and regretting his choice immediately. What a God awful choice. His mouth still seems to be moving of its own accord. All the labcoats wandering around, noses buried in their clipboards while all he’s had to work on is hearsay. The opportunity to learn more is too good to pass up.

“Some kinda sickness goin’ around. Only read about it in letters, maybe your brother here has heard more about it since he gets around. Seems like the SEEDS guys are tryin’ to keep it hush hush, but that always leads to conspiracy bullshit.”

While most towns were reasonably interconnected by a network of steamer traffic, the desert still presented its own challenges for the lone traveler. Going back is harder once you’ve gone. But for Knives…

“Maybe you’ve seen the sickness firsthand. Any truth to it?”

"I don't eat donuts," he reminds Vash. Of course they're for him, the idiot. Like Knives would order his own. "Also I wanted to meet your baker man. Since you were so rude as to hide him from me." A wrinkle of the nose before he snaps back to attention at the suggestion Wolfwood might be leaving.

Already? He hadn't even gotten to the really interesting maps, and he'd sounded interested in them before–hadn't he? Admittedly he'd gotten a bit carried away and had gone off, not giving him much of a chance to respond so maybe he hadn't been interested after all, but. Well. Someone new to talk about maps with, who'd noticed the effort he put into them. Someone who also thinks Vash should get out of his stuffy labs more often and come with Knives.

He tilts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes at Vash and asks pointedly with a quick, flickering glow. What did you do? Why does he want to run away already?

#vash. #typhoonvash #millionsnife #knives. #w. 27 #take me to a place i believe in -- typhoonvash (27).

[wolfwoocl]

“Says the guy who can't be bothered with doin’ all your fancy backflips outside where it won't stink up our damn room!” Wolfwood snaps, offended that Vash has the gall. All while wearing that typical distressed-guilty-watery-eyed look that gets on his nerves. Not that Vash has ever done a good job of not worrying whenever there are situations afoot. “I’ll get ya all the donuts you could ever want if you quit gettin’ involved in other people’s bullshit.”

And they both know that isn’t going to happen.

He says nothing about Vash’s near-crushing grip on his hand, nothing about the fearful desperation hiding in the strength of those slender fingers when they finally withdraw. He isn’t fragile. He isn’t worth worrying over. The fact that Vash saw fit to use his powers is bad enough.

The serum has done its work piecing his broken body back together more times than he can count. Though he has never tested them, there are limits to its blessings. With or without serum, he’ll cling to life by the teeth, by the dirt and blood under his fingernails. 

Oh, Death must crave snuffing the light from his eyes. He’ll go when he’s good and fucking ready and not a moment sooner. 

Wolfwood narrows his eyes as he clasps his hand over Vash’s and pulls himself to his feet. Light from outside barely creeps through the cracks between the tightly woven vines, but he can hear the rhythmic thup thup thup of bullets striking plant matter from outside between reload cycles. Given the volume and position of the rounds, it’s safe to assume their pursuers have had ample time to encircle them. 

Vash’s gaze tells him all he needs to know.

Trust has been a given for some time, perhaps even before Nicholas realized it for himself. He hooks his other arm around the Punisher. 

Don’t do anything fucking stupid.

But he doesn’t need to say that either.

As soon as Vash feels Wolfwood swallow, he releases the kiss. He had to weather a few coughs, attempts to spit up the life-saving miracle that he's been given, but he's... he's alive. Wolfwood is okay. Just like Vash said he would be. Hopefully, anyway.

Trying not to show how shaken up he is right now, the quivering concern in his expression shifts to something serious—he can't afford to get so emotional in the middle of a fight like this. Swiftly, he wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

"Your breath is nasty," Vash jokes, deadpan, "You... you owe me at least a dozen donuts. Maybe a dozen dozens of donuts." He doesn't owe him anything. Wolfwood saved his life, and he knows it. He... he would've been fine though even if the man hadn't jumped in the way... surely he would've...

Vash has been holding, gripping Wolfwood's hand this entire time. He gives one last squeeze before releasing him. Brightly lit eyes flit over to the side, where the outer shell of the vine cocoon wraps right over half of the Punisher.

