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Wolfwood is shot in the gut three days out of Smithstown Town. He shook it off after a few hours sitting in the shade of the bike, holding Vash’s torn shirt against the hole. He shook it off, snapped at Vash for being a mother hen, which Vash snapped at him for being a jackass, and then Wolfwood got back on the bike and away they went.
He shook it off.
Wolfwood is heavy in Vash’s arms. The Punisher is strapped to Vash’s back, soaking up heat. His burden is limp and shivering, forehead pressed to Vash’s coat, brow crumpled in agony. Vash can’t watch him like he wants to, has to keep his eye on the subtle glint in the distance that has to be civilization, because if it’s not civilization Wolfwood is going to die.
This is a truth that Vash can’t deny. The tint of Wolfwood’s skin says that something is deathly wrong inside. When Vash had ripped Wolfwood’s shirt up looking for the wound, the skin was still disturbed. Vash doesn’t understand how Wolfwood heals like he does after taking gun spray and falls and all manner of things that should kill a human. He doesn’t understand, has never asked, but whatever it is has failed this time and the wound festers with infection.
“Bastard. Stupid man,” Vash says aloud to Wolfwood as he drags them through the sand. Like that will rouse his partner and earn him a punch to the head.
If Vash wasn’t determined that Wolfwood is going to come out of this alive, he would have left the Punisher to rot in the sand with the dysfunctional body of the damned bike. Would have hefted Wolfwood onto his back instead of cradling him in against his chest to ease the wound.
“I’ve got your damned gun so you only have Angelina to bitch at me about,” Vash pants.
They crest a sand dune that nearly took Vash down–Wolfwood isn’t just heavy, he’s as tall as Vash and slightly wider so he’s a pain to grip–and the glint becomes a town. Swallowing down the urge to sob, Vash readjusts Wolfwood and starts to descend the dune with a new determination. It’s a small town; a church, a saloon, a tiny motel, a grocer and a Thomas auction house. Vash shoulders his way into the motel lobby, sending the door squealing on its hinges and the woman behind the counter scowling. There’s a bench shoved against the wall across from the counter that Vash lays Wolfwood down on. The other man makes a sound in the back of his throat, something hurt and vulnerable that makes Vash brush the back of his hand over greasy bangs before he stands back up.
“The hell you think you’re doin’?” The woman snaps.
Vash returns to the desk. “I need a room.”
“He don’t have sand fever does he?” The woman jabs a harsh finger at Wolfwood. “We don’t need that shit in town.”
“No,” Vash says. “He doesn’t. One room.”
“Fifty double dollars.”
They have fifty double dollars between them. Vash had gone through Wolfwood’s pockets when he realized how bad the situation was, pulling out the few folds of cash Wolfwood had on his person to add to Vash’s dwindling pile. And Vash needs that money for a doctor.
“Come on,” Vash says, “can’t you see I’m in a bind?”
“I should charge you double fer bringin’ plague.”
“It’s not plague! Please, I need to take care of him.”
“Fifty. Double. Dollars. Or get the hell outta my lobby.”
“I don’t have that. I don’t want trouble, is there anything else I can do?”
The woman leans around to look at Wolfwood, wrinkling her nose. She eyes his clothing, appraising for the worth of a worn down cotton mess held together by prayers and Wolfwood’s shoddy mending skills. Then her eyes skip up to the Punisher still strapped to Vash’s back. Then back to Wolfwood.
“Church man?”
Vash nods stiffly.
“He wear jewelry?”
A rosary.
“No,” Vash says.
She shrugs. “Less you cough up something, I can’t help you.”
Vash stares at her then nods and nods and keeps nodding as he pulls his revolver out from under his coat. He sets it on the counter without looking down at it.
“Will this work?”
The woman stares. Picks up the weapon, running her fingers along the forty five inscription and the grip that’s starting to wear since the last tune up.
“You got bullets?”
His gun belt goes onto the counter next and she hands over a key.
The room is cramped but Vash gets Wolfwood onto the bed and leans over him to check his pulse. Flighty, but slightly stronger than it had been seven hours ago. At least he thinks it is. Vash leans the punisher against the wall and starts to get Wolfwood’s clothing off of him.
“You aren’t allowed to die, okay?” Vash says as he tugs off Wolfwood's shoes.
He takes off Wolfwood’s socks as well, tugs off his pants and sets the pack of cigarettes that had been in the left pocket on the wobbly bedside table. Then blazer, shirt, undershirt. The rosary is hot to Vash’s touch, he follows the heat up until he’s gripping Wolfwood under the jaw, smoothing his thumbs over stubble. Vash slides Wolfwood’s glasses off, sets those by the cigarette’s. He hasn’t seen Wolfwood’s eyes since before he fell sideways off the bike.
He can’t think about that now, Wolfwood is still breathing.
Stripping off his own coat, Vash gets to work pulling soiled fabric out of the wound. It stinks, badly, and the skin is puckered pink and white, oozing. Vash mutters profanities at Wolfwood as he cleans it with the limited supplies they have. A new layer of Vash’s shirt goes over the wound and Vash sits back on his haunches, resting his shivering hands on the bed. Vash can’t help him with this.
Vash pushes back Wolfwood’s hair as he stands, combs the dark, thick strands back from his sweaty forehead. His skin burns cold with fever. There’s a sink in the room, right by the tiny door that leads to the bathroom. Vash stops it with another wad of shirt and fills it with cold water. When he lays the first rag over Wolfwood’s forehead, tension ripples out of his body. The creases on his face smooth out and Vash leans over him to press a firm kiss to his mouth.
Wolfwood makes it through the night. Vash stayed awake the whole night, changing rags, cleaning the wound, muttering prayers to something that Wolfwood would see dawn. His breathing is bad again, but he’s alive as the sun comes up. Vash, shaken, stands from his spot on the edge of the mattress and ducks to look at himself in the mirror. His hair had fallen overnight, and his shirt had been reduced to strips. Vash had left his bag out in the desert, so he’s down to his chaps, jeans and coat. He rinses Wolfwood’s undershirt, a thin thing, and slips it on still damp. He smooths his hair back up as far as it’s willing, dirty and heat frazzled. They need food. Neither of them have eaten anything of substance in a long time. Drinking didn’t count.
