Chapter Text
It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that Vash isn’t human.
In many ways, he looks the same as they do, acts much the same besides his obvious quirks. He laughs, he cries, he grows both hungry and tired. He lets kids climb him as his if he were a particularly mobile tree, he helps in passing towns when the people there need labor done by someone strong and fit, he sings in bars and laughs with patrons as Wolfwood watches, hand over his mouth because he’s just so fucking ridiculous—
And he loves. Vash has a love for people that Wolfwood has never seen before, something holy and bright and unknowable. It’s unconditional in a way that no one he gives it to could possibly ever deserve; it’s divine and it’s like the warmth of a small sun held between rough palms. Nicholas thinks that Vash must be full of it, retribution and salvation pressed into the heat of his skin. Like he’s made to care and care until he was bursting with it.
Wolfwood thinks he has more humanity in him than anyone he’s ever met in his entire life.
But he’s not human at all.
There are small things to be noticed, if you know to look, that make Vash just a little less human. Like how his teeth are just a bit too sharp, pointed fangs that dig into his bottom lip when he’s nervous, long and tapered. Or how his skin is entirely unblemished where he’s not covered in scars, untouched by sun damage on this hell planet. There’s not even a wrinkle in sight, no sign of age, just smooth and pale planes that never tan or change.
His eyes are bright, an unique cerulean blue uncommon for a planet full of people who have adapted to living in a desert. He’s mostly unaffected by the cold or the heat, resistant to the changes in the weather. It makes him a resilient traveling companion when he doesn’t give into the dramatics. He could go on for a lot longer than Wolfwood could, running on his endless supply of energy.
He bleeds, thick and red just like anyone else, but never for too long. His skin will push out any foreign object, will begin to stitch itself back together at a faster rate than any human could hope for. He’ll heal from a bullet wound within the day, will be back on his feet just like he had before. He can take a beating, even if Wolfwood often wishes that he wouldn’t.
But there’s something just on the side of off about him, even it’s typically something that’s easy to ignore, something people can choose to ignore. Sometimes—even Wolfwood finds himself ignoring it. It’s difficult to let himself dwell on the fact that Vash is a creature just outside of his comprehension. Outside of everyone’s, so he doesn’t think about it. He has the ability to raze the planet, to take every living thing with him if he wanted, but he doesn’t. He’s so far above all these little people around him, but Wolfwood knows he’d never think that.
But there are other things about him that are much more blatantly inhuman, things that become more apparent the longer they travel together.
They’re both hiding, tucked into a small crevice between two buildings. It’s not even Vash’s usual style, but they’re trying to lay low for once. Maybe a few desperate bandits will leave them alone if they think they’ve lost them.
For once, Vash is the more hyper vigilant of the two, head tilted as he listens for footsteps or voices, because Wolfwood is too distracted by how Vash feels like a fucking furnace. He knows Vash usually runs hot, has had their skin brush in passing while fighting or tending wounds, but with Vash pressed against his front like this, the heat is inescapable.
He feels like he’s gotten too close to a fire pit but—more pleasant. But maybe he just thinks that because it’s Vash.
But even more than that, Wolfwood can feel something practically thrumming where he’s pressed against Vash. Like touching an outlet or an exposed wire, electric currents that buzz with power. He wonders how he’d never noticed it before.
“I think they’re gone.” Vash says quietly, looking down at Wolfwood with eyes that flash strangely in the light, looking nearly white as they reflect both the moon and the warm lights that spill from bar windows. He knows he can see far better in the dark than Wolfwood can, like the eyes of a cat.
Wolfwood’s mouth parts, and without really thinking he puts a hands on Vash’s chest. He feels the man freeze beneath his touch and when Wolfwood pays attention, he can feel it, that steady thrum that makes his fingers tingle. He breathes out slowly.
“You—you feel…” he pauses, brows furrowing, not quite sure how to say it. Warm, like energy incarnate, like kissing an outlet, and so so warm.
He yanks his hand back, suddenly feeling incredibly ridiculous. “Different. Just different.” He shrugs, chewing in his lip in place of a cigarette, and pretends like he won’t be thinking about it for a long time after today, what it really feels like to touch him for more than just a passing moment.
There’s something that flashes over Vash’s faces, that split second of despair that Wolfwood catches so often, before he’s smiling, face pulling into that fake grin that Wolfwood fucking hates.
“Oh, um.” He laughs, high and strained, “Sorry. I’m sorry.” He jerks back, like he’s desperately trying to get away from Wolfwood, as if he thinks that if were to stay like this for a moment longer Wolfwood is going to start melting.
Wolfwood thinks he just might, but certainly not for the reasons that Vash is thinking.
