full-of-mercy - Tumblr blog

[full-of-mercy]

"Yeah."

It is more a grunt of verbal acknowledgment than anything else. Wolfwood can be verbose if he needs to, but sometimes elocution is either out of reach or otherwise unnecessary. While it is not clear in the moment, he offers little more to the whole situation—though he does adjust his lope somewhat without a glance back or aside.

He can hear her move, after all. The whisper of footsteps through springy grass is such a novelty that it seems dreamlike, but even in what seems hallucinatory terrain, everything around them paints a sonic picture amid shades of green utterly alien to every human ever born on this dustball.

"Gotta keep him from runnin' off on his own. God knows he'll want to."

Best to get that out there before they enter the halls. Nicholas watches out of the corner of his eye, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Joggers. Whatever they are. Luida was kind enough to provide a change of clothes, and sure, sure, he can take that as it is. Clothing of good quality is hard to come by on Gunsmoke, but that doesn't mean the fit isn't awkward. Gift tomas, something like that.

It's a distraction from just how uncomfortable it is to enter the ship proper.

The Eye of Michael facility in JuLai was built from the bones of a Plant carrier—a generation vessel from far-flung Earth. The structure is eerily similar, all gleaming metal and smooth deck plates punctuated with regular bars of white light wholly unlike the suns blazing outside.

It even smells similar. Less the blood and dross of suffering, but the undercurrent is there. Sterile. Recycled. Cooled.

Conversation carries. Vash's nervous titter of a laugh is unmistakable as he defends himself from the thrum of scolding.

Zap. Buzz. Aiee, ow, gyah—

His arm is in desperate need of maintenance. Brad grouses with each touch of tools to crystalline matter connected to the Independent's nerves, but the pain is a sign that the design is not completely compromised.

It's not that bad.

Even if the sound sets Wolfwood's jaw to grinding.

Around the bend, they reach Vash's quarters unopposed, though the two occupants are too indisposed to notice the approach upon open doors.

She has half a mind to reach up and grab hold of his chin in a silent gesture to get him to stop grinding his teeth, but the exhalation of breath does that for her as she considers what they will be doing next.

There is without a doubt that her and Wolfwood coming into that town, spotting him when they did, and convincing Vash to come with was the better option than anything else. Meryl had seen the wanted posters plastered all over bulletin boards and on the walls of saloons and inns. The money for capture would entice anyone to go looking to bring that bounty home.

She accepts the ruffling of her hair with as much grace as she’s willing to muster whenever he’s done it—which has been often because she’s predictable in ways that allows him to push her buttons. With her own put-upon sigh, like him moving from their position was such a chore and that she wanted to stay out here for a little while longer, Meryl stands up and brushes the few errant blades of grass from her backside.

The back of her clothes are slightly stained but since grass is such a novelty, she’s hardly bothered by it. She thinks Luida might find it amusing, Brad might comment about not helping her wash anything to get the stains out, but Meryl walks beside Wolfwood, catching up to him and his long strides.

“God, I really hope we don’t have to pull him out of anything,” she says as the automatic doors hiss open and the stark difference from within the dome met by the crisp and sharp corridor, one of many, that lead through the ship almost makes her stagger as they pass the threshold. 

“He’s probably going to talk his way out of us accompanying him when he decides to leave.”

She and Wolfwood had witnessed Julai themselves—seen what became of the city and the crater it left behind. 

“And if Vash survived…that probably means Knives did too.”

Two sets of footfalls become one as she stops mid step and stands in the centre of this corridor. She remembers the millions of blades coming at her, slicing through the air, ready to end her life just before Vash pulled her to safety, followed by the showdown, brother versus brother, as the sound of blades and bullets echoed throughout the chamber while she hid behind the control desk.

Perhaps the thing that scared her the most was when she was falling from the side of the roof, with nothing to hold onto as her body was prepared to plummet to the city below before Wolfwood caught her.

The bruises have long since healed but at times she’ll feel aches and pains in those same exact spots.

“Whatever comes next, he’s going after Knives.”

She’s looking at Wolfwood with a mixed expression of determination and fear before jogging to catch up so she’s right beside him.

[full-of-mercy]

anyone done this yet or?

[full-of-mercy]

"Yeah, little lady. Thanks for offerin'."

Recovery is one of his strong suits. His strongest, really, with all that he has bounced back from, but he is also damned good at channeling his irritation into more irritation. His shins are fine; his pride isn't worth talking about, such as it is, because a bruise is a bruise and he has had worse.

It could always be worse.

It's pretty good right about now, actually.

They make their way out and Wolfwood drapes an arm down-down over Meryl's shoulder, leveraging her stature as a crutch. She fits under his armpit on the best of days, and he has absolutely noticed her swap to boots with little heels. He hasn't remarked on them (much). He hasn't had to. Just a look oftentimes does the trick.

A look and a knowing arch of brow, of course.

Down and out. It might well be for the last time, though any time they depart together or separately it might be their last given the change in the air, given everything else going on. This time somehow feels different, a little wistful, like a final hurrah before they finally get back on the road. Meryl does not keep any pets or houseplants to worry about… just the landlord.

What a strange thought.

A snick of the lock and off they go, armed as they are usually armed, ready as they are generally ready.

"Thinkin' about pickin' something up for the road, Shortstack?" he drawls, casual as can be, but with the prickle of instinct still at the back of his brain.

Different, different. It's not like this is a date or anything.

At ground level he spares her his posted-up and braced nonsense, not that he put much weight on her to begin with, and pats about his jacket pocket for his ubiquitous cigarettes and lighter. The pack is crumpled, of course. Always is. Makes it taste better, maybe. He has had the money to afford smokes thanks to odd jobs, but it's made him antsy, energy crawling under his skin like so many nibbling worms.

She almost laments at the loss of contact, almost, and finds herself laying there, eyes wide and peering up at the darkening ceiling as Wolfwood pulls himself away and even she has to wince at the thump against her coffee table.

”Your shins are getting a real beating,” she says with just a darker hint of pink to her cheeks at his suggestive tone about eating. She’s quick to get up herself and makes a bee-line for the kitchen that’s more like a kitchenette, rummages through one of the few drawers she has and pulls out a well-used folded menu.