“I’ll be back,” Vash tells Wolfwood. “Don’t–don’t die.”
On the way through the lobby Vash catches sight of the woman from the night before showing his gun to a group of men gathered in a back corner. It makes something strange curdle in Vash’s stomach. He approaches them anyways, smiles when the crowd notices him.
“Best place for breakfast?” Vash asks.
He is directed to the saloon across the street with a silent point of his own goddamn gun out the front door of the lobby.
Vash asks after a doctor at the bar. The place is deserted but for a few drunks and the morning staff, cleaning around the drunks. The bartender is young, maybe the youngest Vash has ever seen. A clear eyed girl who’s missing half her nose.
“Not here, no,” she tells Vash. “We have a doctor come up from No Agua once a month for a clinic. He was here just last week.”
Vash swallows rising panic. “How far is No Agua?”
“Full day round trip on a Thomas.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a bus route?”
She laughs at him. “Out here? Fuck no.”
“My partner is dying,” Vash snaps. “I need a doctor.”
The girl’s smile falters. “I’m sorry to hear that. But there isn’t anyone in town. We have a Thomas doctor and that’s it.”
“Where are they?”
The Thomas doctor is a short man who points a gun at Vash when he approaches the slouching barn. Vash holds his hands up, smiles, acts apologetic and reins in his desire to shake these people for not understanding that Wolfwood is dying .
“Whadda ya want?”
“I need someone to look at my partner, please. He’s been shot in the gut and it’s infected. He’s fevering and–”
“He’s dead,” the man says through a spit string of chewing tobacco. “We shoot Thomas for less. You need an undertaker.”
Vash grabs the man by the arm when he turns to slouch back into his barn.
“He’s not dead,” Vash says, his voice firm and calm. “Please. Will you just look at him?”
The man rips his arm out of Vash’s grip, swings his fat shotgun around to point the muzzle at Vash’s nose. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Help me,” Vash begs, “I’ll pay you, or work for you. Please.”
“Pay me? A hundred double dollars.”
Vash winces at him. “I can give you twenty five and muck stalls.”
“Ain’t worth it. There’s a doctor in No Agua.”
When he turns away, Vash lets him go. He walks away from the barn, back towards the saloon. Vash veers into an alley so he can crouch, rip at his hair and pant at the ground that blurs with tears. Then he stands and goes to find food.
The town feels like a personal hell. Vash is used to being broke. He never has enough money and when he does it goes to others or drinking or gets lost in whatever freak event destroys his personal belongings. But this feels like digging at rock bottom.He can’t afford breakfast. He leans on the sticky bar and closes his eyes.
“I can work for you,” Vash whispers to the bar. “I’ll clean dishes or floors. Or–”
There’s a piano in the corner of the room.
“I can play the piano.”
The girl bartender tosses the rag she’s working stained glasses with over her shoulder.
“Sure. You play and I’ll see if I can put together a plate from last night's scraps.”
So Vash plays for dinner scraps. The only audience for a while is the girl and whoever is in the kitchen. But the longer he plays the more people meander in from the street. Vash plays a variety of dance tunes he’s heard and memorized from the saloons he frequents. He plays songs that come over the satellites, his own compositions and things that Knives concocted when they were bored. Everything rings tinny and out of tune, but Vash finds himself closing his eyes as his hands move up the keys. He hasn’t properly played the piano in a decade, but it comes to him like breathing. A rhythmic flow of his hands and steady pulsing on the pedals with his right foot. Vash’s hands lead him down the notes of something from the space faring age, played on a cold ship, his shoulder pressed close to–
“Hey! Play something less depressing!”
Breakfast consists of bread, Thomas eggs turned an odd color from whatever sauce they had been in, cold noodles and broth. Steaming, pungent broth that Vash cradles. He books it back to the motel, feels Wolfwood’s death pounding behind his teeth. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he opens the door and Wolfwood is dead where Vash left him that morning.
Dark, glassy eyes are the first thing Vash sees when he throws open the door. Wolfwood is awake, blinking in the light the hallway spills past the threshold of their room. Vash stifles a pathetic sound and goes to his knees by the bed, fighting Wolfwood’s mouth down so he can kiss him and kiss him until Wolfwood is grunting in the back of his throat and straining back for breath.
“Wolfwood,” Vash whispers, carding hair behind Wolfwood’s ear. “How do you feel?”
Wolfwood shakes his head minutely. “Bad. Think I’m dying.”
“You are, you– asshole . Why didn’t you say the wound was in a bad way?”
Wolfwood’s eyes flutter shut and Vash regrets asking him. He pats Wolfwood’s face until it’s nearly smacking and Wolfwood cracks his eyes open to glare.
“You need water, and food,” Vash says, “no sleeping yet.”
Vash helps Wolfwood drink three cups of water first, refusing to let Wolfwood fight him off when he starts to protest the third cup. Then Vash feeds Wolfwood the broth, slowly, watching as it hits his stomach poorly. Wolfwood turns his face away, panting into Vash’s shoulder. The broth is set aside and Vash just holds Wolfwood for a few minutes, until his breathing becomes more regulated. He’s still burning with fever, but Vash hopes that having water in his system will help cool him.
“Where’d you go?” Wolfwood croaks. “I spent five minutes tryna get your damn coat’s attention.”
“I was looking for a doctor and food.”
“Doctor? For what?”
Vash shakes Wolfwood lightly. “You’re dying.”
“Just–throw some whiskey on it, give me a swig. I’ll be good.”
“You have a bad infection,” Vash says. “You need medication.”
Wolfwood makes an unintelligible noise. He’s sinking into Vash, growing heavy and hot. Vash slips off the bed, lays Wolfwood back. He needs to refresh the sink, pick up the strewn rags and rewet them. Wolfwood grabs his wrist before Vash can get too far away from the bed.
“Need something?” Vash asks, his voice falling so soft it nearly gets lost between them.
“Kiss me again,” Wolfwood slurs.
Vash bends down and kisses Wolfwood hard. Gets his hands into his hair and his thumbs on his cheeks. Vash leaves their foreheads pressed together even when they aren’t kissing anymore, and feels the burn from Wolfwood’s skin.
“You can’t die,” Vash says. “Please.”
