sixty-billion

[sixty-billion]

For a few fraught moments, Vash is silent.

Not a breath, not a blink, not a sound. Outside, wind-whipped sand rasps against the reinforced flanks of the hotel, pattering the windows and the shutters with gritty debris. Thunder Valley lives up to its name, brontide rumbling in the distance, flashes of heat and friction lightning jarring the shadows with blue-violet-white.

It strikes just like Wolfwood's words strike: relentless, a low elemental roll, unavoidable as any other primal force, washing over everything with stark clarity.

What he says. What he means. How he took and understood flirtation. How he saw right through the nervous ha-ha-but-what-if. How he perceived the lonely core of it, plucking truth from the dross, as if somehow he knows. He does know. It becomes clear as to why he knows.

Loss. Devastating loss.

Contact with the gestalt voices, memories, minds of the hypercube little Meryl carries with aplomb could only show him so much. It did show him much, but it could not have showed him this.

What can he even say? What should he do?

He promised he wouldn't flee. That is off the table.

Something. Anything. Instinct. Honesty, perhaps, for the first time in a long time, maybe ever.

With a click-swallow he moves—and with a creak of supple leather, he coils his arms around Nick's waist and ribs, snaking a hand up to the nape of his neck and the dark hair there. While Nick tucks chin to his shoulder, Vash tips his head and nudges, seizing upon the minuscule distance between them.

A lock of lips. Firm. Tender.

Fervent in its own way, with the curl of warm breath sweetened with honeyjack, sharp teeth carefully shrouded. It is as much an answer as it is a question, an extension of risk, desperately vulnerable. Worthwhile, because it is worthwhile, and maybe for a little while he can set aside gnawing anxiety for both their sakes.

This... is what he wants, right?

Nick wants Vash. Likes this Vash. Wouldn't mind spending more time with this Vash. Could see himself charmed and stupid, head over heels for this... this...

Vash.

He's not a replacement. He's not... trying to replace his Vash. Nick just sees the deep sorrow hidden beneath shining blue-green irises, and he wants to will it away. Wants this Vash to smile, to know that he's loved, and that he will love and even when they all leave he's... he's not alone.

It's not pity either. God, no.

"Well, you can always come back and meet him when he's less grumpy. For now, you have his watered down alternate self in your clutches," Nick laughs light, avoiding eye contact even though they're so close. There's a slight sadness in the way he offers himself, a quiet 'please.'

He... wants to be held in a way that only Vash can. Wants Vash's lips, anything at all, he'll accept it. Is that desperation? Maybe it's wrong, maybe it's all wrong—for Vash to have—to have ever considered him—

"Sorry, I must've misread the situation. I just thought... I... Thought you..."

'Don't you dare fuckin' do this shit again.'

The pit in his stomach grows deeper; suddenly he feels as though he's trapped in quicksand and only falling further down. Stupid—he's so, so stupid...

"You deserve to be loved, you know...? I had to... we had to knock that into your brain the first time and I know you're not that much different. If you're really like how he was when he..." Wolfwood trails off, remembering the past no matter how painful it was, "If you think the same, and you feel guilty for gettin' this close to someone, it's not right. It's not."

Nick groans softly, sliding his forehead to rest on Vash's shoulder as he mumbles, "Maybe I'm not the right guy to tell you all that though. Sorry... again."

[sixty-billion]

"Hey! Haha—hey. Oww, I told you I don't drive..."

Vash juts his lower lip into a wobbly pout, eyes watering at the corners, but it is as much of a ruse as his noodly flail of arms as he finds himself dragged off with a muffled yaaiiee!

He could resist, of course. Maybe he ought to resist, but there is just something charming about the way Wolfwood insists. He refrains from too much jostling as they traverse the claustrophobic aisles between shelves of clutter, perhaps because he is too stunned at the lingering note of affection, gentle as anything.

He blinks at the weathered fellow behind the counter. Once, twice. Mouth open, mouth closed.

The shopkeeper's brows scrunch together like a pair of fuzzy worm-caterpillars, precipitating creases across his forehead, underscoring his growing look of question. For a beat it appears that he attempts to ascertain just who walked into his shop and why, rheumy eyes sliding from face to face.

The older man looks. Vash looks back. Another moment.

Then, with a sniff and a gesture of open hands, the shopkeeper rasps, "if it's here, it's for sale for the right price."

"Oh! Well, that's wonderful."

Perking, Vash peers at Wolfwood, then veers his attention off to the side, searching the collection of smaller objects within the glass case. Bells. He's looking for bells, little ones, but he does not say as much—and he pointedly avoids eye contact with his compatriot.

For Reasons.

Reasons wholly unrelated to the way he rolls his shoulders up to hide his ears in the collar of his coat.

In combination with Vash’s conspicuous brand of subtlety and a long study of the Humanoid Typhoons little tells, Wolfwood generally has a fair approximation of whatever may be going on in Vash’s head at any given moment. Vash seems distracted after they’ve gone through all this trouble. Hardly more than a brief detour off the path. Every detour is worthwhile in of itself, and that all amounts to a roundabout way of saying it isn’t any trouble at all, but that does not absolve Vash of his apparent inattention. 

The nerve.

“What, so you can knock ‘em all down like bowlin’ pins with yer shitty drivin’?” He squeezes Vash in even closer and angles them both down so he can drive the first two knuckles of his hand into the top of Vash’s head.

“We’ll get both of ‘em,” Wolfwood decides, pulling Vash along with him past the ringing bell of the front door. He eases off two strides in, allowing his companion to right himself. Not without a minor hitch, the slow, quick linger of fingertips to the fine, dark hairs at Vash’s nape. It’s…It’s indulgent and not entirely by accident. His turn to suddenly and inexplicably feel burned by the suns, only, he doesn't have that as an excuse anymore as they stroll down the narrow aisle by the counter past hand-painted game pieces and yellowed boxes.

A leathery man, bent by the decades with bushy brows and thick glasses, looks up from his work as they enter.

Wolfwood offers up a smile while pointedly avoiding eye contact with Vash. “Mornin’ to ya, sir. My friend and I– we were wonderin’ if those little guys at the front are for sale…The red and the black one.”

[sixty-billion]

Pondering is a luxury, but it is nice to pretend.

Pretending in itself is an exorbitance they can scarcely afford, but out here it seems more within their grasp. Out here with the arid land stretching countless miles in every direction, there is nothing and no-one to stop them. Their travel companions are more or less transient these days, with their own lives to live.

Better that way.

Probably for the better if he and Wolfwood part ways too, for all that that seems unlikely. The shady preacher-but-not, the assassin with a heart of gold he just can't see, is determined. Vash cannot quite put his finger on why, but he can venture a guess. His brain does that for him, even if he does not want it to.

But it is nice to pretend that they can take a moment and be. Nice to just exist in company for a minute or three, beneath velvet-black and scattered diamond, beneath the wonder that is a niche in the cosmos far, far from the cradle of humanity.

"Aw, Wolfwood, you want to go dancing with me?"