Meryl’s ordered from this place numerous times and they have, on those numerous occasions, given her many other pamphlets—most of which had been used to hastily scrawl down notes now long lost or discarded despite her penchant for being fastidious in her work.

The one she’s pulled from the drawer looks like it’ll rip at the frayed edges any second with the way she unfolds it, but it keeps as she quickly looks over the choices she knows are there.

”I know what I’m getting. Is there anything you want or you want to be surprised?” She hands him the menu, walking over to him as she briefly watches him put on his shoes while she pulls a maneuver that has her toeing her shoes to slip them on without untying them. While serving their purpose, she’s since traded in her white joggers for brown boots with more traction—sometimes a bit of a hassle to tie them up, especially when she’s rushing, but they’re comfortable and are durable.

With the suns going down, the air will be cooler, so she slips on a jacket not unlike the one she’d worn before that had the Bernadelli News Agency insignia embroidered on it, but this one is without the emblem and a little thinner. 

Maybe one day she’ll cook for him—something she remembers having made back when there had been time for her to cook, back when she’d been so studious with her planning and scheduling, thinking that if she stuck to any plan she made everything would fall into place.

Patting down her pockets to feel for both her wallet and keys, she seems satisfied and nods at Wolfwood.

”Do you need to lean on me after banging yourself on my furniture or are you good?” She crosses her arms and leans against the closed door, lips pressed together to suppress a teasing grin.

That grin fades slightly as she considers the thought that this might the last time she'll be back here before heading out. The intel she'd been relying on has become sporadic and there's every bit of chance that it might just stop entirely.

If her routine is disrupted, it'll get noticed.

And she knows agents will be on her tail, one way or the other.

Unlocking the door, she holds it open with her foot and waits for him to step out before locking up. Meryl can only hope that this will be a peaceful night before heading back out into the desert with whatever leads they've amassed and enough hope to see this through.

[full-of-mercy]

It feels like his mind has melted.

Static fuzz spun out into a sine wave and then collapsed into some indescribable, undefinable shapeless shape, a mass that must be four-dimensional for all it seems that Time is a factor, something else that he cannot quite put his finger on, and he does not know if he will ever have the ability.

And then there is the Knowing, the bone-deep blood-hot electric sense that this is not their first coil. For all that he has never had faith or belief in anyone or anything, any higher power, he believes in this. He has believed in Vash the Stampede since…

Since.

And this is Something. This is a whole lot of Something and it is all entangled around him, lambent feather-vines and warmth and heat, and he is buried between Vash's thighs, and Vash is talking about want, and there is nothing he can do to suppress the choked sound he makes - sob, groan, laugh, impossible to tell mangled against the top of the blond's shoulder as gravity takes its due.

Gravity and sheer preternatural strength.

They roll over on the mattress. Wolfwood pikes his hips up and drives with full muscular intent. Down. Deep. In.

The primal sound gathering guttural in his chest and throat is completely outside of his control. He scarcely hears it but he can feel it, fingertips to toes, tongue and teeth and all. More. More. The pitch of bone. The pitch of resonance. Human. Plant. Other.

God. God, oh God.

Want, he said. Want. He asked. He asked, and he expects an answer. Doesn't he? How can someone - something - like Wolfwood ever answer? He is a creature of wants, of desires denied, of things that hardly matter but they do. They do here and now. They do because maybe they always have.

Maybe. Maybe.

"F-fuck. Vash."

A lunge sets his lips to Vash's scarred shoulder, and together they are folded, close as separate beings can be. Not conjoined, but near enough, buried and ensconced and intertwined limb over limb over glowing tendrils and feathers.

"-when."

Breathe. Breathe. It is all so much. When has he ever felt this much? Even flayed open on a table under Conrad's scrutiny, even juiced to the brainstem with chemicals, it has never been this intense. This personal.

This real.

"When has- when have you. Ever done anything bad? Wanted to?"

A rivulet of sweat flows from his temple to his chin, dripping between them.

"Y'got-"

Vash wants. Wants him. Has him. Before he can form further words he tenses and rocks, losing his coherence to wanton whiteout, hands clasping, gripping, stroking, desperate for connection.

To hold. To keep. To be.

Vash hums a sigh against Wolfwood's lips and a fresh wave of emotion tugs at his sinuses, constricts his vocal cords. Wolfwood's response does—at first—fill him briefly with a sense of panic, as though he should get up and run, but...

He said it first. Vash would never, ever, in a million years admit something so dangerous. Whether it's founded caution or self-deprecation, it doesn't matter. He'd never say it—he'd never be the first one to say it.

But that's the problem, isn't it? Wasn't it? Living and dying with the regret of it all, becoming the walking dead because of all the things he never said... because... this man was what he lived for. He became the humanity that he wanted to protect, and isn't that selfish of him? Even with so many people's voices cheering for him, he wasn't there.

Whatever his mind conjures up for him is muddy. It feels real, but it can't be. A memory like this doesn't exist in his past. No one's ever... cheered for him. Not like what he heard. His vines loosen as the tension in his body does—they're still entwined, but they're not tangled. Vash can feel Wolfwood's body heat through each one individually, and it makes his heart bloom.

Love is dangerous, but so is Wolfwood. So is Vash. So is this.

"Nick," Vash breathes, rocking his hips slow and steady against his partner, "You're spoiling me." He chuckles lightly, closing his eyes and allowing himself to simply feel. His alien feelers pull and push like the tide. A breath hitches as he begins to get back into the slow and sweet rhythm—like hot caramel.

Sitting isn't good enough anymore—Vash wants to be closer. He wants to be closer and hotter and lost in love, love. The blond topples them over gently, maintaining the connection as though his life depends on it. Maybe it does. Nails dig into Wolfwood's back, biting little crescents where they scratch. He rolls, wanting the weight of Wolfwood's body—living, alive, warm blood racing—crashing over him like a comfort blanket.

With a moan, Vash kisses, wanting more, more. It's near-telepathic, a subconscious plea. More, Nicholas. I want more, I want you. Stay, stay...

We could live like this forever.

He doesn't realize how loudly he's thinking—how connected they really are. Wolfwood hearing his internal dialogue is the least of his worries. All he wants is the warmth and fullness that the undertaker brings.