Wolfwood groans, and like and idiot he puts his hands on Vash’s forearms, keeping him in place. He isn’t quite sure why, or maybe he just doesn’t want to think of the why right now, but he wants that miserable look off of Vash’s face as soon as possible.
“God, Spikey, I said different, not bad.” He rolls his eyes, like his heart isn’t beating against his rib cage with a vengeance. He wonders if Vash can feel it with them pressed this close.
His fingers twitch over Vash’s arms, slowly sliding his hands down the material of his coat and the straps around his prosthetic. He wonders what directly touching his skin feels like, so he gives into the impulse, because Vash still looks a bit stunned, like he can’t believe that Wolfwood is even still this close to him, as if he thinks Wolfwood shouldn’t want to.
And Wolfwood wants to prove him wrong.
He reaches out, brushing his fingers over the exposed parts of Vash’s own where his glove doesn’t cover them. And then after a moment he reaches up and cups the back of Vash’s neck, watching as his eyes widen and he can feel the delicate shiver that runs through his body. Wolfwood is sure that Vash can feel his heartbeat at this point.
Touching his skin is even warmer, soft and smooth, and that current of energy is a pleasant thrum that makes Wolfwood feel nearly relaxed. His thumb brushes the pulse in Vash’s neck, feeling the inhumanely quick hasten of his heart, faster than that of any human’s.
He wonders if Vash’s heart is in the same place as a human’s. He’d never thought of that before.
He swallows, “See? It’s fine. No need to freak out on me, Needle-noggin.” His voice sounds almost strained, but he ignores it, fingers dipping just below Vash’s collar. He never knew he could grow addicted to a person so quickly, but he so impossibly has.
Vash stares at him for a few moments, those pretty blues nearly glittering. He wonders if he’s going to start crying, and then desperately hopes that he’s not.
“Oh.” He murmurs, “Okay.” He says a bit dumbly, blinking at Wolfwood like he were seeing him again for the first time.
Wolfwood snorts, and he finally lets his hands drop away from him.
(He swears he can feel the leftover impressions of the buzz of Vash’s skin against his own for the next week.)
_______
He knows that Vash will heal quickly, he knows that, but it doesn’t stop him from being fucking pissed.
It never stops being infuriating, he thinks, to see Vash put himself on the line for people who will never deserve it. He wonders if these people truly realize that there is a living, breathing guardian angel willing to suffer for all of humanity wandering this hellhole of a planet.
But no, perhaps that is expecting far too much out of people, because they see Vash and his inhumane features and he knows what they think. Monster, freak, calamity.
There are three bullet holes in Vash’s gut. It’s a goddamn miracle he’s even still alive, and the doctor tells Wolfwood so. He also tells him that the bullets had seemed to just push themselves out of Vash’s skin. Like it were naturally forcing away a foreign intrusion, or a virus. Wolfwood doesn’t comment on it, even if it’s obvious the doctor is both curious and dumbfounded. Wolfwood isn’t explaining anything, doesn’t even think he could mutter anything other than nonsensical expletives right now, so the doctor quickly gives up.
He sits at Vash’s bedside throughout the entire night, cigarette between his teeth no matter how many nurses urge him to leave or put it out, and he looks at Vash’s face. It’s completely still, pale and unmoving as he lays there, once again surviving the impossible.
Wolfwood was sure he was going to watch him die today, had been so certain of it that he thought a part of himself had fallen away in those few short moments between the bullets lodging themselves into Vash’s skin and his body hitting the ground.
But he’s alive. Wolfwood can see the gentle rise and fall of his chest through the blanket, can hear his soft breath if he strains his ear.
He doesn’t think any human would have survived this.
But Vash is not human, and Wolfwood has never been more grateful for that.
_______
Perhaps one of the hardest things to ignore about Vash being non-human is the feathers.
He can’t exactly just close his eyes and pretend like he hadn't seen it. Everyone had.
They had sprouted right out of his arm, shining white tufts of feathers and twisting bone, and it caught the bullet aimed at his face, Vash’s widening eyes staring at it as if he were going to be sick. He shoots the gun out of the bandit’s hand, his other hand slapping over his arm to cover the protruding wing. But the damage has already been done.
Everyone had seen it, and now everyone is just fucking looking—
That’s how Vash got a rock to the head, his face flinching away as blood quickly pours down his temple, curling over his jaw. Wolfwood reaches for his gun on instinct, a fierce scowl finding its way onto his face, and anger bubbling on his tongue—
He looks at Vash and there’s that smile on his face, the one he uses to hide the fact that he’s about to start crying, and he shakes his head. Wolfwood’s heart is beating like a jackhammer in his chest and his stomach feels like a tight amalgamation of rocks in the center of his gut, but he listens. He listens, only because it’s Vash who’s asking.