It's something to seize hold of, something to tease out, a pluck of warmth lending resonance to his tone as it lilts past curved lips and a tease of fanged teeth. If he notices the burnish in the moonlight, he doesn't say a word as he cants his head and squints behind his ubiquitous yellow shades.

"Opryton's great for it. They have dance floors in each of the halls, all different kinds of music... even live music, with real guitars and other instruments. Ooh, and good food, lots of fried goodies."

It sounds like a date. He falls just short of saying it, but it's etched there on his face in a smile that has swiftly turned goofy.

So what if the edges of his ears are pink? That's just the wind. And it's an impossibility.

Probably.

Right?

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.”   

[sixty-billion]

All Nicholas has to offer to Meryl's assertion and to Vash's acquiescence is a smoky grunt. He could have dressed to give chase. He could have gathered his things and immediately set out the moment he knew they'd left.

Vash slipped out with nary a sound, after all. A nightmare in a familiar absence, where presence is so full, was so craved, was the subject of their pursuit for two years.

Wolfwood could have tracked them. He didn't. An act of trust, maybe. Or one of resignation.

Vash removes his boots and begins shuffling around to disrobe for sleep, lips pursed and head hanging. Caught out of hand attempting to run away - again - he has nothing to say for himself. They worked so hard to find him, they saved him and the town he was taking shelter in, and they didn't have to. They maybe shouldn't have.

"The hell'd you think I would think?" Wolfwood finally rasps, sitting on the edge of the bed with its rumpled sheets. He'd been on one side, Vash on the other, Meryl cradled between. Somehow their blond ghost managed to slip out undetected, not so long ago; the bedclothes are still warm with lingering body heat. "Thought we were over this."

"I didn't want to hurt you, I—" Stripped down to a pair of shorts and a baggy tank top, Vash stands and cradles the bottle blue of his left wrist with his right hand. He flexes the articulation of his fingers with quiet rhythmic clicks, chewing on the inside of his cheek to the same beat. The sorry flop of his hair hardly offers his face any cover, his eyes near-luminous in the dimly lit room. "—I-it was happening again, I didn't—"

"Yeah, well, little lady said it before. What're we going to do to help you if you're off God knows where?"

Vash blinks, stunned, glancing between his two compatriots with question etched on his face. This is something he has struggled to accept, but they both remain relentless.

Wolfwood holds their gazes, then flops back onto the mattress with a huff, scooting back over to his spot. He then folds an arm behind his head, eyeing the others, expectant.

Vash starts forward, pauses, looks to Meryl for confirmation, and then starts forward again, preparing to follow.

Details of the walk back to the inn are not as clear as they once were when she left to follow Vash into the desert. Senses had been on high alert, looking for any sign that he was going to leave them and she and Wolfwood would be at square one. 

She moves like she’s on autopilot, guided by the weight of Vash’s hand in her own, squeezing his fingers to let him and herself know she’s still there, still standing, and careful to mind the staircase as they walk up, the creaking wood barely registering as she recognizes their door. The moment it opened she could smell the wafting smoke of a cigarette lit a little while ago but she’s gotten used to the smell. 

Despite her previous griping about it, it’s become one of those things that brings her comfort if not also twinges of sadness that she’s avoided talking about because it still hurts too much, even if it has been two years. With these things, time has no meaning and the grief is carried until it can’t be carried anymore.

The moonslight is bright enough for her to see the expression on Wolfwood’s face. Two years spent travelling through the desert, staying at inns or whatever they could find, doing what they needed to survive, she likes to think she’s come to know him in ways that few have ever had, just like he’s come to know her. All their highs and lows. 

Not many places to hide when looking for someone that felt like finding the missing piece to make themselves feel whole. 

His rumbling voice washes over her as he tells them to come back to bed. She notices the hurt and much more but says nothing as she toes off her shoes and shrug out of her jacket, kicking and tossing them aside to land wherever they end up. 

Exhaustion has never stopped her from saying whatever was on her mind, and it certainly won’t stop her now. 

“We weren’t gonna leave you.” She looks to Vash as he’s untying his boots and Meryl longs for the comfort of the beds as they were pushed together to create enough space for all three of them. But something roots her on the spot as she’s unable to find comfort before she makes sure that Wolfwood knows they weren’t going to disappear into the night.

After a moment, despite seeming to know what the answer may be, and how that leaves her feeling like there is a heavy weight upon her chest, she asks regardless. “...did you think we were?”

She’s not been an active reporter for at least two years now, but even without a job or much of a career to hold onto, Meryl has never stopped asking the hard questions or getting right to the point. 

Meryl also knows that she won’t be able to get any rest until this has been dealt with. Everything needs to be on the table.

[sixty-billion]

More. More, more, more.

If the room is not soundproofed, whatever protests arise from the other suites on this level are lost in the resonance of movement, of passion.

And there is resonance. It echoes in every strike of skin to skin, clinging hot and wet; it echoes in every stutter-gasp and flutter of voice, human and not human, warm and sensuous and staccato, carnal and tender and hungry and elated. There is no space for thought, none at all for planning or doubt or guilt or shame or worry.

There is only here. There is only now, today, this moment, and then the next and the next, Tomorrows manifest with all the promise in the confluence of worlds. Together they drown out the whispers of fate, the cracks in broken timelines, the implications of their travails across the universe. In the spaces between, watery blue-white light ripples amid the bloom of tendrils edged with feathers—structures that have overtaken his lack of a left arm, swept around to cradle and hold and surround.

It is overwhelming. He stands no chance, riding the sine wave of sensation until it becomes everything. Every touch. Every iota of contact. Every shift, every breath.

Arch. Clench. Writhe. Vash squeezes his thighs to the outsides of Wolfwood's, muscle cording taut as he rides without rhythm and tangles limbs and appendages around every available inch of flesh, buried or otherwise. Where one begins and the other ends, he does not know; all he knows is sweat and scent and slick, joy and release and want.

Minutes or moments, it hardly matters. As Nicholas falls apart underneath him, Vash collapses the whole of his body weight forward, draped and twitching and utterly incapable of stillness. His hips still tic. His legs still tremble, and yet he continues to move, abdomen clenching and chest heaving, not to catch up but to fan the fire already burning in his belly.

More.

Cheek to cheek he nuzzles, laving rivulets of sweat from Wolfwood's jaw, from his throat, scraping teeth to hot skin with a pass of animal affection, inhuman nature on display without fear.

The feathery vines have begun to overtake the mattress and rumpled bedclothes, flowing out from their nexus and curling around the decorative posts of the frame and the headboard. Deep plum bells bloom between the rills, dusting them both with a shimmer that reflects the fractal threads of illumination painting his skin.

Nose to nose, breath to breath, Vash inhales as Wolfwood exhales, eyes slanted near closed and gleaming with warmth.

"Yeah... yes."

Yes. Still. Yes.

The groan Nick lets out is completely involuntary, but expresses his uninhibited desire. Not often does he let go of the anxiety of being heard, but if everyone in this building had to know the extent of their love, he supposes it wouldn't be so bad.