Sighing, he allows himself one final shake to release some of the tension before forcing himself to be serious again. "We're not far from Angelina. Should be able to make it there and then take off, if you're ready to run."

He takes a shaking breath in then out before standing and holding his hand out to the priest—still deathly serious.

"If you aren't, or if they've surrounded us, I have a backup plan. Just trust me and hold onto your cross real tight."

#vash. #typhoonvash #and i've already put my faith in how you saw fit -- typhoonvash.

[wolfwoocl]

The scent of singed flesh has barely cleared his nostrils and he can already see Vash examining him with that bleak, guilty wince. Every Goddamn time. If they had the time, he’d be shaking Vash by the shoulders right about now to dislodge whatever stupid ideas were taking root in his brain. Time might convince Vash if not another handful of ill-advised electrocutions. Evidently the word of a priest doesn’t amount to much these days. He wouldn’t be here if he were truly afraid of traveling in the Humanoid Typhoon’s wake.

For now, they dart through the streets, bound over stacked barrels and crates, weave through clotheslines, and scurry across the rooftops. All eyes are trained on the red tails of Vash’s coat as calls to follow go out. They aren’t focused on him. Fear pulls them to Vash.

“Well, that won’t do,” Wolfwood mutters under his breath, dashing down a parallel alley and grabbing a milk crate in each hand. He throws both out, scattering empty bottles into the thoroughfare as law enforcement gives chase along the main thoroughfare. Satisfied with the yelps of confusion and breaking glass, he quickly spies a path up to a balcony using exposed vigas jutting from mud plaster as handholds. 

No unorthodox route goes untraveled without an ear-splitting shriek or two when he blunders past some poor woman’s living room after climbing in through her window. He helps himself to a fresh, heaping plate of spaghetti off the edge of the dining table while dodging a thrown frying pan.

“Sorry, lady! Ain’t got time to explain,” he yells, tossing out a handful of crumpled double dollars from his pocket as an empty can of tomato paste goes flying past his head. Some of it splatters against his cheek and across the popped collar of his shirt.

Spaghetti in hand, Wolfwood launches from the top rail of her balcony and lands in a crouch inside their hotel room. There, the Punisher leans shadowed from the sun. He wrenches it up by the strap. Any vines lingering at its base disintegrate as he hefts it against his back proceeds to rendezvous with Vash.

His ears are still fucking ringing.

“Needle-noggin!” he shouts, more to announce his presence as he hefts the weight of the Punisher entirely to one side to keep the saddle clear as he throws a leg over his bike and throws it into gear as Angelina’s engine roars to life. 

They really need to look into getting a damn sidecar. 

The Humanoid Typhoon is somewhere nearby, but Nicholas feels no present need to verify exactly where. It goes without saying that their paths would converge here. An instinctive glance to the rooftops, and he hollers, “Get on!” as a fresh wave of bullets pepper the ground behind Angelina’s rear wheel.

Driving straight is no problem, but turning represents a challenge when he’s carrying the Punisher in one hand and balancing a plate of pasta in the other. Keeping his knees braced against the sides of the Angelina, Wolfwood releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he finally spies the head of familiar blond spikes just by the edge of his periphery.

The front wheel is starting to wobble.

Adrenaline swoops through his stomach and throat while his heart pounds in his ears. They can still pull this off, even with enraged townspeople behind them.

“Take the handlebars! Ohh, fuck, oh God.” 

Vash can only watch the scene unfold in front of him in horror as the shock blasts Wolfwood mercilessly. Sure, the man can heal it up with vials but...

A shock like that could kill a man.

Any other man would've died.

He... could've killed the one person who stands behind him through thick and thin, his best friend, his partner—oh, oh...

Bile rises in the back of his throat, and he can feel himself freeze to the ground, but Wolfwood is right. Staying here would be dangerous for both of them, so he... he has to leave. A part of him says to leave, to run and run and never turn back; that he's too dangerous to be around—but these are the same thoughts that led to all this in the first place.