Wolfwood’s grip had gone slack somewhere between Vash kissing his mouth and kissing the bridge of his nose, and Vash doesn’t get a reply.
It's a short lived reprieve–Wolfwood being awake. The night grows old and terrible. Wolfwood tosses his head against the pillow, sweats even under the cool press of the rags Vash layers against his skin. His teeth are clamped tightly together and still groans strain through. Wolfwood shivers harshly, fights off blankets. He’s never lucid, but his eyes hurry behind his eyelids. Vash does what he can to keep him comfortable and at dawn, Vash lays his duster over Wolfwood and he goes still. Vash watches, exhausted, as Wolfwood burrows his head into the pillow and sleeps. Vash lets out a shuddering breath. He wipes his wrist over his forehead, then his palms are over his eyes and he’s weeping not unlike a child.
The thing is, and it might be a terrible thing, Vash hasn’t been alone in a while. He has a hundred and fifty years of being alone engrained into his skin and bones, but still, it hasn’t made him immune to how alone he feels right now. It’s been him and Wolfwood for months at this point. They’ve slept in each other’s skin, the smell of travel and desert mingled together. Fought back to back, patched each other up snapping insults that lead to kisses that lead to desperation. He’s not used to this . He doesn’t know how to deal with Wolfwood so far away.
Vash cries for a few more moments before he wipes his eyes and surveys the room. He returns to his spot by the bed, sinks into the tailbone killing chair. A part of him thought that the bad night, shivers, sweats, meant the fever would break, but by noon Wolfwood isn’t any better. If anything he’s worse. The wound–when Vash has enough clean supplies to tend to it–is an even bigger fester. It releases vile liquid when Vash puts the slightest of pressure to it. It’s turning towards a sick green. Mold like.
“Wolfwood,” Vash says, his mouth is against burning forehead. “I’m going for a doctor. Don’t die.”
He leaves water on the bedside table, and his coat over Wolfwood's body. Vash all but begs a maid he runs into in the hall to check up on Wolfwood. There isn’t anything she can do, much like Vash, but he doesn’t want him to be completely alone. Something in Vash must be pathetic enough, because she agrees half flustered and backing away.
Vash steals a Thomas.
He sneaks her out of the Thomas doctor’s barn, tack and all, and he doesn’t feel much remorse about it. Vash does feel great guilt for how hard he pushes the animal. Much harder than he would normally. Heading east for miles. He’d found a map in the saloon, memorized the long road to No Agua. He finds a caravan road at the halfway point when the sun is its hottest and both he and the bird are panting. Vash slides off her back, offers his canteen to her searching beak. Vash can feel the sun eating at his skin, more exposed than usual, and he looks up at the sky, hoping for an impossible cloud.
The Thomas dances when Vash goes to mount her again. He holds out his hands, speaks softly to her, apologizes for being a tyrant. He presses his forehead to her soft feathers, tells her about Wolfwood, promises water and a treat when they reach No Agua. She lets him back on, only kicks up her feet a little in protest when Vash snaps the reins.
No Agua is five times the size of the other town. There are vehicles trundling up half paved streets, and the highest curve of a plant dome is barely visible over the high top of a multi storied bank. Vash sets his eyes on the white building proudly proclaiming to be a doctors office. He pauses long enough to tie the Thomas before he’s bursting through the doors.
“I need a doctor,” Vash gasps. “Urgently.”
He gets a fearful gaze from the man he’s all but yelling at.
“Uhm–what are you doing here?”
“I need a doctor,” Vash repeats. “Please, anyone.”
Vash sees the man’s hand twitch, and then he sees the wanted poster tacked up to the board behind the counter. He’s without his coat, no one ever sees his under clothing unless they’re close, he’s windblown and sunburnt, and yet this man recognizes him. Vash glares at the poster, at the shaking man below it, shrinking away when Vash puts both palms on white top and leans forward.
“You will go get me a doctor, right now.”
“Bu–”
“ Now.”
It's only after the man has fled deeper into the building that Vash notices that there are other people in the room. People shying away from him, holding their kids close, someone with their hand going to the gun on their belt. Vash paces, tries not to flinch with their flinching. If he needs to be The Humanoid Typhoon right now, then fine. Fine.
The doctor has a gun. A fine, clean thing, a rich man’s gun. He levels it on Vash, right at his gut. Vash raises his hands.
“I need a doctor,” Vash says.
“ You need a doctor? You aren’t human .”
“Not for me,” Vash says. “Please.”
“I don’t serve outlaws,” the doctor sneers. “I don’t serve you.”
“If you don’t help me, someone is going to die,” Vash says. The room flinches, the gun clicks as the hammer is drawn back. “Not here!”
The doctor narrows his eyes. They stare at each other for a few tense moments and Vash thinks the man is going to shoot him right there, but instead the man inclines his chin.
“Beg.”
Vash goes to his knees, turns his palms up on his knees. He looks up at the doctor, he’s a tall, thin man. Shock colors his expression as he looks down at Vash, the gun wobbling in his grip.
“Please help me.”
“Kiss my feet.”
Vash leans down, grabs the man’s ankles in a loose grip, kisses the leather tops of his shoes. They smell sour and harsh with chemicals.
“Please,” Vash whispers, pressing his eyes closed; thinks about Wolfwood on the bed alone, wrapped in Vash’s coat, dying, maybe dead. “Please help me.”
The gun falls to the man’s side, he lets out a dry laugh and asks Vash to kiss his feet again. Vash does, both feet. Leather and chemicals.
Vash rides back alone, watching the dust trail of the doctor's van. He gave the man–doctor McTavish–the key to the room, and now he rides in numbness. The Thomas’ sides heave, her gait feels off, and Vash is bitter that he hurt an innocent creature. That’s all he can feel, guilt in every stride that’s starting to limp. He thinks he might be praying. For the Thomas and that by some miracle, some blessing from some god, Wolfwood is still alive. The suns go down, the dust cloud of the van has long since vanished and Vash is alone.
The stars have shifted twice by the time Vash makes it back. He’ll return his ride in the morning, for now he leaves her at water, takes the harsh peck she delivers to his flesh hand, and runs up the stairs to the room two at a time.