Besides, it's the honeymoon suite. What else goes on in here if not treasured moments of trust and romance and lust and love? It's the owner's fault if they don't get the damn room soundproofed.

With Vash's teeth to his skin, Wolfwood grips his thighs and pulls him down, thrusting into him in the same moment. The tendrils, just a moment ago satiated with his hand, wrap and explore the both of them in a way that motivates Nick to work harder, like gentle coaxing.

"Oh, Vash—!" He angles his hips to press into his beloved's sweet spot, then digs his fingers into the bruises he's leaving behind and excitedly cants into him. His sheer strength allows him the opportunity to give Vash everything he can muster, even from below. His pace rocks the two of them; the give and take of the mattress adds to each motion with unrelenting force.

Their whole night had been leading up to this—they both knew that from the start—but it's so much better than they could have imagined. Already Nick's mind flutters around the idea of finishing like this, then flipping the two of them around and finishing like that, and then again and again—he just wants to love, he wants to cling to the other and show him just what he couldn't through dreams.

There are tears welling up in the corners of his eyes, and he can't will them away.

It's just so much happiness. More than he had ever deserved. More than he still deserves. But he knows that Vash feels the same, if not more guilty, and that makes him want to try harder. Vash deserves the world. He's too damn good for the people he longs to protect, whether they're on this world or the next or a world that has nothing to do with the one they're currently on, it doesn't matter—Vash deserves to have people who love him. Always.

Self-pitying gets them both nowhere, so he turns it to worship.

With how close he was even before pushing into Vash, it doesn't take much for him to peak. It's so sudden, so powerful, that the only warning he gives is a whine that pitches to a moan as he twitches his hips upwards until his mind goes blank and fuzzy, delirious with the heat of passion.

Even as his mind attempts to unscramble itself, his back remains arched with Vash up high on his waist—frozen in place, eyes blown wide and black, mouth slightly ajar, soul away from his body. Both of his arms refuse to settle the same way however, and shake to release just some of the tension Wolfwood has collected.

[sixty-billion]

i listen to fog lake too much

[sixty-billion]

"Haha, nice things. Funny things too. They've seen a lot…"

He isn't that drunk. Neither of them are. The liquor has hardly had enough time to work its magic in that case, no matter how swift their metabolisms are.

And yet.

There is something honeyed and syrupy about the light, about motion in this space, about the scent and sight and sound of presence in this dusty little room that they fill together. There is something warm about fleeting contact, contrast against the gritty cold of the nighttime sandstorm rasping beyond the walls.

Contact, fleeting and then not so fleeting, body heat and breath, and it shouldn't surprise him; he has been watching, looking, seeing, right along. It shouldn't, but it does, and his heart flutter-flips in its cage.

Danger, warning?

Maybe.

Vash is not certain about the stretch of time between a callused palm cupped with such gentle familiarity on his cheek and the bloom of warmth lips to lips, but he acts rather than freezes. Action. No thought. Drawn by inexplicable and half-spoken gravity he leans closer, tipping his head to slot their noses side by side, pursuing the flavor of honeyjack and skin with a delicate trace of tongue inside the soft seam guarding clever teeth.

Words. There were words. Heat tinges the points of his cheeks but he does not move from this space, leaned in, just a hair's breadth apart.

"I- um."

Distracting, the brush of lips to lips, the curl of breath. Distracting and galvanizing and what is he even doing? The wellspring of guilt is vast, vast and wide, and this is but a narrow bridge hand in hand.

"-we did. Um. We met. He almost died," he whispers, and in it there is a question. A cascade.

Do you really want that? Do you all really want this?

"Mm," Nick hums, seeing Vash's concentration break, "Not sure how that thing works, but it seems like it was whispering sweet nothings to you."

With a 'hup,' he manages to flex his core and shift down until he's sitting cross-legged in front of the chair with Vash's arms on either shoulder. If this causes him to wiggle and cant his hips provocatively against precarious spots of Vash's body, he doesn't seem to mind.

The earlier inner voice of self-doubt still resides somewhere in his cottonball mind, and wants to say something along the lines of 'Literally nothings, you aren't missing anything,' but none of that self-pitying bullshit spews from his mouth, thankfully.

Instead, he raises a hand to cup Vash's cheek and brings him closer to his own face. With eyelids half-lowered, Nick still maintains his soft smile. "I hope it only said nice things about me," he murmurs with his thumb stroking the beauty mark under his eye.

Damn it. It's way too hard not to fall for the spiky blond, no matter where he's from. He's not drunk enough to make stupid mistakes, but perhaps slightly buzzed enough to be brave enough to act on his impulses. As he watches Vash's eyes trying not to look at his lips, Wolfwood takes a breath.

"You know," he starts, his lips drawing nearer still, "We did talk about this happening. They mentioned you, mentioned you with us. Mentioned missing you. Nicholas didn't even get a chance to meet you."

Nick moves in for a languid kiss with honeyed lips.

"Maybe I can convince you to stick around a while?"

[sixty-billion]

It's good to hear Wolfwood laugh.

And at something so small, so random. It isn't at someone else's misfortune, it isn't schadenfreude, it isn't a bark of triumph after winning a fight, it's...

It's nice. It is. And so many other things, but nice is what filters through Vash's brain as he finds himself snared and squashed in close, ostensibly to peer through the window. He is close enough to smudge the point of his nose against the glass, but he is also close enough to squish against the side of Nicholas's partially-exposed pectorals, right up underneath his armpit.

"Haha, yeah, and the other one looks a little like you, it's even got the... uh... um..."

It's pear-shaped. It's bottom-heavy. It's painted with a white shirt and black slacks - are they slacks? It's like the bottom of a bowling pin, hard to tell from here, even as he squints at it and then aside, down. Up.

"...the face!"

Excellent save, that works right along with blaming sun and wind for the pink tinge at the edges of his ears.

He angles his right elbow for a nudge at Wolfwood's ribs, but otherwise falls slack in the semi-headlock, leaning the whole of his flank against the whole of his compatriot's, one knee bent and the other boot planted firmly on the ground.

So what if he's a little muffled?

"Gee, Wolfwood, I didn't take you as the type for tchotchkes. Do you wanna line them up on Angelina's handlebars?"

“Hah, well, things do have a tendency to go pear-shaped when–” Aaand Vash is gone, leaving him the man left standing to be stared at by the perplexed diners. His expression falls flat with a flash of irritation before he shrugs for no one in particular, what can you do?

Despite his previous attempts at rushing Vash out of the cafe, Wolfwood does not put in nearly as much effort into matching the Humanoid Typhoon’s pace as they emerge from indoors into the sweltering heat of the twin suns. 

He passes his right hand over the back of his neck where Vash’s hand had been moments before. At this time of day, most people hug the walls and skirt between scant slivers of shade. Wolfwood is by no means immune to a good beatdown, environmental or otherwise, but he paces well enough to keep Vash within line of sight nonetheless. 