Soundlessly, Vash mouths the word, 'Okay,' before turning to bolt. He can feel the tears threatening to spill as he zigs and zags through tight corridors and alleyways; even as his lungs cry out for air, his throat feels like it's closing up. It's pathetic, crying and running away like this—he doesn't deserve to cry about it, he just needs to run—

No. No, Wolfwood just nailed it into his head that he would stay. They're... they're partners. If he ran it'd hurt him more than the shock did, probably.

Wolfwood loves him, and Vash loves him in turn—more than anything.

Fully distracted, Vash rounds a corner into a wide street. Angelina is a few blocks away—so close, yet so far—and the sounds of footsteps and clacking guns and shouting draws ever nearer. He needs to find high ground, get on top of one of these buildings, something before he gets caught and causes more trouble for Wolfwood.

The red tails of his coat billow behind him as he leaps onto a dumpster, then a fire escape—nearly taking the latter down with him as he climbs up the rusted iron ladder and stairs. Shots ring out from below; a few bullets graze his coat, some go wide and shatter brick or glass. Someone is seriously trying to use a sawed-off shotgun from a distance, which Vash has to admit is quite optimistic (and very loud).

With unnatural speed, the blond leaps from building to building, taking small breaks behind rooftop structures for cover. At the end of the road however, a lone man in a leather duster guards the way out of town with a rifle over his shoulder and a revolver holstered at his side.

That's the sheriff? He looks like an outlaw!

'Shit.'

His back can shrug off bullets without issue, but his front is typically vulnerable. It's dangerous, but Vash needs to run parallel to Angelina before Wolfwood catches up—he can't give away the location of their getaway ride, or else the man might do something to it.

The next building is taller than the one he's currently on, and doesn't have a fire escape—just windows to scale it. It'll be risky, but he needs the high ground, so Vash makes the leap, managing to catch a windowsill and heave himself up, then up again.

A rifle shot rings out, and Vash can feel it—the bullet strikes him in the back of his thigh, then another in the same leg but lower this time. Unfortunately, the man is a good shot and called his shot in the small, weakly-armored space between where his coat covers and the protection of his knee-high boot.

It's fine! It's fine it's fine it's fine it's fine—

He manages to scale the building without getting hit again, and rests out of sight until he can hear the pounding of Wolfwood's steps as he runs carrying the Punisher. He'll deal with the bullets later.

#typhoonvash #vash. #and i've already put my faith in how you saw fit -- typhoonvash.

[wolfwoocl]

Only the orphanage mattered. Just them. Only them. Simplifying the equation made it easier to justify the other things he did. All to ensure that the Eye could no longer grant its so-called blessings to the innocent. So they could remain innocent, he would shoulder the guilt. All the blood, the death, the terror of cosmic blades gliding through the air like a pale shrike. His soul was such a small price to pay.

What more could he give? Vash believed there was always a way, another way. The path ahead felt so narrow for so long. With them, he could almost believe that there could be more. 

Without them…

He can feel Meryl looking right at him, even as his hair forms a curtain over his eyes and masks the burning he feels in the corner of them. Wherever the Humanoid Typhoon goes, the insurance girls follow. Meryl lifts her voice just enough to be heard and Wolfwood endures the sting of them.

She can’t afford to misplace her confidence now, even if he has given her every reason to. Vash has every reason to. And still, they all…

“Get some rest.” Nicholas is accustomed to going without when the situation calls, but they can’t both run on fumes. He leans back against the Punisher where it has been staked in the sand behind the head of his bedroll, settling in with his legs crossed and a freshly lit cigarette. A silent desert has never been worth trusting. 

 “You can tell me ‘bout your crazy plan in the morning when we haven’t been half-baked by the suns yet.” 

The night ahead will be long and cold and worm song is curiously absent from the tall dunes in the distance. Beneath the wispy clouds stretched across the sky, the canvas of stars is devoid of chitters and the buzz of wings. After divulging their little piece of gossip, he would have expected Zazie to linger nearby to observe the fallout.  

“We’ll head out at first light, hit up your boy, skip the crowd at Ship Three and get our hands on one of those pearly shuttles before anyone even knows we were there.” 