McTavish is just finishing wrapping medical grade bandages around Wolfwood’s heaving–heaving, breathing, breathing, breathing– stomach. There are bottles on the bedside table, and a needle in Wolfwood’s arm, connected to a bag that’s strung up on the lamp. The doctor turns to look at Vash when he skids into the room and comes up short.
“Is he okay?” Vash asks in half a breath. The other half is still downstairs somewhere.
“He should be dead,” McTavish mutters. He stands up, looking down on Wolfwood with something akin to disgust. “What is he? Hostage? Hired gun?”
Vash swallows. “Something like that.”
“Really? You kissed my feet for a hostage?” The man reaches down and grabs the rosary. He holds the crucifix in his palm, traces his thumb over it. “What an odd pair you two make.”
Vash doesn’t say anything. He watches the doctor’s hands as they fiddle with Wolfwood’s most prized possessions, one of his only possessions.
“You owe me a hundred and fifty double dollars,” McTavish says. He drops the rosary into the dark curling hair on Wolfwood’s chest. “That’s my travel fee only.”
“You’re a crook if you charge these people that much,” Vash says.
The doctor sends him a cool gaze. “That’s my travel fee for you . I can add on the expense of my service.”
Vash digs the cash out of his pocket. It's damp from sweat but he thrusts it forward into the doctor's waiting hand. He counts it, purses his lips, his brows climbing his forehead.
“I can get the rest to you, I swear,” Vash says.
“What good is the word of an outlaw?”
“Haven’t I proven myself to you?”
At that, the doctor smiles at him, and puts the money into his breast pocket. He turns to the bottles on the table. He grabs one of the largest bottles and a syringe.
“He needs a dose of this every two hours. Fill the syringe to the third line. That bag is full of saline, once you’re out, you’re out.”
Vash takes the items shoved at him, eyes the bag that is already half empty.
“Clean and rebandage that bore hole with everything in that little box. Order doesn’t matter,” McTavish says. He puts his hands in his pockets. “If the fever doesn’t break in a few hours, he will die.”
Vash swallows, stares hard at Wolfwood’s rising chest. The sweat that’s drying on his skin, making his forehead shine and sickly cheeks blush.
“Thank me,” the doctor says.
Vash glances at him, nods. “Thank you. I mean that.”
“I’d heard rumors that you’re a bit of a pussy,” McTavish says. He steps closer to Vash, considers him. “Right alongside proof that you’re a monster. Everything about you is so conflicting.”
A hand comes up, cups around Vash’s cheek. Vash jerks back, the hand chases, grips his face slightly harsher. The side of the doctor's thumb presses against the beauty mark under Vash’s eye.
“The posters don’t do you justice.”
Vash steps away, smiles tightly. “I think so too.”
“If there weren’t witnesses no one would believe you kissed my feet.” The man’s breath fans across Vash’s chin as he gets closer. “What a rush. You should thank me.”
“I did thank you,” Vash says. “I paid you, too.”
The doctor laughs, it sends tiny pieces of spittle against Vash’s chin. “Paid me. That’s not payment, that’s debt.”
Vash puts a hand on the man’s chest and shoves him off. “Whatever you think you’re going to get out of me, it's not going to happen.”
“Oh, because your companion is safe now? You’d have bent over like a bitch in heat if I had asked you to.”
Vash sets his jaw. “I’m grateful for your help. Get out.”
To his relief the man goes. He smiles at Vash once, before it drops off his face and he leaves the room, letting the door hang open behind him. Vash watches from the window, stomach curled in a tight knot, until the tail lights of the van disappear over a dune. Then, and only then, does Vash collapse into the chair by the bed, then fall forward to pillow his head on the mattress.
Sleep comes in clusters, even though Vash doesn’t want to sleep. It drags him down against his will. Vash wakes every couple of hours to administer medicine and press his mouth to Wolfwood's forehead. It spikes again at dawn, his fever. But Wolfwood's eyes crack as his head rolls, he finds Vash, blurry eyed, mouth parting around silent words. He reaches for Vash and Vash takes his hand, squeezes his fingers, kisses his palm. The muttering starts then. Wolfwood, talking about things Vash doesn’t recognize, people’s name. He calls for a few of them in a shivering voice. He asks for Vash too, cries his name like a prayer, in fear like Vash isn’t holding him, crawling into the bed to bracket his arms around Wolfwood's broad chest. Or maybe because Vash is holding him.
At noon the next day, Vash drags himself out of the bed to yank the curtains over the windows. Wolfwood finally fell asleep a precious hour ago. The bag of fluids is low, but the fever has broken. Vash sits on the window sill, hides if he’s being honest, behind the curtains and puts his face in his hands. He cries silently, staring down at the rotten wood he’s sitting on. No matter how much he rubs his eyes, the tears won’t stop. He’s still crying, silent, not so piteously when he pushes the curtains aside just enough to slip out. Wolfwood is asleep, peaceful, his head turned to the side. Vash kisses his ear, grimaces at the sick smell coming off him. If he’s awake later, Vash will ask if he wants to shower. For now he goes to find more food.
Vash plays the piano for lunch scraps. There are more people in the saloon and a few of the drunker folks sway over to drop tips on top of the instrument. Mostly handfuls of sticky, loose change, but there are a few crumpled bills too. Vash nods and grins, trills the keys in a quick sequence just for them. He’s a little lethargic though, so he sticks to jaunty tunes and tries not to think about hunger as food smells fill up the room. Someone buys him a drink, he knocks it back in one large gulp. It lands like a rock in his gut, makes him feel thirsty; he wants more immediately.
“Here’s your food.” The bartender has appeared at Vash’s elbow. She’s holding two plates, piled with hot food.
“This is a lot,” Vash says. He takes the plates carefully, staring at the gray Thomas meat smothered in gravy and bread that’s not sitting like a rock on the plate.
“You play well.”
As if that explains two plates of fresh food. Vash takes it though, carries them back to the motel almost ferally protective over them. Wolfwood is still asleep. Vash sets his plate on the bedside table and then eats from his own with his hands like some kind of beast. He saves half his bread for a promise he broke the night before. When he’s finished he shakes Wolfwood awake. It takes a moment for Wolfwood’s eyes to slide open, then a moment more for him to focus on Vash's face. Vash smiles at him, strokes his cheek.