He pulls Punisher over his shoulder, trying his best to shield Vash and him from an onslaught of stones being thrown at them, but Wolfwood can’t block out the sounds of them screaming monster over and over again. He can see mothers pull their children away from them as they walk, can see the way they look at Vash with fear, with hatred, as if he hadn’t just been trying to save their asses.
Wolfwood hates them, hates these stupid people, and he hates it most that he understands them. He’s terrified of what the existence of Vash and Knives can mean for the planet, for humans, for his kids. He had pointed a gun to Vash’s head when the man’s back was turned, contemplated putting him out of his misery right then and there, and he’s working under his batshit brother. He has no right to hate them anymore than he hates himself.
Why did it have to be Vash, of all people?
They’re silent as they make it back to Wolfwood’s bike, Vash slipping quietly into the sidecar, face blank and eyes glossy. He looks tired, like he doesn’t want to think anymore. Wolfwood starts the engine and drives off into the evening, hoping they don’t damn near freeze to death before making it to the next town.
_______
By some miracle, or perhaps the grace of god, Wolfwood only drives for about another three hours straight before they hit another town. It’s small, a bit traditional and rickety looking, but it’ll do.
When Wolfwood parks and kicks out his stand, Vash is still silent. There’s blood dried on the side of his face, but Wolfwood has the decency to ignore the tear tracks staining his cheeks.
“Let’s just get a room and call it a night.” He sighs, and Vash simply nods, looking partially dazed, eyes unfocused. Wolfwood watches him as they find the closest inn, but he doesn’t say anything, even if he really wants to. He’s afraid it’ll come out all wrong, gruff and mean when for once he doesn’t want it to.
He pays for their room this time, pretends like he doesn’t notice the stares that they garner from both the woman behind the desk and random patrons. Especially Vash, whose head and face still sports massive splotches of dried blood. He swipes their key off the counter and quietly walks with Vash up the stairs.
Wolfwood leans the Punisher against the wall once they reach their room, locking the door behind them. He could only afford one double bed, but at this point that’s what they usually get, whether they have the money or not. It’s natural by now.
He watches as Vash stands in the middle of the room, his prosthetic still gripping his arm where the feathers had sprouted. His head is ducked, his body gently listing back and forth like he can quite keep himself still. Wolfwood can see blood caked in his hair, even over the dark strands at the back of his head.
He walks into the bathroom and grabs a washcloth, running it under the sink until it’s damp.
“Get over here, Spikey.”
Vash’s head jerks once before he properly looks over at Wolfwood, his chin tucked into his coat collar and his bright eyes still glassy. Wolfwood meets his gaze steadily and waits.
After a moment Vash slowly does as he says, walking into the tiny bathroom, and he looks even worse when he’s in the light, even as dingy as it is. His eyes are puffy, his cheeks flushed red from crying, hair having long since gone limp and fallen into a pathetic mess on top of his head. He looks exhausted, his lips pulled into a miserable frown.
Wolfwood pats the counter, urging Vash to sit on it. He moves, but as if he were in a daze, and it’s been a while since Vash has gotten like this, like he wasn’t quite in his body. Wolfwood’s mouth tightens, but he carefully reaches for Vash’s face and starts cleaning the blood from his temple and cheek. He slips in between Vash’s legs, ignoring how pleasant it is to be this close, the thrum of his body and skin.
He uses his other hand to take Vash’s chin between his thumb and finger and gently wipes away the crusted blanket of red. He pretends like he can’t see the way Vash shakes, the shiver and tremble of his shoulders. He’s still so warm when they’re like this, his skin like silk against Wolfwood’s own. There’s something that begins to soften in Vash’s eyes as he quietly wipes his face, the silence feeling less tense and more calm.
There are tears that bud on Vash’s lash line, but Wolfwood doesn’t mention it.
But as he clears away the last stains of blood he catches sight of— feathers, laid flat over his cheekbone. Wolfwood pauses, unable to stop himself from staring. Vash pauses too, eyes flickering over Wolfwood’s face before realization seems to dawn over his expression. He flinches, hand slapping over the side of his face.
He breathes out and it’s heavy and rough, nearly a sob, “I’m sorry—I—I can’t control it—” his fingers dig into his skin, hard, like he were about to attempt to rip the feathers from his skin himself.
Wolfwood’s fingers close around his wrist. “Calm down, it’s alright. It’s just a bit of feathers. No big deal, yeah?” Except it is, Wolfwood knows that, knows that his heart is racing from memories of the last time he had seen those wings. But he wants to be calm, for Vash, for himself. He doesn’t want Vash to think he’s afraid of him, certainly not right now.