"Want you," he quivers as he breathes, beginning to glow a gentle cyan at the ends of his appendages, "Is that bad? To want someone?"

[full-of-mercy]

How is it that even here, even now, Vash manages to fit perfectly in the spaces afforded to him? Nicholas has one leg crossed over the other one dangling down the short half-wall to the dunes below their perch, and somehow the noodly gunman situates himself just-so.

Wiggles spark something. Contact does too. Wolfwood tenses his jaw and bears it, restraining a response in a way that is its own response, and there is precious little that he can do to conceal that. How can one hide an issue that is a non-issue from someone as perceptive as Vash the Stampede?

Question for the ages.

No matter the world, it seems.

"Like hell I'm lettin' you up there on Angelina. Knowin' you, you'd manage to kickstart her and careen off to God knows where ass-over-teakettle. Don't want you scratchin' the paint," he grouses, leveraging this change in posture to jam his chin down atop Vash's freshly-braided crown with a huff and a glower that is far more of a squint, but what does it matter anyway since nobody is around and about to look at them and there are no mirrors outside of the dreaded transport's for miles?

Yeah, that's the ticket.

And so what if he lets his arms relax around Vash's midsection? It is as natural as anything, just a convenient place for his limbs to come to rest.

It eases the pressure on his back, at that. The lack of weight there is something else entirely. The Punisher was not a necessary haul to this lonely escarpment where the past is silent except for the susurrus of curious worms' wings and the whisper of sand over rows of graves. The dust has settled in on the ruins of Hopeland.

Shadows and salt.

There is nothing for him here, just as there is nothing for Vash here. It is a wonder that he has even agreed to come along at all.

"Took a minute gettin' used to it," he relents, clearing his throat and allowing his voice to rumble wry, shaped with slightly parted lips and the glint of teeth despite everything. "Did the point-A to point-B job though. Might should find somethin' more suitable wherever we end up next. Little lady can barely reach the pedals even with block boosters."

Tap-a-tap his fingers drum on something, idle, familiar, even if maybe he shouldn't act so familiar. Haunted, they are, both of them.

Haunted and determined to live on.

"Suppose we paint it. Somethin' to go with the fuzzy dice."

Skin to skin, breath to knuckles, lips to curled fingers, salt and sand and cigarette ash. The proximity is devastating for both of them, their hearts on display, their hands unable to move away. They’re transparent, their inhibitions paper thin, and despite all of that and everything, Vash finds breathing easier. Like shaking off a layer of rust, scattering particles of red dust into the wind every time he moves, every time he finds reason to make some banal comment.

Words that ache in his chest, but the ache is a good one.

“Mm, mhm. Good plan,” Vash agrees with an emphatic nod like it was all Nicholas’s idea the whole time. Nevermind the fact that he was the one who brought the question up in the first place.

 They can’t fix the past because the past is fixed. 

The future…Well, he can’t quite fully picture it yet, but he can imagine vague shapes, dancing shadows, low light flickering in the windows, the music of laughter. A possibility rather than an impossibility.

Vash settles back against the front of Wolfwood’s open shirt with aplomb, followed by a brazen wiggling in for good measure. Slumping down tucks him up perfectly beneath Wolfwood’s chin. He distinctly recalls Nicholas not assigning a quantifiable number of minutes to some more time, so he may as well get comfortable. 

Split half of forever here, and the other half on the road. He’s been hard-pressed for choice in a similar dilemma more than once before.

As far as he’s concerned, the truck can stay not ready.

“Hate getting in that thing,” Vash grumbles, blowing a petulant huff through his lips strong enough to flip up an unbound forelock into Nicholas’s face. Climbing into it the first time might have gone something like trying to herd a skittish toma into a small, dark box. Hardly worth complaining about in the face of everything he has gained, but then, when has he ever spared poor Wolfwood’s ear a valid complaint or two?

“I’d rather be strapped to the roof with Angelina.”

[full-of-mercy]

"Hey, hey, Angelina is innocent. An angel, like it says on the tin. I won't have you besmirchin' her good name," Nicholas grouses, teeth clenched to the filter of his cigarette and eyes narrowed in something of a glare, a scowl deepened with the smudge of old engine grease and newer sweat on tawny skin.

Granted, Vash is perceptive. It is in his nature, unerring gunslinger that he is. Wolfwood can no more conceal the glint of amusement than he can the fact that this particular work is as unclean as any other foray into guts, metal or otherwise.

It is natural as anything, easy as breathing, to slip right back into the vein of puckish, irascible teasing.

Nicholas lives in that feeling for a few heartbeats. Just a few, wreathed in cigarette smoke and the smell of oil, until realization strikes and curdles cold in the pit of his stomach. This isn't his bike; it's a relic.

A memory, like the photos in the hut. A relic of sentiment. Is and was are two different tenses, and it aches in a way that reminds him just why he tends to avoid crossing the needle-noggin's path if he can.

(He can't. Just like he can't avoid gravity.)

"Hmph. Y'need to eat more," he dismisses without commenting on wiggling ears because that's new, and how is it that he is still learning new things about a version of someone he knows (knew?) even now? He may sound dismissive, but he still wipes his hands off on a shop rag and stands to wash up in the little outbuilding basin, and he does not refuse help for split knuckles that have already begun to bruise and seal.

He heals quickly.

But there is just something about the notion. Maybe if he'd asked for help. Maybe if he'd let Vash help more. Maybe if Vash had let him help.

Maybe, maybe.

"What'd you even manage to find out there, Tongari? Overalls?"

the punisher by the door is the reassurance that wolfwood is still around. even if he was whisked away to another world rooms away from the weapon, vash assumes the cross would be dragged along. it's part of the other.

the cabin being more tidy is a nice surprise. when was the last time he had been treated to such a luxury? the people of ship three didn't clean up his room, leaving it as is until his next visit. not that he could blame them, nobody exactly knew what was trash and what was something vash needed. thinking about it, this might be the first time in over 150 years that someone's done this for him.

when he appears besides wolfwood, he's already chewing on a piece of bread, pointy ears giving just the smallest of satisfied wiggles. "this is delicious" he manages to get out between bites before taking in the state of wolfwood's... everything, really.

teal eyes rest on the hands, taking in every little detail before he shakes his head to stop himself from following that train of thoughts further. "you ain't getting the clothes until you are washed. not gonna get you new ones tomorrow just because they get dirty" he gives a little nod towards the oil stains.