“I brought food. Are you hungry?”
Wolfwood’s mouth parts, clicking dryly. “Thirsty.”
Vash gets him water. He helps Wolfwood sit up, lets him lean heavily against Vash as he drinks greedily. Wolfwood’s stubble has thickened across his jaw, almost a scraggly beard that catches the water that dribbles out of the corner of his mouth.
“What day is it?” Wolfwood rasps when he’s done drinking.
“It’s been about two since we got here,” Vash says.
Wolfwood nods, turns to stare silently at Vash.
“What is it?” Vash asks him, searching his face for pain or nausea.
“You look terrible,” Wolfwood says. “What’ve you been doing?”
Vash scowls, props the pillows behind Wolfwood up so he can sit without Vash holding him. He shoves the plate onto Wolfwood’s lap, helping him get a hand around the single fork.
“Keeping you alive,” Vash says.
Wolfwood grimaces. His hand strays to his stomach where he probes gently at the wound. His brows flinch.
“Wolfwood, what happened?” Vash asks.
“Nothin’, just unlucky.”
“No,” Vash says. “I’m not accepting that. You’ve walked off worse than that. What happened this time?”
“I dunno,” Wolfwood says, his voice dropping low. “I’m sorry, Vash. I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought I was okay.”
“All that matters is that you are now,” Vash says. “Eat.”
Wolfwood eats a few bites before he looks like he’s going to vomit. Vash covers the plate with newspaper, and replaces it on the bedside table. Wolfwood is still staring at him, hasn’t really stopped, head tilted back against the wall. Vash performs menial little tasks around the room, feeling skinned by Wolfwood’s eyes. The place is a mess. It stinks like sickness, the sink is full of disgusting water and damn cloth. Vash wrings them out, hangs them out the window he pushes open. They’ll go to the trash, but it’s something to do.
“Is that my shirt?” Wolfwood asks.
“Yeah,” Vash says.
They stare at each other.
Wolfwood’s gaze drags down Vash’s body, then around the room where it settles on the red coat bundled along the wall the bed is against. Wolfwood reaches for it, yanks it out of the crack and spreads it across his lap.
“Do you want to shower?” Vash blurts. The silence between them is making him feel desperate.
“Hell yeah,” Wolfwood says. “Smell like shit. But–fuck I’m tired.”
Vash sighs. He returns to the edge of the bed, cards his fingers through Wolfwood’s hair. Wolfwood lets his head roll onto Vash’s chest and Vash holds him there, hugging his skull, closing his eyes to savor Wolfwood’s breath through the thin fabric of the shirt.
“Sleep,” Vash says. “We’ll try for a shower tomorrow.”
“Sleep with me,” Wolfwood slurs.
And Vash has no desire to deny him.
Wolfwood doesn’t wake up again that day. Vash leaves the room once more in the evening, taking with him the bread from both plates. He has a Thomas to find and feed. He knows it’s stupid to go back to the barn, but he sneaks in through a back window, moves among the roosting Thomases until he finds his girl. She cracks an eye to look at him, making an unimpressed crooning noise in her throat. Vash smiles at her, holds his flesh hand, knuckles up. She eyes him before letting him pet her beak gently.
“I promised you something nice, didn’t I? And then I broke that promise. Sorry.” Vash pats her long throat. “Hopefully this will make up for it.”
Vash feeds her the bread, a bit crumbled from his pockets. She eats it with gusto, letting Vash feel down her legs to the foot that she was favoring. It’s a little swollen, there’s a stone bruise in the middle of her foot, but the damage isn’t what Vash thought it was. He pats her flank when he stands straight.
“Thank you. You saved him.”
She snaps her beak at him.
Wolfwood gets steadily better over the coming days. He spends more time awake, eating, drinking, speaking to Vash. He staggers out of bed three days after his fever breaks. Vash helps him to his feet, hisses with Wolfwood as he peels away wrappings to look at the wound. It looks better. No longer festering or pulsing hot. Wolfwood showers and Vash stands, nervous, by the door of the bathroom, just in case the man falls. If the shower was more than a box, if Vash and Wolfwood weren’t taller than the shower head, Vash would have gone in with him. But there was no way for both of them to fit, not while Wolfwood has a hole in his stomach at least.
Vash plays the piano at the saloon every night and occasionally in the mornings if the motel is full up and the breakfast hour is booming. He digs around in the top to try and retune the thing, but he only manages to sweeten it out a bit. The slower ballads he’s asked to play one evening quiet the room with the echoey melancholy the piano adds to an already bittersweet tune.Have people staring mile long at the floor, or out the windows, into the bottoms of glasses. Lean into each other the way humans are prone to when isolation settles around a crowd. And then he’s back to pounding out something that gets folks on their feet, the floor trembling with circling dances.
Eventually though, the small amounts of good will and mercy that Vash has found in this town, start to run out. There are only so many days in a motel room that his revolver and half a belt of bullets can pay for. Wolfwood is with Vash–leaning on him down the stairs but ‘fucking sick of sittin’ here while you’re out there havin’ fun–when they’re stopped in the lobby.
“You gotta go,” the woman says. “Out stayed your payment.”
Vash never bothered learning her name.
“One more night?” Vash pleads, reaching up to grip Wolfwood’s shoulder silently saying, look at him .
Her face twists up. “By tomorrow mornin’ or I’m gettin’ the sheriff to remove you.”
Vash nods, and can feel Wolfwood stiffen at his side. Vash guides him towards the door, already thinking about where they can bed down for a little more time before they move on. On to where, Vash isn’t sure. They’d been in the act of running.
“Hey, blondie,” Wolfwood mutters, stopping right before Vash can get the screen door open.
“What?”
“How’d you pay for this place?”
“...doesn’t matter.”
“Vash. How did you pay?”
Letting out a breath through his nose, Vash pushes the screen door open, tries to lug Wolfwood through it, but coming off death or not, Wolfwood is stubborn. He has planted his feet and refuses to move until Vash gives him an answer.
“Goddamn it, Wolfwood,” Vash mutters. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You avoiding a simple question makes me think it does. I don’t care if you took my money, if that’s what you’ve got yourself worked up over.”