In a land of haves and have-nots, specialty stores are hard to come by. The hobby shop they have chosen to visit has its name hand-painted in flowy, pretty lettering: Dyed in Heaven. Through the recently cleaned storefront window, they can see shelves filled with bolts of fabric, dye bottles, paints, various craft tools, an assortment of glimmering jewelry supplies composed of natural and manmade materials, and out-of-season holiday decorations jumbled into a clearance bin. Diversity is the key to managing a well-rounded business in tough times, after all.

Wolfwood stops in front of the window, shielding out light from above by cupping his fingers against his temple to peer inside. The display shelf behind the window holds painted figurines arranged into neat little rows– including the odd pear-shaped people-looking things that Wolfwood had spotted in passing before. Seeing their little feet and exaggerated expressions are more entertaining up close the second time around.

“See, Spiky, that funny red one. Doesn’t that look like you? It’s even blond!” Wolfwood barks out his laughter as he leans over to hook his arm around Vash’s neck and reels him in to look.

[sixty-billion]

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."

Days, hours, minutes…seconds. Overthinking and hesitating are a pair of old friends that he tries not to get caught between. Even seconds matter when there is so much that needs doing. Inaction might cost him everything he strives to protect. Funny, though, how that makes the moments where he knows exactly what to do stand out all the more. 

Warmth seeps through their clothing, blooming in the shared space that puts them shoulder to shoulder. Not like blood staining his shirt, not like the inescapable heat of daylight hours. The warmth of someone living and breathing. At ease. He doesn’t mind taking the credit for that.  

Just the facts.

Wolfwood quirks a brow as Vash hides behind the lip of his bottle. The waiting is not so bad. Seconds pass. He thinks of nothing in particular except how Vash the Stampede is capable of drinking water and looking damn melancholy about it at the same time. He thinks about the way those goofy grins fade when Vash assumes no one is paying attention. He wants– and that is dangerous in of itself– to see more of the smiles unfettered by guilt and self-loathing. 

Exhaling through his nose, Wolfwood eases his arm down from Vash’s shoulder, hovering, and not for lack of wanting, over the small of his back where his coat has billowed out only to proceed farther downward past Vash’s hip to provide an additional point of balance on the ground. Places him in a flush lean as he accepts the proffered canteen and swirls its contents around with a turn of his wrist.

Overthought it, isn’t that the damnedest?

“Same as you,” he shrugs, returning the bottle without drinking from it. Why he accepted it in the first place is a mystery. Vash probably could have handed him an empty can and he still would have taken it without question. Weird. “I'm an undertaker. I bury people. If there’s no one in town to bury, well, between you ‘n me, it’s better when I don’t have to bury anyone at all. It’s the same everywhere. People tryin’ to live their lives. Sometimes they leave home ‘cause they have to. Sometimes they leave ‘cause they want to.” 

Great talk, great talk. They can’t very well have a real conversation if they’re too busy dodging each other’s questions. He tries again, this time after a long drag from his cigarette and a distant stare off into the barely discernible horizon.

“Left a lot of places, convincing myself I had to. What would you choose, given the chance?” 

[sixty-billion]

He was rebuilt.

His arm, at least. Brad made the usual fuss, but it was different this time, more steeped in guilt and fear and worry relayed with furtive glances and pinched brows.

Ship Three's lives tick away as they emerge from their cryo chambers. The arrow of time resumes its trajectory. They grow. They change. They age.

Maybe Vash isn't unchanged, for all that he looks almost the same every time they see him.

Nah. Not unchanged.

Bottle-blue fingers fold gently over Meryl's, relaying support as her steps falter. The change of cadence jars him out of his head and into the moment again, a sharp breath hissed through his teeth, exhaled just as swiftly. She needs him.

Right?

"Ahaha, who's worried?" he grins. Tries to, anyway, inasmuch as it falls flat, inasmuch as he sways to the beat of motion. One foot in front of the other. They arrive back at the inn just as they left it, quiet and sleepy. The attendant on the ground floor is half-asleep, bored out of their skull but grateful for the quiet night. So close to a saloon that does not close, it's not uncommon for drunks to stumble in and continue their rowdy business now and again.

Upstairs. Step by creaking step. It is not far to their room.

Just one room. The smell of cigarette smoke is semi-fresh on the air, so when they unlock and crack open the door, the sight of Wolfwood lurking by the window in nothing but his sleep trousers and a scowl is not a surprise.

The undertaker does his level best not to stand and bark. He does his level best not to look too concerned, but the knit between his brows and the tension in his shoulders betray him.

Meryl and Wolfwood hunted for Vash for two years, holding on to the crowning unlikelihood that he survived JuLai. They never gave up, no matter their despair.

"—Hi," Vash says lamely, wincing at the quiet grunt of acknowledgment that almost sounds like the beginnings of a fight. The silence as they close and lock the door weighs heavier than his satchel, stark as the Punisher propped against the wall, and it is all he can do not to squirm out of his own skin. "I'm sorry, I. Um."

"Come back to bed," Wolfwood rumbles, stubbing out his smoke and sliding the window shut. His tone rings drawn, tired, wary, hurt, and so much more, aimed both at Meryl and at Vash. Just the same, it brooks no argument. Request. Demand. Plea. Invitation.

As Nicholas makes his way to the couple of doubles shoved together, Vash droops his shoulders, nods his acquiescence, and drops to a knee to untie his boots.

When it seemed or felt hopeless, when everything was hanging by a thread, she continued to hold on. When the days were endless and the nights stretched on and on, the darkness darker than the skies above, the stars and the moons, despite their distance, made her think that the light was just out of reach, she continued to believe they would find him.

And find him they did.

She won’t burden him with tales of her near breakdowns, of when Wolfwood witnessed her at her lowest and how he was there, to help her pull herself together. Vash does not need to hear or know about that right now, but she suspects they will come up at some point.

Just not right now.

She holds his face in her cupped hands, feeling the weight of it in her wrists and arms, but she continues to hold him, to let him feel, and does not pull back or away. She’ll never pull away. There’ll need to be a force greater than herself, than him, even with Wolfwood combined that could take her away from them. 

It’s a silent prayer she tells herself each and every night from here on out. They’re here. They are together. And there is nothing on this planet that will change that.

“Yeah, sure. C’mon,” she tells him gently and takes hold of his hand, the prosthetic, and wraps her fingers around his as much as she can. She gives him a gentle squeeze, wondering if he can feel it, like a sensation of pressure being registered by the Old Tech in some way or the other.

“We might need to head out soon, probably tomorrow—but if you wanted to spend another day here, we could,” she’s quick to add. Since finding him, she does not feel in any rush to be anywhere other than right here. Maybe Wolfwood might be of similar mind, wanting to just take a breath before continuing on.

In the last legs of their search, she had been frantic and not paying attention to dwindling supplies or even if the truck had enough charge to get them further to the next town. It had been a single-minded focus once they received word that someone fitting Vash’s description had been spotted and it was pedal to the metal ever since.