"I put the bags down on your bed." vash takes the last bite from his piece of bread, now looking back onto wolfwood's hands "get them cleaned and I'll see what we can do about your battle wounds. guess angelina still got her bite?"

[full-of-mercy]

Here. They are here, out in the middle of nowhere. An escarpment shadows one flank. Rubble from ancient and unknown forces - or from the gradual erosion of wind and sand - sits strewn about them, disrupting their outlines in the vast expanse of dunes beyond.

They are here. They are alone, except perhaps for the ever-present eyes of the worms. Nothing else matters. Only this. Only this.

Skin to skin, feather-vines to skin. Touch lights up literally and figuratively, the cyan glow like moonlight rippling through water, oceans Wolfwood has never seen and could scarcely conceive. It is an echo of an echo, mingled genetic memory, something deeply human and categorically not. He has no way of knowing, but there is something intuitive about it.

Just as there is something intuitive about the flow of hands. Palms spread, sloping downward and outward from Vash's shoulders, thumbs cresting the roll and flex of muscle and bone and the emergence of Plant-divined shapes from flesh. They buzz under his fingertips, and he swears he can feel his heart answer, rataplan beat-beat-beat even in this moment of calm.

There is nothing he can do to stop his own rocking. Slow, slow, waves answer gravity, holding close, craving closer, brow to brow and eye to eye, sheened with a trickle of sweat and the tracks of tears. It is so much, so much, and in his craven craving he wants.

More.

"I-"

Oh.

Oh, Vash is asking. Perhaps Vash can feel the tangle of urges and urgencies. Nicholas does not know, but Vash has always had a way of seeing through, of perceiving him despite every best effort.

"-want you to do what comes natural, Tongari," he rasps after swallowing a breath, shared breath, tasting the air between them with a desperate dart of tongue to lower lip. "Whatever comes natural."

Anything. Whatever that entails, anything. He remains undaunted by the appendages curling around them, by the light etching the dark between them. Undaunted and enthralled.

Every bit of calloused finger pads kneading into his skin where not even the suns in the sky get nothing but the rare chance to pierce with their rays thrills Vash. It's enchanting, enticing, and he doesn't care to hide the reactions Wolfwood pulls from his lungs at this point.

Vash huffs against Wolfwood's lips, affected by his words and hands and being, evident in the way his feather vines speak for him in their gentle swaying movements, how they constrict and slide and relax across Wolfwood. "Funny, I was about to ask you the same question."

Emboldened by the other, Vash opts to mirror what is done to him, exploring beyond his feathers. Feeling skin with his flesh and blood hand is different--the texture of skin-to-skin is so detailed. Even the texture of what clothes remain inspire, because they are Wolfwood's, and this man has a drastic hold on his heart. Vash is wholly driven and intent on devouring every bit that Wolfwood wishes to share with him. Especially considering the man hasn't looked at him like the monster he believed himself to be in this way, as if Wolfwood is not phased by the feathers and glowing.

While this isn't everything about his physical nature that makes him different from a human, the way Wolfwood holds onto him and allows his feather vines to wrap around him at will makes Vash teeter on being vulnerable enough to lay bare all the rest he hasn't shown. Still scared, yes, but also insatiably curious. Sickly sweet, coated in the echo of a past life and all that came with it.

Vash leans back a hair's breadth, enough to give himself space to press his forehead to Wolfwood's. To catch his breath and ask him what he wants. The feather-vine-mind-soul whispering that they've established shares feeling, but Vash needs words. "There's a thousand things I want to do to you, but I want to know what you want. So, what do you want, Wolfwood? If we're still beyond playing cards, what can I do to you?"

[full-of-mercy]

"Wouldn't you like to know? Hah."

An answer without an answer accompanies a waggish and utterly unrepentant grin. Sure, he could call his younger counterpart 'kid' or 'sport' or whatever the hell diminutive he could think of, but that would be boring.

Exercising creativity is better. More amusing for him at least. Nick's reactions are worth the ridiculousness.

"Maybe I'm just wrong," Nicholas shrugs with a casual sort of aplomb—throw-away, or at least an attempt at it.

The Livio they rescued from that terrible place sees something in him that renders him practically speechless with terror. Just what it is, though, he has not said. Not really. His disturbance is itself disturbing, but there is no way of guaranteeing safe separation at the moment. It is just something they'll all have to endure.

The transport is not far. Fully charged and tick-ticking as its metal shell releases heat to the cooling evening air, it looms like an intimidating hulk, apparently unmolested by any other power station customers.

Not that there have been many.

Nicholas unlocks the door and hauls himself into the driver's seat, sinking into the scant cushions with a grunt-sigh plumed in smoke.

"Stickin' you three in one and I'll take the other, 'course," he snorts, turning the engine over to kick on the fans.

He has his priorities.

"Why, you have somethin' in mind?"

"Love nugget—where the hell did you find these nicknames? They're terrible," Nick bemoans as he pushes off the wall, quickly jogging to catch up to the other man. He supposes that whatever the fuck his alter is calling him is better than degrading things like 'young'n,' or 'kid,' so there's that at least. Nick supposes he'll just have to up his nickname game.

Inspired, he lights up a new cigarette with the casual click-flick-toss of his lighter. All the sooner to burn his lungs to ash, as if that's possible anymore.

"I wish I knew what was up with him. Doesn't make sense; he looks at you and it puts the fear of God in him. You don't really look the same as me, so I don't think it's the whole double trouble thing." He scratches at the back of his shaggy head of hair. "M'not smart enough to squeeze any answers out of it. Don't know how many drugs they put in him; maybe it's some side-effect."

There's a distant rumble of thunder as they finally reach the end of the piss-soaked alley. The storms are catching up to them—staying here for the night may mean letting the storms pass over them. It's a little annoying to think about.

Nick is mainly quiet and contemplative during their quick return to the vehicle. He's done a lot of talking tonight. A lot more than he's been used to doing for a long, long time.

"Soooooo..." He grins mischievously from the other side of the van, "How're we divvying up the rooms?"