Then, God willing, they’ll meet the Ark in the skies and get their spiky-headed menace back where he belongs. 

“We’ll get him back, Princess.”

He is not wrong in that regards about their timeline and how every second will matter when it comes down to the wire. However, being a Bernadelli Agent means she has mapped out regions all throughout No Man’s Land multiple times and has studied routes and paths that would guarantee the most safety, given life’s circumstances, and where to avoid at all costs. 

“Someone owes me a favour and he’s on our way, actually.” 

Of course, Meryl can’t guarantee that her contact would have remained in the same place or if he moved on—or worse. She considers all the possibilities silently as she watches Wolfwood clean up after their meal before bunking down for the night. The fire either helps or hinders her thought process as she keeps circling back to the worst case scenarios, but the sound of the flames and crackling wood pull her out just in time before she loses herself in that downward spiral.

“What I need from him will help with our distraction, I think. And, if he’s not there, I can find a way in, get what I need. Should be easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

The saying comes with a grin she can’t suppress as she thinks of Milly, having heard her say it numerous times to bring levity to dire and heavy situations. Her and Wolfwood are going to need a whole lot of levity and a whole lot of luck, but there is determination and a willingness to do whatever it takes to see this through.

She scoots with as much finesse as she can muster whilst being wrapped up in a blanket onto her bedroll and is tempted to plop face down and just remain like so until morning. The exhaustion catches up with her the moment it is time for them to get as much sleep as they can, but her brain is too worked up with ‘what-if’s’ to even consider rest. At most, she’ll hope for a restless slumber that might result in nightmares dotted here and there, at worst she’ll not sleep a wink. 

Meryl does, however, get as comfortable as she can, with the blanket cocconed around her, laying on her side facing Wolfwood.

“It’ll work. Our plan will work.” It has to, she keeps to herself, afraid that if she voices her doubts they’ll get in the way and nothing of this plan of theirs will work.

“Vash believes in you,” she says after a while, doing her best to not let her words come out muffled despite the comfort and warmth that’s encasing her, “and despite the truth I learned from Zazie…I am choosing to believe in you, too.”

She thinks of all those she encountered throughout her travels with Milly, crossing through No Man’s Land, chasing down claims and following leads wherever they go, and while the majority seemed to consider Vash a danger, there were those who had been helped by him and those who remembered what he’d done to get them out of tough situations. 

Meryl can only hope that they will be rallied quickly enough together to help her and Wolfwood out, and that has to mean something.

#meryl. #eventheodds #no need for hindsight‚ we’re on the mark -- eventheodds.

[wolfwoocl]

Well now, he just feels like a damn fool. It’s not like Vash is some sort of damsel trapped in an ivory tower and even if he were, it isn’t his problem either. They barely even know each other outside of Vash’s orders to the bakery that come in every so often like clockwork. 

It was one time. The only time, according to Vash. If Knives was telling the truth, then this I shan’t! I shouldn’t! business with the world outside this fancy tin can would be the second lie. 

Vash bustles on before he has a chance to revisit their previous topic of discussion.

“Hey, Blondie,” he responds, unable to prevent the miffed tic in his jaw as he turns to tip his head in greeting. Vash stands there, blinking with his big blue eyes and Wolfwood squashes the flutter in his throat. What the hell is going on here? If either of them are expecting him to sing and dance for their entertainment, then they’re sorely mistaken. 

“Yeah, they’re all yours.” Wolfwood holds out the pink box for Vash to take. 

Once the box leaves his hands, Nicholas tries not to weigh in too deeply on the awkward silence that takes its place.

“Riiight. Well. Can’t afford to leave the bakery unattended for long, so…If one of you boys wouldn’t mind telling me the way out…” Wolfwood starts edging over to one side of the room in hopes that he can make it to the door without anyone yanking him by the scruff of the neck. 

"Zazie's the worm collective," Knives confirms, as if that isn't the most alarming thing he could ever possibly say. "They were the native life form on the planet when we landed, and they're not particularly happy about hunting but they understand the concept of predator-prey cycles and survival. It's why they hunt tomas and people right back. The larger ones, I mean. The smaller worms prefer other worms. It's very interesting–but not important right now. I can introduce you later if you like."