It comes to a head, all that searching and wondering and crying and everything else in between, and Meryl feels the exhaustion come at her like a giant worm slamming into her. She staggers a bit but keeps herself upright and does not let go of Vash's hand.

"S-sorry—felt like I haven't slept in a while."

The words sound choked, like she's holding back her own grief, as she has for a while now; healing was never going to be linear nor clean, cut and dry. Wolfwood can attest to that.

"—I'm fine, don't worry about me, okay?" she looks up at him, letting him know before he has a chance to protest or say something. Maybe tonight will be one of those nights where she falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

And if sandwiched between Vash and Wolfwood, even better.

[sixty-billion]

Delirious. He's delirious and focused in the same breath, and this is real, this is real here and now and he's not dreaming. They are not dreaming. They are on another mirror of their world, in a city that seems to have forgotten the horrors of the Fall, where humanity has reckoned with what happened to them and with what they have done. They are here, they can take this time, they have this, they have each other.

What a strange feeling it is to acknowledge it. Out of body and deeply, deeply intertwined in the same beat, Vash struggles to ground himself while simultaneously humming like a live wire at every point of touch.

Nick is hot and hard in his grasp, in tendrils and petals that strain and stroke, strum and pull and ooze unfettered, glossing, smearing, painting. The air in their room is redolent with their perfume, the musk of life combined. Muscular and sweet, salt-tang and succulent, it suffuses the senses, a living thing unto itself. Overwhelmed, reeling, reveling, Vash stutter-gasps, tongue darting to lave the thread of saliva connecting his lips to Nick's.

The slick is thick on sun-touched fingers, clear and viscous and slippery, and it all scribes an image that Vash wants to brand into his brain, sear into his memory. What a wonder it is to want, to want so deeply and so openly, and to have.

Here.

Now.

"Tomorrows," he rasps, leaning in to teeth and palms and all the bruising heat they entail, a spark of pain to magnify the sweetness. "Tomorrows, I want— I want them. With you."

Forehead to forehead then, he stares at the sight consuming all of his vision, breaths fanning across the gap as they poise, shift, align. His one hand clasps at Nick's nape, squeezing, kneading, asserting a semblance of balance as he takes a moment. Just a few heartbeats.

"Yes," he answers, same as the dream. Yes.

Yes.

Please. Please. Yes. All of now until tomorrows become yesterdays, lives lived as long as they can live them. Anything. More, more.

More. Avaricious. Demanding. Pleading. Giving. Taking. The lambent illumination threaded from limb to limb to face to eyes intensifies, glimmering with his pulse, with the flutter of something around his aching heart. With that he slips cheek to cheek, dipping his chin, long rills of hair tickling.

Mouth. Tongue. Neck. Shoulder. Lips part, nestle, making way for suction to pull a greater mouthful, a broader bite. Fangs press to skin. Hard. Harder, until flesh tacks, ever so careful to keep from piercing just yet, to keep from frenzy. Holding, bruising, wanting, having.

Muscle ripples as he spreads his thighs, rocking forward, downward, allowing gravity its due along with the coiling come-hither curl of inhuman appendages. Petals strain, quiver, part, wrap, engulf, all corrugated texture and hungry grip stretching. It is too much. It is not enough. All at once. All at once, he rocks, rides, muffling an inhuman sound that rolls from deep rumble to pitching keen.

The near-electric surge that courses through Vash (or maybe it was electric) pulses from Nick's fingertips to his hair to his heart—sending a jolt of pure pleasure through his entire body. He shivers in response; the tendrils still twining around his cock feel tighter somehow. He feels more sensitive to them now that Vash is coming down from his orgasm and he has no choice but to focus on himself.

Nick kisses the words of praise from the blond's lips, drinking in each gasp and moan like it's water in the desert. His fingers linger as they slow to a stop; wrinkled skin under glossy nails only signals the beginning of their evening.

"Good... So good, sweetheart," he breathes against already kiss-swollen lips, "Need you too. Y-your vines—fuck... not enough..."

Vash's petals finally release his hand, and Wolfwood gently unwinds it from twirled tendrils as he brings his fingers to his mouth and laps at the slick syrup coating them. He hums his approval at the sweet-tart taste of the Independent before him, a deep purr that rises from the depths of his throat. He feels himself twitch at the action, especially as he watches the blond's face carefully and captures the image to his memory.

Bliss. They're in bliss.

He can feel himself tethered to Vash, and watches with curiosity as the man coils around his thighs. Nick doesn't feel bound, per say, but instead feels loved—embraced, even. There's unspoken trust that comes with the territory of winding strands, of a loss of control, and they've talked about it before. What's important is that Nick trusts Vash. He's safe with Vash. At any point, he can reject the loose bindings and they'll carry on without.

But he doesn't need to.

"Vash, I love you—I love you, you have me," he murmurs, trailing light kisses from the beauty mark under his eye to the corner of his jaw to the dip in his neck. Each kiss he punctuates with quiet 'I love you's, as though Vash will disappear if he stops. Maybe he will—he doesn't know. It's all still surreal.

With a groan, Nick ruts against Vash, vines and all; he adjusts them as best he can, reaching down to properly coat himself in a layer of sweet nectar that makes him feel alive. It's vibrant, tingling, refreshing, and exciting—the feeling makes him want to meld into the man above him and remain a piece of his heart forever.

"God, I want you," Wolfwood growls, teeth to neck, hands on hips, "Never leave me again—stay with me, us, forever—"

It's a hard ask, wanting an immortal to spend only a human lifespan with you. Nick understands that Vash may very well watch him grow old and wither away without any of those golden strands turning gray, but none of that is important right now. What is important is the right now—the timeless entity that is the present time. Hardened muscle against blooming flower, the mutual craving that is 'in, in; please, please'.

His thumbs trace patterns near Vash's hips, his face burns auburn with blush, and champagne eyes glimmer as he looks up to meet those of his lover. Again, he brings them forehead to forehead, whispering with a smile, "Marry me. Not just in a dream, but out here too. Promise me you will."

[sixty-billion]

"Haha, dee-fen-ih-stray-shun."

Sounds like it might be safer, Vash doesn't say, but he can feel it: the plastic smile stretching across his face, lips carefully positioned to veil his fangs and to soften his aspect. At this point it is a matter of rote, learned behavior. He remembers reading something, maybe listening to something, back before everything came crashing down. Humans evolved on a world where most everything viewed bared teeth as a threat. There are certain ways of smiling that convey deference.

'I mean no harm' is not universal. Not really. It depends on the beholder.

Vash does not want to be a threat, especially not to this stranger-not-a-stranger, not with the Cube's echoes rattling around in the back of his brain. Familiar. Intimately familiar. Not the same, of course, and touched with tragedy that clenches tight in his heart and at the pit of his stomach, a squirmy squamous twinge that won't have the chance to become nausea.

Something that might never be. Nothing is guaranteed, even if it seems like his other selves have left indelible and painful marks on both of these men bearing the surname (title, maybe) of Wolfwood.

And anyway.

This is nice.