[full-of-mercy]

Meryl keeps hold with her hard little hands despite everything. She speaks her mind as always, bold and cutting and direct and yet there is a softness there that, directed at him, feels somewhat undeserved. Greatly undeserved. Wolfwood remains upright, steadfast, expression as carefully neutral as he can make it.

He is reasonably certain he manages. Reasonably. Although reason is not the strongest force in play at the moment. How can it be?

Here they are, standing in the airy darkness after last call. Here they are, bathed in the sulfur-yellow light of feeble streetlamps on the dusty row, and for all that they are strange, for all that it is strange, they are not strangers. No more than they were before, at least. No more than they were when they trailed the Stampede's chaos and the drive for both love and peace.

Neither of them are unchanged by it.

Perhaps she has changed more than he.

For a while he holds his peace, holds his silence, and listens. Smoke wreaths from his nostrils and lips, drifting lazily on the scant and chilly breeze that breathes between ramshackle scrap-built for-purpose structures. He holds her eyes more or less, the gleam of lucidum over the rims of his shades unvarnished gold. Unnatural. The moons cresting the horizon are plenty of reflected illumination to see her by.

Among other things.

Important, she said. That connects. It stings. He isn't sure why it does. Why it aches.

Her tears do too; she sheds them for someone (something) undeserving, just like someone else did. Does, maybe. He does not know.

More quiet, and after a few more moments he sighs.

"Alright, little lady. 'Nother case for you to investigate, hm?"

Wry, his attempt at teasing falls flat and he knows that it does. The grin he offers is faint and fleeting, albeit not exactly apologetic. Meryl is not taking the out he has offered, not that he could have expected her to.

"Got a tent on the bike, but sure."

For now, he does not say, instead gesturing for her to lead the way.

Whenever she decides to let his coat lapels go, that is.

Is it selfish of her to want to stay out here, regardless of how late it is and how cold it will become? Milly would be none the wiser until she sensed that Meryl had not entered their shared room and would no doubt come looking for her, probably waking up the entire town to do so if need be.

There is enough tension riding along this place, and everywhere else where others have settled after what felt like what was the end, and to add to it—especially to wake people up from their sleep, won’t do them any favours.

She’s done enough and heard enough crying or words spoken right on the brink of tears to hear it in voice and Meryl doubles down on her embrace, holding onto him all the more tighter—despite the futile attempt at wrapping her arms around him—but she keeps holding on because he is not a ghost despite the admission that he had died and now came back, and that is something she will want to know more of.

For now, she counts the seconds that may become minutes until he says what she’s been dreading to hear from him since this reunion.

“And where are you gonna go? We spent God knows how long trekking through that desert, following leads and clues that sometimes didn’t make any sense, and what? You’re just gonna vanish into the night and we won’t ever see you again? Not on my watch!”

She’s not pulled herself away from him or out of his embrace, but she has taken a step back to look up at him and to make him see that she means every word. 

“Whether I do have more important things, or not, you’re still important to me, so consider yourself on the top of my list.” 

Meryl does her best to subtly wipe at her eyes and nose, but they are so close that the shift in her movements would be spotted right away. 

“D-do you got a place to stay at least?” She manages to ask with only a bit of fumbling and mentally pats herself on the back for not letting the sobbing take full control despite how it is lodged there, ready to be let out.

“I can put you up for the night,” she says, her composure, while not back to normal, is at least on slightly more solid ground. “I’m sure there’s another room available. If you bunked with us and woke up Milly, she’ll end up waking up the entire town.”

Selfishness be damned. They had spent so long combing through the desert for whatever trails that would lead them here and she’s not about to let go just yet.

She knows he’s giving her an out and she’s made her choice not to take it.

[full-of-mercy]

It's messy.

Like death. Like life. This is life. This is living. They are here and they are alive, and it would hardly matter if they were in some threadbare dusty hotel somewhere in the middle of anywhere as opposed to…well. As opposed to here in this once-hostel. The walls are solid enough not to rattle even with the new dent in the plaster. There are no other souls around to hear them, and even if there were, any other consideration is so far out of mind that Wolfwood cannot muster a flicker of concern.

Not for that. Not beyond ensuring Vash is unhurt.

A mauling kiss shared with tongues and teeth and swollen lips dispels all doubt. They are durable. They endure. It is what they do. Both of them. Nicholas can tease on matters of drywall later, later, after they have time to catalog their respective bruises and the taste of iron-plasma in their mouths.

They destroy and they build.

And build. And build. Plantsong, something else. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Words register.

Mine, Vash says. Mine, and Wolfwood's voice gutters out chest to throat to skin, a growled groan threading out into the edges of a whine desperate for air and desperate for more. More. More contact, more rhythm, more clenching, more tangling of limbs, just—

More.

And sure, maybe it is greedy. It is greedy. But what is life if not avaricious, seizing hold with determination?

Vash does not need to plead, does not need to ask, but he does with such pleasure and it spurs something delirious and hungry and needy. It echoes in ripples of muscle and juts of hips, lunging and hooking slick-hot-hard into gripping petals and clasping thighs. It echoes in short, sharp, breathless pants and the crushing coil of their embrace wedged up against the wall. In, want, take, please, love.

Love, love, love.

It is in every motion and every breath. It is in every peaked moment of quiet between beats, threaded into the unquiet, into the sounds all around them, close, close, close.

There.

Swelling, welling, throbbing, whiteout. Savage and tender, Nicholas sets his teeth to the scarred top of Vash's shoulder, biting as he rocks through obliteration, through firing and misfiring nerves consuming his senses, filling them with this, here, now. Scent and sound and sensation and pressure and urge and urgency and all of it, all of it, suffused with heat and warmth alike.

Love.

This. Shared.

Wolfwood continues until he cannot, until all he can do is lean and brace—brace himself, brace Vash, against the wall, feet planted and head bowed to the roll and drip of sweat.

Among other things.

Eventually he regains some composure, enough to unlock his jaw and graze his lips to any marks he might have left, questing upward from shoulder to neck to ear—animal, human, affectionate.

"...fuck."

Rasped. Chuckled. Not quite pained. There is so much, so much, overwhelming, and all he can do is hold.

There's a shower to be had. They'll get there.

Eventually.