He puffs a bit proudly, indicating that yes he had done it himself. Only to deflate and then bristle at the accusatory tone Wolfwood takes, scowling as he sets the pad down. "He could come if he wanted to," Knives snaps back, scowling harder.

"Vash is the one who chooses to stay here. I've asked him to come with me more than once and he always says no. He doesn't like it outside." He very much doubts that's actually true, but it's what he gets every time he tries to push for Vash to come travel with him. Excuses and deflection and I like it here, I don't want to go Knives.

It pisses him off sometimes.

"He just likes working in the labs."

#typhoonvash #vash. #millionsnife #knives. #w. 27 #take me to a place i believe in -- typhoonvash (27). #just wait until conrad gets his hands on baker ww 😔

[wolfwoocl]

Whatever maniacal machinations are at play in the Humanoid Typhoon’s spiky head, he hasn’t yet decided whether he’ll have any part in it. The cost benefits analysis needs doing. Vash is perfectly capable of looking after himself, even if he’s astoundingly bad at it, especially on the frequent occasion some bastard manages to tug on Vash’s heartstrings without even trying. 

On second thought, he better tag along just to make sure Vash doesn’t get into trouble. If trouble finds them instead, well, he might forgive Vash for it.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Ugh. Last thing he needs is Vash getting used to having his way. He's already a menace.

“I’ll come with ya.” Rocking forward, he flows from sitting to standing. Pocketing his free hand and leaning his weight to one side, Wolfwood looks down at Vash and flashes a grin before offering out a hand to help Vash up.

“You’re lucky smells don’t cost ya nothin’,” Nicholas snorts, gesturing with a roll of his wrist for Vash to lead the way with his nose.

@wolfwoocl [From here, because who could deny such a reasonable request?]

Vash cycles back around to an offended noise, the kind that says "Well, I never!" without actually using the words. Partly because he might, every once in a while.

There is an awfully good point made in the shower, though. And a room. And they don't need treats, not really; it's enough to have some food and somewhere to sleep and hot water. Still, there's some actual effort put in to looking even more offended at the little nose poke, because how dare!

Except. Except except eeeexceeept. Cracks in the armor, he can see them. Sense them. He's as good as won with big pleading eyes and an ever so slightly defeated sigh and then--

Oh. Oh no. It was legit. Mission abort -- Wolfwood's actually being nice. There's no plan for that! "You mean it?" Such a tiny little hopeful question in a tiny little hopeful voice, and... and...

Aw. Damn. He can't lie now. "Okay, okay, scout's honor, I promise. You wanna meet back at the room or come with?" Is it possible that he can do some convincing? Yes. Probable? Better left to philosophy than math.

#goldendivinewrath #vash.

[wolfwoocl]

Distant gunfire. 

Pop, pop, pop, like someone finger tapping at the window, telling him to wake up. Darkness feels nice, though. He doesn’t want to wake up yet. 

Suddenly, something wet slithers down the back of his throat. His first instinct is to spit it back up, only to be met with resistance. Choking, he’s going to choke– the pressure at either side of his throat coaxes him to swallow and Wolfwood wheezes in a sharp gasp of air as the serum works its way through his bloodstream and he jolts upright, banging his forehead against Vash’s brow with a solid thunk.

Pale mist rises from freshly healed wounds and tender flesh as he pants, blinking and dazed as he reorients himself with his senses. He doesn’t need to pat down the front of his shirt, still damp with his own blood, to know that the serum has done its work. 

Shaking his head doesn’t do much to clear his confusion. Came to with a damn concussion.

“Wh…” he croaks, squinting at the soft, violet glow of flowers peeking at them from overhead. He crushes the heel of his palm against his forehead, wincing into a one-eye glance at their surroundings. What happened? Last thing he remembers, they pissed off a local cadre of mobsters by taking out all the defensive construction around a natural well so the townspeople could access it. Robbed thugs of their golden goose.