“I’m not worked up,” Vash snaps.
Wolfwood raises his brows at Vash. “Answer the question.”
“I gave her my gun.”
“You what?!”
Vash cringes away when Wolfwood fights out of his grip so he can look Vash dead on, grabbing his shoulders to catch himself when he stumbles and to get into Vash’s face.
“You gave her your gun?! What is wrong with you?”
“I didn’t have a choice!” Vash snaps. “I needed the money to pay the doctor. You needed a bed!”
“No way in hell you’re tellin’ me you’ve been running around without a gun,” Wolfwood says it like he’s threatening Vash.
“Wolfwood,” Vash murmurs. “It was my choice. I don’t regret it.”
“Stop it,” Wolfwood says. “That bitch took advantage of you. That room wasn’t worth thirty double dollars.”
“I know that,” Vash admonishes, “but I don’t care . I didn’t care when you were dying and I don’t care now.”
“You should,” Wolfwood says, his voice hard.
“Your life has more worth to me than that gun ever has,” Vash says.
Wolfwood glares, but he lets Vash open the door and help him down the porch.
Vash puts Wolfwood at a rickety table in the saloon. Something shoved against the wall so Wolfwood can lean against it if he needs to. He pops over to the bar for a glass of water and bread he pays for with his tips. He points out Wolfwood to the little bartender and takes his place at the piano. It’s a slow morning so Vash can keep an eye on Wolfwood as he plunks through some regular songs. Wolfwood drinks his water, nibbles the bread, but mostly sits at the table looking angry and tired. It gets worse when luncheon comes around and Wolfwood watches as people drop by the piano to leave tips. Vash can feel his gaze burning holes into the side of his face.
In the lull between lunch and dinner, Vash takes a break. He gets drinks for the both of them and sits at the table after he slides Wolfwood his glass. Peace offering first, and when Wolfwood takes it, Vash slides into his chair.
“Sounds good, yeah?” Vash asks after he’s sucked down half his beer.
“Sure,” Wolfwood mutters. He drinks slower, but steadily.
Vash frowns. “I didn’t do anything wrong, Wolfwood.”
Wolfwood’s mouth thins. “You shouldn’t have given up your gun.”
“Well I did. I wouldn’t change it if I could go back.”
Shaking his head, Wolfwood tips the rest of his beer into his mouth.
“Why is this bugging you so badly?” Vash asks.
“You don’t have a lot of things, Vash.”
Vash almost laughs at the irony of that. But it’s suffocated in his chest by how sweet it is, how Wolfwood it is. Reaching across the table Vash gathers Wolfwood’s hand. He kisses his knuckles, rubs his cheek against them. Wolfwood watches him, turns his hand over so he can pet his fingers across Vash’s skin. He cups Vash’s face and Vash nuzzles into his palm. He’s so happy that Wolfwood is alive.
“You’re so stupid,” Wolfwood sighs. “You’re so–I can’t figure out what goes on in that head of yours half the time.”
“Was to save you,” Vash murmurs, lulled pliant by Wolfwood’s hands on him.
Wolfwood’s dark eyes go soft. He lets out a breath. “I’ll get it back.”
“No way,” Vash says. “We don’t have enough money for that.”
“Money? Who said anything about money?” Wolfwood mutters. “How much of that do we even have?”
“Twenty double dollars,” Vash says. “And I’m in debt to the doctor that helped you. So it’s gotta go to that.”
“How much?”
Vash closes his eyes, turns deeper into Wolfwood's hand. “A hundred double dollars.”
“Jesus,” Wolfwood mutters. “Fuck.”
“It's fine! I can keep playing the piano, work a few odd jobs while you heal up. No big deal.”
“A hundred double dollars is a big deal,” Wolfwood says. “It takes folks years to make that much.”
Vash knows this. His face must betray the collapsing of his resolve. Wolfwood lets out a long labored sigh.
“Let's just skip town. What’s he going to do? Come after you?”
“No,” Vash says, half way to miserable. He doesn’t want to see that doctor ever again, but the man saved Wolfwood’s life and that is a debt that Vash needs to repay. Like the Thomas. “I gotta pay him back, Wolfwood.”
Wolfwood watches him coolly. Dissecting how he wants to respond to that. He leans forward, sighing all the while and motions Vash down with his other hand. He clasps Vash around the back of the neck when he comes, Vash will always come, and kisses his mouth. It startles Vash enough that he makes a pathetic little sound in the back of his throat before he’s fumbling up to grab Wolfwood to keep them connected as long as possible. Wolfwood kisses him a little breathless, brazen for such a public space, and when he pulls away he keeps their gazes together.
“And how do I repay my debt to you?” Wolfwood whispers, tilting his face so his coarse chin brushes against Vash’s.
“There is none,” Vash says. “Never, not between us.”
“I’m offering to fuck you,” Wolfwood laughs through a smile. “We have the bed for one more night.”
Vash catches that smile with his mouth before he stands up, grabbing their empty glasses.
“You still have a hole in your stomach.”
“Not a big one.”
Vash snorts. “Big enough. Ask me later, cowboy.”
It’s midnight when Vash crawls into bed beside Wolfwood. He’s a bit buzzed, warm with alcohol that came from generous drunks that danced around the piano and thrust frothing cups in Vash’s face. Good pianist, good at chugging. He delights the crowds. Wolfwood had retired to the room before the dinner rush started, dragging himself out of the saloon, looking nauseous and worn. Vash stares at the ceiling listening to the other man breathe. The morning will change everything again. They can camp out in the dunes for a few days even if Vash wants to be close to a running water source in case something turns with Wolfwood. That’s shaping up to be their only option unless Vash comes into a miracle amount of money or the woman downstairs grows a heart. He rolls over and puts his face in Wolfwood’s salt scented hair.
They’re saved, again, by the little bartender. She intercepts Wolfwood and Vash on the porch of the motel. Between them they barely have enough clothing and the punisher is the only ‘luggage’ they have, propped up against Wolfwood’s side as he puffs through a cigarette, the first in a long while. She’s with her uncle, the burly cook that doesn’t say much, and she tells Vash that he and Wolfwood can stay in the attic of the saloon which is currently home only to vermin and an old couch from her mother’s sunroom. Vash says yes, no questions asked.