@full-of-mercy

The pause, the stillness after the bolt of pleasure is-- He wants more, he wants to move, to continue, every physical part of him that can grasp and rock and encourage absolutely and enthusiastically in use, but also...

Breathing. And looking. Looking back. It's not lacking, there's no impatience to get back to what they'd been doing; it's a pause, a hold, a savoring moment. (It might also be a headache later, given the look of concern that he registers on Wolfwood's face, but at that moment, there is no bad pain and he does not care.)

Muscles tremble, clench and relax, without permission. Petals reach almost lazily in the stillness, as if there's any further they can stretch, any more they can grasp, but Vash's mind feels the same for the temporary break its allowed. Every part of him that he's come to define as unpleasant, ugly, horrifying, monstrous-- Every part of him is held here, more than physically. More than just tolerated, and more than with familiarity and fondness. He knows that; doesn't just wish it, or think it. He. Knows. Can interpret it somehow, can hear it like Plantsong, feel it like the resonance working its way through him.

Acceptance rather than realization.

Breathing. Right. He doesn't notice his own scent, or maybe he's simply not capable of it, but he certainly notices the way Wolfwood smells as they continue. The heat, the motion, the nature of it; it's an intoxicating mix that has him inhaling long and deep, leaning in for more with a blissfully open-mouthed moan and-- The kiss is messy. The kiss is perfect, the scent mixing with the flavor and he doesn't mean for his fangs to get in the way except that there's more scent and flavor and neediness as Vash tries to answer every motion with his own limited range.

He whines, and it's very human. He almost -- almost, or maybe just slightly -- growls, but it's not a warning and it's not a negative thing, it's just--

Right. It's right. "Mine." He agrees, and that name is easy. Title? Role? Truth. It's been the truth, unspoken. Since at least the moment the man crashed into his life again, but he didn't let himself... couldn't let himself...

It's tentative and gentle; not exactly in opposition of what they're doing, or the electric pleasure building and building inside him like a storm, but still a surprise. "Nick." He tries, and it's-- Weird. Good-weird, new-good-weird, like the rest of this. Like this thing shared between them, and right now he can't fathom reaching further. He's sure the man's full name had been in the mouths of too many undeserving people, though that was an actual full thought requires more energy, and another time.

There's a particularly tight squeeze of his thighs as everything builds toward an inevitable crescendo, sense still greedy, and the small part of Vash that wants to slow down and savor again is immediately out-voted by the vast majority of his body. He's making a mess all on his own, but there will most assuredly be a bigger one soon. "Wolfwood." He settles on the old standard again, breathless with pleasure and laughter and knowing. "F-feel you-- Wanna feel you. Inside, with me. Please, Wolfwood..."

He knows he doesn't have to beg, hardly has to ask. But he knows too that he wants to say it, he wants the words on his lips and the buzzing resonance caressing its way through his spine as they share this, as the loveyouloveyouloveyou reverberates through everything. Everything.

[full-of-mercy]

Love. Love, love, love.

Has he ever said it to anyone before? If he did, did he mean it? In this lifetime, in the last? Did they ever get a chance? Was it simply understood? Was it misunderstood, assumed, presumed, unspoken, cast adrift and cut short?

Disorientation is an old, familiar friend. Friend? Old? Well, familiar at the very least, the skew of senses between the here-and-now and what is to come, what has yet to pass and what has passed beyond, beyond, beyond. It is more than a hymn to the cadence of violence.

It is more than physical stress and fear.

So, so much more.

The lightning-bolt rush of pleasure crushed in around him and holding him captive resonates at odds with the equal clash-clamor of feeling.

Maybe not at odds.

Wolfwood cannot tell. He cannot tell, because he practically vibrates. Every nerve and every sinew, every bone, every inch of skin, all of it, every inch of him, every atom of his existence and lack thereof, the gaps between and the gapless spaces bright with sensation. Beyond sensation, beyond carnality.

Wet. Wet in the crook of his neck. Wet on his face. A shuddery sniff heaves breath into his lungs—breath into lungs that perhaps shouldn't be, but they are. They are. They are here and they are alive. They are here and they are intertwined. They are here after blood and gunsmoke, after singed flesh and ragged viscera, after impossible odds and preternatural pressures.

After transformation.

In so many fundamental ways.

A blink, another inhale, wet, wet.

His arms entangle around Vash's waist, crossing, folding, holding, lifeline and anchor, tender and desperate. Here and now Wolfwood rocks slow and sweet simply because movement feels right. It feels more real. It feels like a deeper connection, making contact with all of the blooms nestled around them, with every part that makes Vash Vash.

Unsexy. That. That breaks him of his reverie or sends him along on another wave of it, he isn't sure and he doesn't care.

"It's you," he sniffs, voice cracking into the beginnings of a chuckle—rasped, frayed, but warm. Warm as anything.

The day has worn on. Golden hour from the elder sun streams through the windows and the filmy drapes, glowing sepia in motes of dust dancing through the room. It paints their bloodied clothes, the shapes of their travail from balcony to bathroom to bed.

Nicholas inhales deep, long, slow, pulling as much scent and humidity into his sinuses as he can, one more way to take it in. All of it. To ground himself.

And then he lifts his head, nudging Vash's jaw with his nose, only to quest and claim his lips. Slow, smoldering, yielding, cushion for an "I love you" that is not an echo, but an answer.

The words left his mouth before he could stop them, before he could pause and think—his wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression is a clear indicator of that—but it's true. He hadn't yet had the chance to really reflect on it, but Vash loves Wolfwood.

Wolfwood isn't... isn't afraid of him. Any of him. Vines, feathers, lasers in the moon—none of it phases him. Feathers? Fresh moon craters? That's not something that happens... It hasn't happened. He doesn't think it has? It's strange—Vash can picture these things so clearly.

Maybe Knives really did do something stranger than he thought to his brain. Or maybe these memories have always been here.

The fog of brain static lifts, and his feelings haven't changed.

"I love you," he reiterates, confirms, assures. "Don't—don't leave me. Don't go somewhere a-and do something reckless and—and... I can't save you—and..."

His voice trails off into a sob as he buries his face into the nook of Wolfwood's neck. He lets out a sharp gasp as his hips move into the motion, reminding him of their physical connection.