The strum of fingers through his hair. Of being held, not hostage, but close. Purring continues unabated, oscillating up and down with each inhale and each exhale, and all without much input on his part. Natural as breathing, slow and relaxing incrementally as the storm blusters outside, hissing with sand scouring the worn walls of the establishment.

One blink, and then he finds himself face to face, eye to eye.

"Um."

Another blink. Stupid. Stupid as the little 'o' his mouth rounds into. So much all at once to process. The honeyjack is strong-strong, and sure, yeah, right, he might not become easily inebriated, but his faculties can be affected until he burns it all off.

That's all. Surely just that. It isn't the way Nick's voice sounds like another gentle hand, soothing and coaxing in a way that ought to inspire panic.

It isn't the way that he feels he must haunt the other man. The other men. Both of them.

"I, uh."

Is this a common eye color? Silvery. Argent, even. Shadowed and light, variegated and nuanced and unique. It must be.

"I'm. Well, I mean, the thing Meryl's carrying was pretty chatty, ahaha."

Where has his bravado gone? He was flirting like nothing else not a couple of hours ago, and that ridiculousness was as natural as breathing. A short, sharp breath in, and impulse takes over against his better judgment. He breaks eye contact to look at Nick's lips.

"I think there's a word for that," the corner of Wolfwood's mouth quirks into a smile as he continues to massage Vash's head and neck, "Defenestration. Joke all you want, I'm not that cruel—even to infamous menaces like Vash the Stampede."

Nick lets out a small 'oof' at the sudden embrace and his hands pause mid-air in subtle shock. Vash is... thinking about something. He had that look on his face—even if it was just for a second—the man is not as happy as he seems. As usual.

"Hey, I know that look," Nick rumbles fondly, holding the blond's head to his chest, "You're thinking too loud. D'ya need an ear or... another drink?"

The hairs on the back of his neck are softer than they have any right to be. With his fingers expanding out and closing in, pinching his nape lightly, Nick uses his other hand to take the bottle again. It's getting to the point where the drink doesn't seem to burn anymore—it's just sweet. This appeases his innate sweet tooth, but the little sense of logic in his mind that holds his singular brain cell reminds him that this is a sign of inebriation.

He takes a moment, swirling the last quarter of the liquor around in its bottle before taking another shot of the honeyed fire, then another for good measure. His brain feels pleasantly fuzzy, but not enough for him to lose control of himself. Vash's purrs...

How can a noise like that come out of a man like that? How can it come out of a man... humanoid... shaped person? What's so different about his... biology... where he's allowed to purr? The noise resonates through his torso into his chest, soothing him further. He feels as though he could melt into the seat with how relaxed he is.

Nick passes the bottle back Vash's way, setting it down beside a leather-bound knee. Bonelessly, Wolfwood starts slipping down the chair until his legs are fully extended beyond Vash's body, pant seam to his torso, and he slides face to face with the beautiful man. It's hell on his back and his posture, but who cares about a little soreness when you've dealt with bullet holes and cavernous wounds?

Warm stone-gray eyes make contact with Vash's exhilarating neon blues. They seem to hold more glass-green than he's used to, but they're still, unmistakably, Vash's eyes. With a natural pull and a melancholic lower apex, they're addictive to look into.

Curiously tilting his head, Nick's voice reaches a level of gentleness that he didn't think he was capable of anymore. "Guess it's kinda weird that I know so much about you even though I just met you an hour ago, or however long it's been. How're you handlin' all this?"

[sixty-billion]

"Well, hey now, I'm a lot of things, but crazy?" Vash chuckles—a little awkward, and maybe only half deliberately so. These travelers from other worlds, other versions of things, have shifted him off of his footing, have challenged his conception of existence as a whole.

Sure, it was always a possibility. There were always theories of layered realities, a fractal universe. Limitless. He only had a year or so with Rem, with Knives, with the SEEDS computers, with the instinctual and intellectual hum of his sisters all around, with the sleeping dreamers who hoped to awake to a new home and a new chance for their species.

If only he'd been more curious, then. More inclined to reach out and ask and learn. Maybe things would have been different. Maybe he could have helped his brother. Maybe they wouldn't even be here on No-Man's Land. Maybe there are other timelines where that is the case. Maybe, maybe, maybe, the what-ifs compound, and where some things begin some things end.

Vash catches the notion, the idea that he may never meet the friends other versions of him have encountered, and that is… it sits strangely. So much so that he does not really know how to react. A pluck of mourning for something that may never be, perhaps, coupled with something more distant. The others might be better off for it if that's the case. Maybe they'll be safer that way. Maybe if those ships pass in the night, he won't destroy more lives.

Would it have been better not to know? Cut himself some slack, Nick says, driving his point home with compelling scratches against his scalp.

Wolfwood can probably see the way contemplation passes across his face, even if Vash does not yet know how percipient the errant preacher-gunman can be. There is a hole in Nick's heart, just as there is a hole in Nicholas's heart, just as Meryl mourns in her own way, driven across the universe. Some things can't be mended. Here and now, again presented with the truth that things are even stranger than he knew, all he can do is try to help. Somehow.

Company is a start.

Sweet talking.

"Is it working? You've got a hand on me and haven't tried to toss me out a window, so that's something," he teases with a little shimmy-shrug, his purr intensifying as he draws a deep breath and then rises in his kneel, scooting closer. Knees bunted to the chair legs, he drops a hand down to pluck up the bottle for a swift, bracing sip of honey sweetness.

It helps or it doesn't.

Vash leaves it within Nick's reach, angling to curl his arms around the seated man's middle and bunting brow to mid-chest just in time for the shiver to strike. Strumming nails and gentle fingers at his nape encourage the thrum to trip over itself, descending into a bone-deep rumble.

"...ohh... s'nice...nice hands," he slurs, tinging red at the edges of his ears.

"M-me the good boy—you're crazy!" Nick retorts, clearly flustered as his hand freezes and presses against Vash's scalp, heavy and warm. He swallows, shocked right out of any sentimental bullshit he was spewing before, and remembers that, yeah, this Vash is a Goddamn weirdo. Well, his Vash was a Goddamn weirdo too, but—

He finds himself leaning into the gloved touch, the stroke of his cheek, then he reopens his eyes and the touch is gone—replaced by the offer of a bottle. A delicious bottle.

... Well who is he to resist such a delicious brew?

Nick settles back further in the chair, spreading his legs out wider for his own comfort. Well, maybe also because—maybe Vash looks... nice... where he is. And with how he's leaning, and—

—Nope. Nope! Bad idea. Bad brain, stop that. Not happening.

Accepting Vash's offer, he takes hold of the bottle and takes two solid sips. It's such a pleasant burn with a pinch of sweetness, but boy does it make him want to make some poor decisions. Realizing that his hand is still gripping a palm full of the blond's hair, Nick resumes petting scalp deep, now leaning back with his arm fully outstretched, fingers reaching far.