The ceiling is low, a step above a crawl space, sweltering, but the single window, a little round thing, opens out into the desert. Vash lays his coat on the floor below it, helps Wolfwood down. The man leans against the wall, gritting his teeth at the ceiling, working open the buttons of his shirt, down his sternum until the tops of the bandages are visible. Vash sets the Punisher aside and crouches.
“Pain?”
“No shit.”
Vash smiles apologetically. “Pain I can do something about?”
“No.”
They’ll unwind the bandages when it’s cooler and Vash has water on hand. For now Vash stands to open the window, letting in the hot smell of the desert but a breeze cooled by the shadowed side of the saloon.
“Guess they really like your piano playing,” Wolfwood says.
Vash smiles out the window. “I suppose.”
The little bartender–named only Q when Vash finally asks her–delivers to him a worm eaten quilt with a plate of table scraps that night when Vash stands from the piano. It’d been a night of dance music with a few softer requests from a newly wed couple passing through on their way to December. They had looked oddly at Vash, but he must not have looked like the outlaw on the posters sitting at a piano in dirty clothes. He played them something from an old Earth composer, someone who’s name has long been lost to him. It was one of the first pieces Rem had taught Nai to play when he showed interest in the instrument tucked against the wall in the rec room. Vash had never actively been taught to play, not like Nai. He’d just watch. Watch the way Nai’s fingers would move, the pump of the pedal, eyes jumping down lines that Vash still has no idea how to read. He watched, but most importantly he listened, learned to play by sound alone. And those sounds have never left him. Vash takes both food and blanket, thanks Q, and drags himself up the creaking, narrow stairs.
Wolfwood has procured a candle. It’s lit and flickering in the stagnant breeze still coming through the window. There is just a little bulb of light around Wolfwood. Like he’s sitting in a puddle of it. The rest of the attic has grown to resemble a hole, eaten to nothingness in the dark.
“Food,” Vash whispers, handing the plate to Wolfwood through the little trapdoor before he crawls up completely.
Wolfwood scoots over on the coat. Let’s Vash settle next to him, and together they eat with their hands. Fingers brushing over fatty bits and rinds left with a hesitation of flesh on them. Wolfwood cracks open the Thomas leg bones to suck out marrow. He’s hungry, and Vash is relieved to see him eating.
“I can walk in a few days,” Wolfwood says when the plate has been cleaned and licked and set aside.
Vash has slumped down, putting his head on Wolfwood’s shoulder.
“Don’t push yourself,” Vash says.
“We can’t keep eating table scraps. And someone is gonna recognize you. What's gonna happen when these people pull their heads out their asses and realize they’ve been helping Vash the Stampede?” Wolfwood asks.
“I haven’t hidden it,” Vash slurs. He’s falling asleep.
Wolfwood hums in the back of his throat. It vibrates when he does that, the sound catching on the scratch of a smoker's lungs. He reaches around Vash, snags the blanket and wraps it up around the both of them. Vash sleeps deeply and until morning.
It takes another week and a half before Wolfwood can properly get about. He comes down the stairs with Vash before the sun is up. Vash found work out at a Thomas ranch. He has a way with the birds, so his task is to herd them out to their pecking grounds in the dawn, clean their pens, collect any of the large eggs they produce, and slaughter the ones marked for meat production. Wolfwood comes with him that day to market himself out to the rancher. The rancher says he’ll pay Wolfwood a few coins less than Vash if he can fix the gaping slats in the big barn.
Evening takes them back to the saloon where Vash plays for tips and Wolfwood sits at a table, jumping his knee and or playing card, betting toothpicks and cream mints. It's a slow monotonous routine. Money comes slower. Wolfwood talked about renting a pair of Thomases from the rancher, but any price named would make them flat broke. So for now they’re stranded until Wolfwood can walk for long periods of time or they can afford a ride. Vash sent a telegraph out to Meryl’s insurance office on the off chance that she and Milly are back there. It’s a bit of a last effort plea for help, and he thinks it most likely won’t go anywhere. He can’t help but wonder if they’ve even started to worry about Vash’s whereabouts yet.
Nights are marked by hushed conversations and touch. They’ve made the attic as comfortable as they can. Vash and Wolfwood's coats as padding on the floor, the holey blanket shared. They lay facing each other every night. Exhausted and hungry, always hungry, but watching each other and speaking until they laugh or argue. And sometimes they just touch. Wolfwood tracing Vash’s throat down to his naked chest. Vash with his hands in Wolfwood’s hair, cupping his ears and counting his ribs. Vash knows he’s anxious to go. He watches out windows like he longs for the heat of the desert. Or more the blue of the endless sky. He’s like a caged bird. Wings clipped and taunted.
“Soon,” Vash murmurs against his mouth.
It’s hot and damp between them. Wolfwood softening between Vash’s thighs. They’d just come down from a desperate fuck. There was no lube besides the spit Vash dripped down on Wolfwood’s cock,the drag between his thighs was rough. Carnal and stomach dropping. Vash’s pants are still caught around his knees, his spend is webbed up along his stomach. Wolfwood groans and hums, and his hips jerk forward in one last stilted reaction.
Soon comes a day later. Vash and Wolfwood had gone their separate ways that morning. Vash to the Thomas ranch and Wolfwood out of town a little ways to fix a leaky roof. He beats Vash back to the saloon and grabs his shoulder when he comes through the doors. They go up stairs, Wolfwood all but shoving Vash ahead of him.
Vash’s gun is on their makeshift bed when he crawls through the little door. Vash stares at it, looks back at Wolfwood, then back at the gun.
“Move your ass,” Wolfwood mumbles.
Vash crawls out of the way, scoops up his weapon. Holds it in his lap. He runs his fingers over the make and caliber before Wolfwood is nudging a fist into Vash’s arm. He opens his curled fingers when Vash looks at him to reveal a wad of cash.
“Wolfwood…what?”
“A hundred double dollars,” Wolfwood says. He turns away from Vash to light the candle.
“Where did you get it?”
Vash loves Wolfwood. A deep and full love that is sometimes at odds with Wolfwood’s preference for quick and bloody to Vash’s slow down and talk. He can’t help but imagine a gun in the motel woman’s face or stuck against the Thomas doctor’s ribs. Or maybe…Vash’s eyes go to the front of Wolfwood’s shirt. The subtle bump of the rosary is still there.