"And I won't do it either—!"

It's a promise that he knows—with any other person—he could never keep. But Wolfwood can keep up. That's what's so great about him—he faces danger with Vash and wants to keep up. Despite this, he knows that he's left before—he's never offered to tackle things together, the man simply follows.

You know better now.

Damn it—if Wolfwood dies, it won't be because Vash isn't there or arrives too late. After everything, after everything, he knows now that he'd rather try together and fail than have either of them attempt to handle things on their own. He may have realized it too late, but in this life he's learned.

It goes against everything he's ever believed. It doesn't make any sense, how he feels this way. Love doesn't make sense, and this time if he's going to run from it, then he's going to force himself to grab Wolfwood by the hand and take him with too. He will not allow himself to fail.

This time will be different.

You are not lost, Wolfwood.

The vines grip tighter, like an embrace rather than a binding. Violet bellflowers dust the both of them with matching, sparkling pollen. With how Vash trembles, each one wobbles as if they're being rung.

"S-sorry, this isn't very sexy of me, is it?"

Vash lets out a sniffle-chuckle as he nuzzles into Wolfwood's neck, then takes a breath. The humming resonance rings angelic in a tone only Wolfwood can hear. Even Vash doesn't seem to respond to it.

Again.

"I love you."

[full-of-mercy]

When Meryl is motivated, even if (especially if) her motivation is misguided, precious little short of grabbing hold of her and hauling her in a different direction will stop her.

So, she decides.

And she chooses one of the few little eateries in the town that seems to defy the general degradation of the desert. Sure, the outside is a little worn from sand scouring, its corrugated metal exterior buffed to a satin sheen and its windows clouded and scratched, but the diner made out of a U-shape of transport buses welded together onto a stone foundation appears to be well-maintained.

The price of food and drink will probably reflect that, along with the sheer amount of Plant energy this place enjoys .

Maybe.

"Could be eatin' worm anyway, there, Princess. Doubtless have your whole life-"

"...c'mon, Wolfwood. Why?"

Vash interjects, and Nicholas does not need for him to continue his line of questioning before he grins unabashed, eyes crinkled behind his sunglasses. He knows why. They both do. It's been like this from jump, from the moment Meryl swerved and struck him with the van, and while they have come to something of an understanding, riling her and reaping the consequences is—

"Fun. Besides, you know I'm right."

The bells on the door jingle like a pair of spurs as the gunmen follow Meryl inside. While she has already found a likely place to sit and has already secured a menu, Wolfwood and Vash draw looks from the clientele at the shake bar and in the booths. The host waves them to wherever after a side-eye, though fortunately it seems they get all sorts here and there is no immediately visible bounty board.

It doesn't mean there isn't one somewhere.

They decide to join her, Vash beside with a grin and a little wave, Wolfwood across with the adroit flick of fingers to pass a cigarette from crumpled pack to chapped lips.

"—oooh, they have tea ice cream? And fried ice cream? That's amazing..."

The blond hovers, peering over Meryl's shoulder while Wolfwood pretends to vacillate on the offerings behind the counter, taking his sweet time to settle on a cup of coffee and something savory. They all do have to eat. Neither donuts nor sweet treats seem to enter his reckoning.

Cheaper that way. More calories. Something like that. Maybe he'll pilfer something from the others as a tithe.

He adjusts his legs to shield his shins with the table's center post.

"Junk again, huh?"

It isn’t like Roberto to leave without her, especially since she is usually the one going on about sticking around and doing the right thing or helping out wherever and however they can. She can hear his gruff voice in her head tell her that they are journalists and not vigilantes or anyone equipped enough to get them out of sticky—and she wants to grimace at the use of that word right now—situations.

That grimace is quickly followed by another flush that she can pass off as a result from the heat and sunslight. 

Well, seems with everything decided, she gets them to the charging station, pays the fee, and glares daggers at Wolfwood, almost forgetting that Vash is still in the truck with her. She startles just a little when she feels that touch upon her shoulder and looks around at him, taken off guard by his expression and almost wants to groan in frustration if he decides to join in on Wolfwood’s teasing. 

It’s then and there that she begins to formulate her plan.

If there is a bar, then there is sure to be a diner of some sort. Maybe a few to give the option of choice. 

“I guess since Roberto took the other key with him. And I don’t mind bunking with you,” she says with what could almost be a shy smile before the moment is interrupted with Wolfwood calling Vash out. 

“You sure you weren’t woken up by your own snoring, Undertaker?”

Meryl sticks out her tongue at Wolfwood as the metre gauge becomes full and she parks the car. Pocketing the keys once the ignition has been turned off, she steps out and squints as tears smart her eyes from the suns. Perhaps purchasing a pair of sunglasses might be a good idea. She pats down her pocket to make sure her wallet is accounted for and heads towards Wolfwood.

“Not eating worm. You’re welcome to, though,” she says as she walks past him and considers giving him another kick for good measure but that thought comes and goes as her eyes widen in delight at the sight of a diner.

“We’re eating there!” She points ahead and starts walking, eagerly awaiting the blast of cool aircon and booths and a menu with choices that might include sundaes.

The moment she walks through the door, Meryl can almost weep with joy. The cool air blasts against her face and she just stands there, letting herself be cooled off and sheltered away from direct sunlight. It’s not particularly busy, so either a rush had finished or has yet to start, but one of the servers points towards a booth in a far corner and Meryl makes a bee-line towards it, sliding in and can’t help a little bounce as she picks up a menu tucked in front of a bottle of ketchup and a large glass shaker of sugar, held in front by two glass salt and pepper shakers.

Her annoyance with Wolfwood’s teasing is forgotten as she places the menus down and begins to peruse, immediately looking at the desserts.

They do, indeed, have sundaes.

[full-of-mercy]

It is so much. As overwhelming as it is unexpected. The steps they took to get from where they were to where they are lost in the dross, and they cannot spare the thought to consider it as the crowning unlikelihood that it is, because thought is forbidden. Thinking is forbidden. There is only this, only action and reaction, call and response, sense and sensation, as deeply human as it is inhuman because of what they are and what they are not.