His other hand lowers the bottle, drowsily holding it against the floor. As the purr continues, Wolfwood finds himself getting lost in bliss. Something about the noise is so comforting—like it's swaddling him in... calm. It's so strange for someone like him to radiate that kind of energy.

"I'm not... I don't have any ideas," he lies, not about to share the one idea he did think about, "W-what would make you think that? Are you... sweet talkin' me?"

Despite his accusatory tone, he doesn't move his hand away; he only continues to massage Vash's scalp. "Keep talkin' like that and you're gonna... give me ideas... so... don't..."

There is a Vash-shaped hole in his heart. Nick doesn't intend to fill it, not romantically, and, well, that's not what he's suggesting, is it?

... Is it?

Because if that's what he's insinuating, then he might have to put his foot down. If it wasn't though...

God, he needs to lay off the drink. What's wrong with him? Vash is just teasing him—any Vash would. He's no different than any other guy the blond would meet, so why does he think he's special?

His curious fingers scratch their way to the back of Vash's head, aiming to massage the nape of his neck.

[sixty-billion]

Trapped-not-trapped, Vash's eyes widen as Wolfwood holds his chin (and his attention) captive. Drawn close, closer. Sure, they've spent plenty of time in close proximity, crammed together in tiny bunks, back to back on transports, shoulder-to-shoulder on Angelina when the sidecare is functional, or practically wrapped around one another astride the motorcycle.

Closer, closer. Close enough to appreciate details, like the flecks of color in Wolfwood's irises, chatoyant and eye-catching and so, so warm; like the glitter of stubble where he attempted to tame his facial hair at some point in the semi-recent past. Close enough to smell the not-pleasant-but-not-unpleasant confluence of fruit sweet and spiced savory on his breath mingled with spiced cigarette smoke, the remnants of his last wash-up, the lived-in warmth of fabric to skin, and…

Given his proclivities, how are his teeth so clean?

Vash stares, gulping as if to break his own tension (what tension? he's practically ragdolled). It feels like his heart might escape between his ribs, flutter-flap with held breath and lips rounded, gloved hand lifting to counterbalance on Wolfwood's upper arm.

Good timing. The peak of timing. Crashing brow to brow is enough to jolt him from his breathless ridiculousness, and the sudden clench of fingers is the only thing that keeps him from toppling off of the stool. Can one really be grateful for a headbutt?

Maybe. Maybe if that headbutt saves him from doing something incredibly stupid. It would not be right to damn someone he has come to consider a… a friend. Companion. Something like that. Selfishness out of mind but never far away, he wobbles in his seat, translating the pitch-yaw of gravity into momentum. As Wolfwood stands, Vash pops up to his feet, rolling his shoulders back with a shimmy-rustle of carmine coattails and…

An ill-advised pat-squeeze to Nicholas's nape. Just steadying himself. Yeah. A likely story. Nevermind the tinge high on his cheekbones he cannot hope to play off as sun exposure or windburn, much as he intends to try.

"Pear-shaped?? Hey. Well, pears are delicious so I'll—" uh. Nope. Nope, nope. That and the sudden critical look from a few folks near the window spur him into movement, not running but speed-walking with a comically long stride out into the street. It isn't far to the shop in question.

"—yeahc'monlet'sgo!"

They’ve had multiple opportunities to acknowledge this, whatever this is. He isn’t about to go around calling it what it is. Luckily, people can be trusted to be more concerned with their own stories rather than investing time in watching a pair of randos who can’t seem to lay anything out on the table except their lunches. 

He shouldn’t tease, even if Vash makes it so, so easy.

What the hell, as if that’s ever stopped him.

As Vash finishes up the vestiges of his decadent meal, Wolfwood extends a hand to catch Vash’s chin between his forefinger and thumb and tug the fidgeting gunman towards him. 

“Oh, yeah? Lettin’ me pick out whichever one catches my fancy, huh? I’m so touched ya’d want to wrestle with me for the sheets again.” He sounds needlessly menacing because it’s fun, because he enjoys the captivating shade of red that crosses the bridge of Vash’s nose more than he’ll ever admit to anyone but himself. His grip firms and Wolfwood leans forward in his seat, butting his forehead against Vash’s with a solid thunk. If Vash mistakes the burnish on his own face for annoyance, that’s a win-win.

“'Cause it sounds like I'm gonna be stuck in another single with your skinny ass– if even that– because that’s all the damn double dollars we’ll have enough to afford after this.” 

Being a step above flat-broke generally means as much, if they're lucky.

Money’s never been an issue, even if they’ve had to get creative with their funds on occasion or take an odd job here and there. They have the open desert sky and a pair of raggedy bedrolls if things don't work out. There are still miles and miles to go and reality seems to be lagging behind today.

Wolfwood feels strangely upbeat about the whole thing.

Finally, he releases Vash and stands to fish around in his pockets for a few crumpled bills plus tip for the poor waiter grimacing in the corner while waiting for them to hurry up and get the hell out. 

“C’mon, Tongari, we’re wastin' daylight. Saw some funny little pear-shaped doodads on the shelves when we passed by the shop earlier. Maybe I’ll get the one that reminds me of you.” 

[sixty-billion]

"H-hey, I - hulp—"

Protest earns Vash a lungful of secondhand smoke and a posture-jarring bonk to the shoulder. Wolfwood finds him a solid wall of deceptively shrouded muscle, not at all as attenuated as his oversized coat and textured underlayers would suggest. He wobbles as an afterthought, hiccup-cough-sniffing with a wrinkle of nose and a wave of his bottle-blue prosthetic.

Mercy, maybe. Wafting some fresh dry air in, perhaps.

It's performative, judging by the glitter in narrowing eyes. He caught the nuance there, a curious undercurrent between appearances and honesty jostled with the sudden sling of an arm around his shoulders. Proximity. More of it. Vash is suddenly aware of how warm Wolfwood is through the layers of fabric he wears—the questionably-fitting suit coat and the open shirt are not precisely the most insulating, even if black absorbs sunlight. Vash has noticed. He has had reason to look. There's quite a lot to look at.

Maybe Nicholas has seen Vash observing the way he moves, the way he interacts with others around him, the care he takes… the lackadaisical carelessness, the callous veneers too.

Nighttime matters precious little to those with keen sight. Here and now Wolfwood can likely see the way mischief gives way to wide-eyed surprise as Vash's heart does a somersault in the cage of his chest. It is all that he can do to sit still for a couple of seconds.

"Huh," he exhales a little dumbly. And then against every instinct, against every rational action he could possibly take, Vash relaxes. He lets the tension in his shoulders bleed out under the weight of Wolfwood's arm. The stacked rigidity of muscle eases.

Flank to flank he braces Wolfwood's lean, leaning in kind.

"Ahaha. Ha, hm. Well, reporters report on facts, right?"

Slender, his grin teases, and he offers absolutely no clarification on his meaning, preferring instead to distract himself with a reach and pat-pat at his belt for his canteen. He has in fact taken his water ration. They've taught him that lesson. Unscrewing it one-handed is not a great challenge of dexterity, but it, like the couple of sips he takes from its open mouth, buys him some time.