Naturally, Vash’s calls for reason fell on deaf ears and they found themselves tangled in a shootout. Without any consideration for himself, he dove in front of Vash as they opened fire, and…

Here they are.

“Fuck.”  

Now here’s a familiar scene. Instead, Wolfwood stares at the tightly wound vines and flowers in wonder before dropping his gaze back to Vash. JuLai, back at that musty hotel, outside in the streets. His heart sinks.

Vash’s power. 

Tonguing away the lingering taste of serum, he turns his attention back to Vash with a concerned frown. His own brush with death doesn’t seem to be of immediate concern. 

“Tongari–”  

Vash resists the temptation to hold Wolfwood's hand against his cheek as though the man were dying and in his final moments.

Because... he's not in his final moments. He's not.

And the tears betray his feigned confidence, and he doesn't want Wolfwood's final moments to be watching Vash cry over him, so they won't be—because these aren't his final moments. They are not his final moments. He will not die today. He cannot die today.

Wolfwood is not lost.

Vash's trembling fingers somehow grip one of the bullet-shaped flasks of abnormally blue liquid, like something one would put into a vehicle to keep it running. Unintentionally, his hand passes over Wolfwood's chest, and he can feel the creeping cold of death slowing the man's heartbeat but it's fine—Wolfwood will live.

Gunfire starts up again, somewhere behind Vash, and he can feel every inch of his skin tense with the sense of impending danger, but this is more important. Wolfwood is more important. If... if Vash can save a life... prevent a death... then he always will.

Even if he has to cheat, he will.

Solid, crushing vines erupt from his back, and he can't help the scream he lets loose. Two wings now—maybe more—made up of tight coils and woven tendrils grow larger than they've ever been. They thrash in a tantrum as they slide further and further down roads and corridors. Most importantly, they cocoon the duo in a pod of new growth and flowers both, shielding them from anything that would want inside.

The bellflowers dangle overhead like a canopy, like one of those fancy beds with a sheer veil that they maybe dreamed of having one day. Violet light emanates from the blossoms, providing enough brightness for both of them—for both of them Vash reminds himself as Wolfwood threatens him with his demise.

"C'mon, drink up. You... you have to swallow this and then you'll be better, good as new, right?" Vash laughs nervously, his held-back sobs audible in his voice, "I've seen you with... with worse injuries, s-so... stop fucking around!"

He props up Wolfwood's head on his lap, then shatters the tip of the ampule with a predator's bite. Glass wedges itself between his teeth, in his gums, in the roof of his mouth, and he doesn't care—he needs Wolfwood to ingest the serum somehow, even if he's unconscious by now.

There's only one logical way to go about it—even if it seems dramatic by all standards. Vash pours the contents of the vial into Wolfwood's mouth and quickly chases the motion with his own lips, sealing the serum inside with a deep kiss. It's bloody, the serum tastes awful, Wolfwood's mouth isn't helping much—but this has to work. He presses onward with his fingers rubbing the sides of the priest's throat, doing anything he can to get him to swallow.

#typhoonvash #vash. #and i've already put my faith in how you saw fit -- typhoonvash.

[wolfwoocl]

Yeah. Okay. That fucking hurts. He blinks stupidly as light lances through his hands, branching like lightning against a darkened sky beneath his skin. The burning comes after, splitting flesh that darkens at the edges and shredding through the sleeves of his coat and shirts. All that, and Wolfwood has just enough time to shatter the glass between his teeth before the final expulsion of energy sends him flying backwards and skidding across the dirt.

Dazed, Wolfwood stares at the cloudless sky as trails of vapor rise into the air at either side of him and ruined skin knits itself back together. Nothing to be done about his clothes at this point, but that’s an acceptable loss. 

Considering he’s only had a hotel room and the destruction of an entire city to compare against, this outcome is…not so bad. Better to err on the side of caution. They both already have enough guilt to share between them. 

Despite hearing Vash’s approaching footsteps from afar, Wolfwood doesn’t move from his prone position on the ground.

“I. Um.” 

He spits out glass onto the ground beside his head, then licks away the tang of serum lingering between his teeth. Breathe. 

“Just gonna stay here for a minute to catch my breath if ya don’t mind.”