Maybe this is the start of something new. Maybe it is the end of it. Maybe they will never have another chance, and now that they have seized the opportunity, there is no turning back or away. Not from this, not ever from this sense of freedom and hope and joy, from things utterly and completely out of reach in the desolate desperation they have endured thus far.

Maybe. Maybe. Either way, Vash does not want to stop, and neither does he. Not by a long shot. Perhaps not ever, and wouldn't that be something? A dream, a fantasy.

There are physical limitations, and then there are limitations that both of them are accustomed to ignoring, defying, for the sake of possibility. Life. Death. Want. Wolfwood ought to be softening. Slowing. Reeling. The threads of sensitivity twitch and jump through his thighs and torso, cording muscle under skin sheened with sweat and more.

He ought to be flagging.

But he does not, because he is not immune. Not to this, not to the way Vash handles him, not to the way Vash fills his senses entirely. Sight, sound, scent, taste weight, warmth, all of it.

Arousal is a riot running through his nerves and his veins, clarity spread into a dull throb smoldering over with the heat and wet and tightness around his fingers, cradled on his tongue, glossing his mouth and cheeks and jaw. There is no space for hesitation and none at all for shame.

"Complaint?"

There is room for teasing. For enthusiasm. Nicholas' voice curls in its breathy-breathless chuckling timbre as much as the corners of his lips—all teeth, true to his namesake. Of course, his tone breaks into a groan muffled into flesh at such dexterous and targeted exploration. Dark eyes squeeze shut as he buries his mouth up, up against the feathery juncture of Vash's legs, holding the thickening bud against his palate and knead-pressing with his tongue. Better that than saying something stupid. Better that than remaining idle. Better than deferring or deflecting, when he can further their competition.

Such as it is.

His hands move too.

One grips and the other crooks on a curved wrist, sliding to tap-thrust-stroke-seek fingers against texture and petal, questing for reaction, for response, for whatever he can coax from the gunman still seated astride his face. Anything. Anything, because the more Vash strums and grinds, the more his sense of place and focus skew, fraying with electric urgency pushed past the edge of refractory and into something more primal, mesmerized in the coruscating bioluminescence. Unearthly, divine, beautiful.

He has silenced himself, albeit imperfectly, and so he can respond too.

Chuff-growl, an mm-hmm might at first sound gruff and combative, but there is an eagerness there—hopeless eagerness, curiosity, wonder, hunger, because he does not know what to expect despite knowing Vash intimately, and despite knowing that Vash sees through him just as clearly.

Perhaps the affirmative he hums is sufficient. Perhaps the way his pelvis tics upward and his heels spread just-so are invitation enough.

Welcome. Dare.

Something else.

"Mmmph—"

Is there a boundary?

If there is, he hasn't found it yet.

@full-of-mercy

He supposes, in a way that one can suppose anything when the sparks of pleasure keep cycling between needing more and almost being too much, he really should take his hand back entirely, let Wolfwood recover without the extra stimulation of a hand wrapped around his cock, fascinated by the continued hardness. Fascinated by the mess still warm and slick, which only leads his fingers to move and slide and tap ever so slightly, experimentally.

That's all a bit in the background, though. The foreground is drawing his attention quite a bit more in spite of lingering nervousness, but the physical touch is powerful. Glancing down to see the other man's face is also powerful, looking like a beautiful wreck while being so very invested in what he's doing-- Vash is grateful. Truly.

Does he want to stop? The answer is almost uncharacteristic in several ways, but that underscores the honesty that his whine already emphasizes as he makes more of an effort to use words effectively: "Fuck no, y'can keep going." There should probably be a "please" in there somewhere, but that's not a thought that occurs to him immediately. Much like how his grasp remains delicate on Wolfwood's shaft, fingers finally shifting until they cover instead of grasp. Contact remains. He still wants to see, but he can feel the tug of a gaze on him in a good way, inviting. He feels the need to make and hold eye contact, and that fuels the need to laugh breathlessly just for the sake of it. Another kind of release; pleasure and hopefulness and joy, carefully kept close but flashed like a hand of cards in a drunken moment of not thinking.

So maybe it's fine, then. He doesn't have too many more secrets about his body to keep close to his chest anyway. Embrace the moment, carpe diem. He thinks. He's pretty sure he remembers--

Wolfwood's fingers either serve to remind him of his request of no thinking to begin with, or they simply evict the possibility of another focus altogether. Whatever works, and it does work. Vash's glowing gaze is heavily lidded but very much drawn downward, mouth slightly open in a pant. Ah, there's noticeably more being stimulated now, bud filling slightly with every barely controlled roll of his hips with external and internal stimulation. The purposeful coaxing is getting the process to happen faster than it has before, but there's no surprise spared for that; no one's ever been so--

"Enthusiastic." It also comes out as an accusation, and might have been taken that way if he weren't already looking down with equal parts hunger and fondness. It's an awkward arc that his spine continues making, but not uncomfortable yet. And he still wants to look back at what rests under his palm, his fingertips, feeling the kick of Wolfwood's cock with even the slightest little motion of his hand, but there's nothing that could get him to move away from the blissfully multiplying electrical currents that have the resonance kicking up a notch. His petals tremble and pulse with it, little flickers of bioluminescence flashing their own patterns even if they're hidden against skin, curling around and make contact with anything within reach.

He's making a mess. They're both making messes, but he's way ahead. He's going to be much, much more to blame for it too if they keep going, bud swelling and expanding further, and he... just...

There's no implication, really. No insistence, no planning ahead. But there is certainly a playful devious little grin crossing Vash's face, fangs just barely peeking out, the roll of his hips starting to get a little less rhythmic even if the pulse of his resonance keeps time. The hand on Wolfwood's shaft turns. Readjusts, palm deliberately grinding down, aided by what remains wet and slick on his fingers, which just keep sliding further and further until they gently nudge at the man's sac. He's curious more than anything, licking his lips and asking, with more than a slight shake in his arousal-roughened voice, "This alright? Can I go further?" Down. Back. More, more places to touch; he's not asking for more than what he's offered, but he's curious about exactly where that boundary is.

[full-of-mercy]

birb...

[full-of-mercy]

Art by Essi Välimäki

[full-of-mercy]

You and me ,we’re not the same.I am a sinner, you are a saint.

[full-of-mercy]

and tomorrow will surely come