Vash allows him to pull his hand away with only a small amount of resistance, lowering it slowly back down to his lap. The feathers are thin, but they nearly reach back to touch his temple, strangely pure despite previously being hidden by blood. As if they had naturally begun to clean themselves. There is something that seems nearly divine about them. Otherworldly.
Wolfwood’s hand raises, hovering in the air between them for just moment of hesitation, before he thinks fuck it and reaches out to touch.
His fingers brush the soft tips of them for just a second before Vash flinches away with a ragged breath.
“What are you doing?” He gasps, as if he’s scared that Wolfwood had hurt himself.
Wolfwood huffs, even if his heart is thundering in his chest, “Showing you that there’s nothing to be scared of, Spikey.” Carefully, his fingers brush his cheek again, “See?”
His fingers push through the hair at his temple, his thumb smoothing over the feathers as they shift and flatten under his touch. Like additional limbs. His thumb rests on his cheekbone, feeling soft feathers twitch beneath his touch.
A tear catches on his thumb, and he wipes them away without a thought, cupping the side of Vash’s face as the feathers there slowly seem to recede on their own. Vash’s face is left exactly as it usually is, as if the feathers had never been there at all.
“They’re gone now.” Wolfwood tells him quietly, but he doesn’t drop his hand just yet. His fingers cup the back of Vash’s neck, thumb resting on the point of his jaw.
He sees Vash swallow, can nearly feel it, and it makes him realize how close they’ve gotten. He’s still between his spread legs, chests nearly touching. There’s barely any space between their faces, and it would hardly take any effort for Wolfwood to just lean that much further.
Slowly, Wolfwood’s free hand raises to rest over Vash’s knee, fingers curling into the meat of Vash’s leg just above it. He watches Vash's face, the way his pointed teeth dig into his bottom lip, his blue eyes flickering over Wolfwood’s expression.
“Nick?” He nearly whispers, and one of his hands reaches for Wolfwood’s wrist, not pushing him away but simply holding him there. And then slowly he urges it up until Wolfwood’s thumb is pressed into his inner thigh, his fingers curling around the other side.
Vash’s eyes dart down towards Wolfwood’s lips and it’s all the incentive that he needs to lean forward and close the gap between them.
Vash’s lips are just as soft as they look, and they’re entirely pliant as Wolfwood kisses him, slow and gentle. He doesn’t think he’s ever kissed anyone quite like this before, like he wanted to take his time, wanted to savor it. It’s strangely chaste, but still so warm, Vash’s skin a steady hum of energy against every part that they are touching.
Vash’s lips parts and Wolfwood’s tongue slips into his mouth, brushing against sharp teeth and sliding against Vash’s own. Vash makes a small noise in the back of his throat that nearly sounds like a whimper, high and desperate. His hands are on the back of Wolfwood’s head, fingers gently curled into his dark hair, his knees bracketing Wolfwood’s hips.
Wolfwood squeezes his thigh, pressing even closer, and god he thinks he could just fuck Vash right here if they continue—
His fingers brush the back of Vash’s head, meeting dried blood, and it sobers him up enough that he slowly pulls away. He’s panting when they part, watching as Vash sways forward like he wants to chase Wolfwood’s mouth, a flush high on his pale cheeks.
He smirks, “I think you need a shower, Needle-noggin.”
Vash blinks, like he was coming out of a daze, one far more pleasant than what he had been in previously. “Oh. Yeah.” He murmurs, and before he can get any stupid thoughts in his head, Wolfwood leans forward again to place one more firm kiss on his mouth.
“I ain’t regretting this already, so don’t look all sad yet.”
(Wolfwood thinks perhaps he should regret it, that some part of him even does, but he’s a bit too selfish to stop. This is going to blow up on his face, blow up in Vash’s, but he never expected a happy ending for them in the first place.)
“Get a shower, and then we’ll see.”
Vash huffs but he nods, fingers laced behind Wolfwood’s neck as he smiles, something small but genuine. “Having plans already, Wolfwood?”
Wolfwood’s hand squeezes around Vash’s hip, “You’ll just have to wait and find out, huh?” He kisses the corner of Vash’s mouth and slowly backs out of his space, “I’ll get us something to eat, and you get cleaned up.”
His fingers brush Vash’s knee one last time before he’s walking out of the room, feeling much lighter than he had before he walked in.
This isn’t going to work out, he knows that, but maybe he can just pretend for a little while that he can have something good, that he can hold an angel in his arms for just a little while longer.
For just a little while is enough, just to know how it feels. Wolfwood thinks he can live with that.