Pedestrian traffic has come to a standstill as the dust settles. He can hear them whispering, voices tinged with fear. These people don’t understand what they just witnessed, only that it looked decidedly explosive and deadly. Not good. 

“Somebody get the sheriff!” a man cries from a nearby balcony.

If Vash hadn’t already noticed the souring sentiment in town, he definitely would have noticed now.

Groaning, Wolfwood throws his weight forward and hops up to his feet. He wastes no time in leading Vash by the sleeve, graduating from sleeve to lower back to herd him away from the open street. 

“Gonna make a run to grab the Punisher from the room.” Nicholas glances back at Vash, looking pained and apologetic. “Tongari…” 

It’s not fair.

“Promise, we’ll get you some donuts later to make up for today, alright? I’ll nick you something on the way out of town. Gotta get some food in you, at least.”

Even through the energy coursing through him, Vash manages to let out a squawk as Wolfwood scoops him up bridal-style and absconds with him outside. It's uncomfortable to have so many people seeing his glowing patterns like this; he notices onlookers 'ooh'ing and 'aah'ing at the purple glow. No one seems to see this as imminent danger.

Well, Wolfwood does. Perhaps... he sees it as too much danger, but one can never be too careful when it comes to this kind of stuff. He hopes it's not bad enough to require a vial, it was only a room full of the creeping tendrils, but his companion does seem to have the right idea.

"O-okay, if you say so—just pretend it's static!" Vash tries to explain it in a way that might make sense in the few seconds Wolfwood has to prepare himself before Vash reaches for his hands. He can hardly bare to look.

Vash takes Wolfwood's hands in his and releases the stored up energy.

It's a quick burning sensation. Vash can feel every hair on his body stand up—including the hair on his head—as the bright purple light transfers from his hands to Wolfwood's. The shock that courses through Vash is nothing compared to the shock Wolfwood gets with even the briefest of interactions. He can feel himself repelled as though he withstood a small explosion—which perhaps happens more than he'd like it to.

... It's probably what it feels like right now for the undertaker, as Vash releases his hands and watches in fear as he sends Wolfwood flying towards the other side of the town square.

"Oops—"

#typhoonvash #vash. #and i've already put my faith in how you saw fit -- typhoonvash.

[wolfwoocl]

“Yeah, and we’ve got just enough double dollars to book a room and I want a hot fuckin’ shower tonight and I am not losin’ out because you decided to get all sparkly-eyed over a pile of sugar.”

Nevermind the fact that that googly maneuver almost always works on him. Calling attention to his weakness would be tantamount to drowning his own pride (and saying goodbye to all their hard-fleeced double dollars) just because the Humanoid Typhoon has so effectively weaponized his stupid big blue eyes.

“Hot. Shower. Ya hear me, Spiky?” He leans down to peer at Vash over the rim of his sunglasses and presses a finger into the point of Vash’s nose. Satisfied with his case, Wolfwood straightens up and shifts his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the next without budging from his Vash-shaped cushion. 

A few seconds later, Nicholas sighs.

“Promise me you’re only gonna look and I’ll let ya up.”

[ LEAN ] — sender puts their full weight on receiver "Swear to God I'll sit on you all day if that's what it takes."

Prompts for Muses Who Are Little Shits | accepting though possibly eternally slow

A purely affronted sound follows that statement. Could Vash manage to get out from under him? Sure, but Wolfwood is the rare case where it would actually be a fight.

Better tactic: dramatic complaining. "Why would you do that? Why would you do that? After everything I've done for you!"

Oh, uh. No, he definitely doesn't want Wolfwood thinking about everything he's done for him-- Okay, gotta switch gears, no problem.

"Or is that a promise?" Hm. Wrong gear? Bad gear? Did that even make sense? It was kinda cringe-suggestive, right? It's fine, that's fine.

Letting out an annoyed huff and finally going still, Vash outright whines, "Something smells nice and I wanna see what it is, okay? I don't have to buy anything..." He wasn't gonna!

Probably. But even then, only one!

Maybe.

#goldendivinewrath #vash.