For what?

He doesn't know.

"Doubt it'd bore me, but I get it," he ventures. "Ah, just— A couple of weeks here and there, maybe."

He pauses, offering the bottle over and letting his eyes drift down and aside to where Wolfwood's arm drapes. He's careful to keep his shoulders level, afraid of discouraging… even if he really should discourage. This is foolish. There will come a night when he takes his watch and disappears into the dunes to spare them the danger he courts.

"What about you?"

He forgets, sometimes; Vash is not quite like them. Dedicated too much attention to analyzing the impersonal, but impossibly kind smiles, perhaps. He may as well give up trying to follow his own advice at this point. No matter how many times he’s told himself to stop– he’s out here for a Goddamn reason, after all– Vash makes it so hard not to care. 

The sudden switch from furtive to forward is almost uncanny. 

Scaly critters blink at them and shrink into crevices hidden from the pale light of the moons, dark, glittering little peepers blissfully unaware of how small their place in the universe is. At least he can commiserate when it comes to feeling small. 

“Should be resting, you needle-headed idiot,” he gripes, tilting his wrist back and directing a pointed plume of smoke in Vash’s general direction. He follows up with a shoulder-check and a grunt. They both know Vash would have never listened anyway.

Regardless, it’s important for Vash to know that he’s going to keep mentioning it. Saying nothing would be condoning bad behavior, and that won’t do.

“You keep this up and those two reporters’ll start makin’ the wrong kind of assumptions if they notice you sneakin’ off every night.” He can’t even make it sound like a real complaint, really. Vash is here, and for reasons he doesn’t care to delve too deeply into (because that would objectively be a bad idea for everyone involved), that is still better than the alternative.

“I noticed,” he responds wryly, having been in the unique position of playing the resident human pillow. 

“Counted…maybe six or seven times now, if you aren’t busy looking out the window. Got to three times in a row at one point. That was impressive.” He pauses abruptly on a point of realization, then slings an arm around Vash’s neck with a heavy lean and an unconvincingly nonchalant pull from his cigarette. Admitting to collecting Vash-related trivia had not been on the docket tonight. 

Sand whispers over the dunes, and Wolfwood tries not to think that it sounds like Zazie is probably laughing at him from somewhere afar. It’s just them out here– he can pretend as much.

“Can’t say I’m the same way. Got a whole checklist I run through. It’d probably bore you. Happens when you get used to running alone for too long, I guess.” That sounds too much like a confession for his liking, but it's out there now. He shows no inclination to move his arm from around Vash’s shoulders anytime soon. No harm in it, as long as he conducts his train of thought just so. As much as the stupid thing pumping blood through his veins craves more.

“What’s the longest you’ve ever stayed in a single place anyway?”

[sixty-billion]

"I—"

It's so much. So, so much. Vash did not expect to be so sensitive, every nerve in his body alive. Fundamental arousal flutters in his heartbeat, undulates and throbs in the arils twining around Nick's wrist and the florid heat of his cock, squeezes around adroit fingers intent on taking him apart with all the sure familiarity of the Punisher's trigger housing.

He did not expect to be so sensitive, but perhaps he should have.

They've been at this for hours. They've been brushing against it since… since shortly after they reunited, really, as if to solidify that it is real, that they are real, that they are not imprisoned in some waking dream, that the gestalt has not consumed them both.

Small steps become greater ones. Casual intimacy. Leaning close and taking in the brilliance of life, of color, of just existing around people who walk and talk and live and breathe and have dreams and tomorrows all their own. Of sharing meals, feeding one another morsels from their plates, sweets and treats and sumptuous feasts for the senses, sight and smell and more. Sneaking touches, surreptitious brushes beneath fabric or above it. Stolen kisses, perilous in public. It is a wonder that they did not fall on each other in the shower or even in a convenient alleyway.

Even tethered together with a filament of saliva, the short distance between their lips feels too far.

With a keen trapped in his throat Vash pursues and for once in his life misses unintentionally. Wolfwood has turned his cheek and asserted the tenor of a coaxing voice near his ear, and this is… this is good. It's good. It's so good, so close, so, so close, Vash does not realize he has lost his filter entirely, murmuring his praise as a stream of thought punctuated with speeding, panting breaths.

A near-silent cry rounds his mouth as petals cling to Nick's hand, dripping with ginger-sweet gloss. Perhaps he should have anticipated how direct Nicholas can be, questing for texture like a gunman hunts a target, but there is no room for complaint.

Or for anything else as teeth clamp and hold, breaking his hush with a desperate gasp that trails into a moan. Clenching, clenching, rhythmic and welling and hot, he cannot stop it, the twitch-tic of his hips, grinding his swollen and tender bud into Nick's palm. Eyes rolled, lips parted, brows knit. Illumination pulses, lateral lines that glow underneath his skewed-stolen shirt, and the lamps at either side of the headboard flicker-brighten-dim with the humming charge.

As he comes back closer to his senses, more tendrils sprout from his flushed skin, feather-edged and vining from the small of his back, from the backs of his shoulders, from the prosthetic mount of his abbreviated arm. They flood over his trembling thighs to coil around Wolfwood's own. He rocks, shudders, clinging with his flesh-and-blood hand spread over Wolfwood's nape.

"—Need you."

His breath hitches at the touch of the winding, curious tendrils that wrap around him hungrily. Yes, even though this was something that they were capable of doing in dreams (albeit with more feathers), to feel it now, when his body can properly process it is... it's overwhelming in the best way.

Nick weaves tendrils around his fingers as he presses on, wanting to provide his partner with more pleasure than just two hooked fingers. He ruts into the vines as he begins to lose control of all modesty. It takes a lot to get his mind to leave the scene, but the tethers keeping him together are coming undone one by one by one.

"Angel, you're always so good for me," Wolfwood breathes, managing to separate their lips for the moment, "You don't need to worry about me. We got plenty of night to burn, and I've got plenty of 'me' to give."

Moving his unoccupied hand to tangle itself in the golden locks on the back of Vash's head, Nick pushes their foreheads together and just... watches. Hooded eyelids, open-mouthed, he settles to breathe the same hot air as his partner. He looks at the red of their lips and can't stifle a short chuckle.

It feels as though his heart is soaring through clouds, and he can't come crashing down.

He quickens his pace, working Vash open with scissoring fingers; Vash is naturally quite slick around this point, and tonight is no exception. A third finger wriggles its way in, and Wolfwood needs to sit up to keep up the pace he wants. Their chests press together as he angles his arm just so, allowing his wrist to set a relentless rhythm.

"Love it when you make those noises," Nick whispers, close to his ear now, "If you come like this, I'll give you what you want. Anything you want and more."

... Hopefully whatever he wants involves the stacking heat that has captured the attention of the more alien side of Vash's sex, because he's not sure how long he can go without servicing himself.

"Let me hear you, Vash," Wolfwood shifts, allowing himself to sink a bruising bite into the blond's neck.

[sixty-billion]

final parting