Wolfwood scoffs. “I didn’t kill anyone for it. Get that look off your face.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“I sold some of my graders.”
“Oh.” Vash looks over at the Punisher, leaning against the wall like an altar. “And my gun?”
Wolfwood grins. “I did steal that.”
“Wolfwood!”
“She shouldn’t have it,” Wolfwood shrugs, then he waves Vash off. “I got a hundred and seventy for the graders. I left seventy on the counter.”
“She’s gonna know who took it,” Vash warns. But still he crawls across the space, into Wolfwood’s lap and kisses him.
Wolfwood makes a pleased sound against Vash’s tongue. He tugs at Vash’s earring, a strange little tell that he likes that Vash is in his lap. When they separate, Wolfwood kisses Vash’s throat, bites along the tendons that stretch when Vash tilts his head up to give the man full range.
“Lets get the hell outta here. Get some real food,” Wolfwood murmurs.
And Vash couldn’t agree more.
They leave early the next morning, setting out towards No Agua to pay Vash’s debt. Then they’ll double back and go searching for Angelina. Vash doesn’t really want to, but he also wouldn’t mind seeing his stuff again. The chances of the bike still being there are rare, but Wolfwood has an uncanny ability to find and be found in the desert, so if scavengers and sand have been merciful, Wolfwood will find his goddamned bike. They take Thomases half way and then walk the rest, sending the mounts back with a passing caravan. Camping is more a romp in the sand and stars so clear they’re nearly overbearing. Wolfwood smokes a silver steam up to the sky, his arm around Vash’s shoulders, Vash blinking at him from his chest. They go again, then sleep when they’ve kicked sand over the fire and killed it.
They walk again at dawn, and get into the city in the morning. They get breakfast, real food and clear water. Wolfwood buys Vash a shirt from a second hand clothing shop. It smells like someone else, and hangs loose on his shoulders but short on his stomach. Fed and newly clothed, Vash and Wolfwood meander over the road to the doctor’s office. Vash hasn’t mentioned anything about the doctor but the debt, not even that the man knows who he is. Wolfwood opens the door, holds it open with his heel and the Punisher, sucking down the rest of his cigarette before flipping it into the street and swinging in behind Vash.
The office is mercifully empty but the receptionist is the same man. He jolts when he sees Vash, scrambles up, freezes like an animal, before ducking through the doors that lead back into the rest of the office. Wolfwood slumps on the counter, leaning the Punisher up against it. His eyes run lazily along the walls. Vash sees him pause on the wanted poster.
“What’re the odds they–”
McTavish comes out of the back then. There’s a lump hidden behind his doctor's coat that Vash notices immediately. A weapon. Wolfwood stands straight, casually pulls the Punisher against his hip.
“Ah. Mr. The Stampede, and the hostage priest. What can I do for you?”
“Hostage priest?” Wolfwood mutters.
Vash holds out the cash. “A hundred double dollars to pay my debt, just like I promised.”
The doctor’s brows inch up his forehead. He reaches out and snags the bills, jerking his arm back like he expects Vash to bite him. He flips through the bills counting them silently. They go into his pocket when he’s satisfied. He turns his gaze onto Wolfwood, looks him up and down, quirks a dead little smile.
“Do you know what he did for you?”
“We don’t have to talk about it,” Vash says, “we’re gonna leave.”
Wolfwood, however, takes the bait, looks down at the doctor, because he can. “Drug your criminal ass out to see me? Saved my life? Put himself a hundred double dollars in debt?”
“Among other things,” McTavish says.
“We need to go,” Vash all but begs, reaching out to hook his hand into Wolfwood’s elbow to drag him out of the office.
Wolfwood tears his arm out of Vash’s hold. His eyes are dark. Brows furrowing as he sneers at the doctor. “What’re you getting at?”
“Please, Wolfwood it’s not–”
“He begged me,” McTavish says. “Got down on his knees right here, in front of a bunch of strangers scared shitless. Begged me with his forehead on the floor. And–why don’t you tell him?”
Vash clenches his jaw, turns his face away and down.
“He kissed my feet,” the doctor says, high on a little laugh. “Both my feet. Multiple times. I bet–”
McTavish’s nose crumples under Wolfwood’s fist. The force of the hit sends the man’s head snapping backwards. He stumbles and Wolfwood slams his knuckles into the man’s throat. There’s a nasty little crack there too, and it brings a broken cry of agony out of the doctor. He goes down, hard on his knees and Wolfwood kicks him in the ribs until the man is curled against the floor, wheezing, blood pooling under his face. His ribs flex in under the wrath of Wolfwood’s merciless blows. McTavish is begging; broken, nearly silent for mercy, lifting and shaking hands towards Wolfwood. Vash grabs Wolfwood before he can break bone, yanks him back, and steps in front of the cowering man.
“You want mercy?!” Wolfwood snarls down at the doctor, leaning around Vash.
A trembling nod.
“Lick his goddamn boots,” Wolfwood spits. “Lick them clean and ask him to forgive you.”
“Wolfwood,” Vash says. “No.”
“Shut up!” Wolfwood grits. “I want to watch the pig slobber."
“You know damn well I don’t want that!” Vash says. “Let’s go.”
Wolfwood looks like he might hit Vash, but he steps around him, crouches and takes the money out of the man’s pocket. He grabs McTavish’s jaw in unforgiving fingers, makes the man look at him.
“His debt is paid with your life.”
Dropping the man’s head, Wolfwood grabs Vash’s hand, the Punisher, and strides out of the office. They pause in the shade of the awning, so Wolfwood can rub blood off his boots into the cracked sidewalk. He slides a cigarette into his mouth. Vash slides his sunglasses onto his nose.
“Whadda ya want to do with a hundred double dollars?” Wolfwood asks.
“Drinks?”
“We should probably save it to fix Angelina.”
A hot breeze hushes through the town, rippling Vash’s coattails and the wrappings around the Punisher.
Wolfwood breathes out a mouthful of smoke. “Bet they have a piano in the saloon.”
“Bet they do,” Vash says.