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In retrospect, it was a matter of time until Vash slipped up on his most important rule.
Second most important, technically. His no murder policy, that everlasting promise he made to Rem, isn’t a rule as much as the product of indomitable resolve. After a century and a half, Vash seriously doubts his body is even physically capable of pulling the trigger on a killing shot at all, no matter what he stands to lose.
The rule he breaks that evening is one he must constantly remind himself of: when he walks among humans in settlements of all sizes; when he meets wanderers on the road (friendly or unfriendly); every single moment he spends around his companions, something that gets increasingly difficult to uphold the more they rely on and trust each other.
For all that Vash is a lone gunman, he rarely finds himself well and truly alone.
It’s no real surprise it happened now, either. Vash is awake the third night in a row, he and his group of friends having been chased out of two towns back to back, and overall morale is fluctuating between bitten-out snark and tension to the delirious sort of exhaustion that turns just about anything into the funniest notion anyone’s ever heard.
The scene:
Wolfwood, bleary-eyed over the meager dinner he’s preparing for everyone, cigarette in one hand and a box of spices in the other. Across from him, a yawning Milly trying to finish the newest installment of her family newsletter in the firelight as she remains stubbornly convinced she’ll be able to send it out on their next stop, and the ominous sight of Meryl getting to her feet, cheeks puffed in agitation.
And, some paces away, Vash who is watching them and the stars and the horizon in turns, for his part desperate not to fall asleep where he stands like a toma.
“Wolfwood.”
It’s Meryl who says it, which is rare in the sense that she’s using his actual name, and not so rare because those two have been non-stop bickering for days. It’s probably why Wolfwood snorts and drawls, “Shortie”, and otherwise does fuck-all to indicate he’s listening.
(He is. Wolfwood always listens. He just loves being a little shit about things while he’s at it.)
With a remarkable amount of venom for someone so sleep-deprived, Meryl spits: “I’m onto you, fiend.” By the time Vash has turned his head their way, the accusatory point of her index finger has joined the display. “I saw exactly what you did. How low can you go, huh?”
“Eh, pretty low? I play a mean Twister. Big Girl, vouch for me.”
Milly doesn’t miss a beat. She doesn’t even glance up from her current letter. “Yep. Beat those kids fair an’ square, a few stops back.”
Wolfwood flashes her a grin. “Yeah!” It crinkles the corners of his eyes, genuine and blessedly visible sans his sunglasses.
Meryl growls. Growls! “So, not only are you destroying our stomach lining with all that chili stuff”, an exasperated gesture to the spices in Wolfwood’s hand (which he automatically sprinkles more of into the food he’s making), “you also crushed those kids’... Stop! Dude, it’s already spicy! Why are you like thi—”
“Wha— Crushed? Hold on now, Stryfe—”
It slips out of Vash. It really is the best word for it.
Slips right out of his century-old, sure-fingered grip, just like that.
A snort, at first. Huffed under Vash’s breath, his gaze flicking from Wolfwood’s offended grimace — oh, Meryl got him good — to Meryl’s rage and how overdrawn both expressions are... over synthetic chili flakes.
That simple notion cracks Vash up. He chuckles, which quickly becomes a cackle over the complete indifference the normally so caring Milly is emoting towards the whole thing, it’s that stupid, and finally blossoms into full-blown laughter. The kind that leaves one breathless with mirth, firmly rooted in Vash’s belly from where it thrives and spreads freely into the night.
His friends are so silly. Vash loves them so much.
“What the...”
Blinking away tears of joy, Vash catches Wolfwood’s thoroughly flabbergasted look in his direction, eyebrows raised to the point they disappear into his bangs. Next to him, Meryl seems startled out of being mad entirely. Her eyes are so wide — with her neck turned to stare, she has a striking resemblance to those smart bird creatures in old world books. Owls?
The mental image sends Vash into renewed wheezing, strong enough to bend him in half. They’re so—
“Oh!”, Vash gasps out, “That’s, hah”, the hand that was clutching his heaving chest loosely cupping his chin amidst continued giggles. “Chili stuff. Twister. Hahaha, I can’t—!”
Stars! The lack of air is genuinely threatening to take Vash out. Arms on his hips, he goes through some purposefully deep inhales and exhales, interrupted by miscellaneous noises like ough and whew and one final, disbelieving chortle.
“Wow. Okay. I needed that, thanks guys.”
Silence. Vash is too busy rubbing the moisture from his eyes to mind it much.
The first thing he can see clearly is Milly. Just... smiling, cheeks round and flushed. “Mr. Vash, you have such a pretty laugh!” She states it as straight-forward fact, a twinkle of delight living in her expressive face.
Which marks the exact moment Vash realizes his mistake.
He laughed. His smile is big and unrestrained even now, lips pulled back far enough to show his gums, which means his teeth are bared, which means—
Vash’s hand is back in front of his face before he can think. The back of it presses to his mouth until he feels the treacherous presence of his pronounced canines clack against reinforced glass.
Fangs.
In the presence of humans. His humans.
Vash’s heart beats hard and fast. Wolfwood is muttering, “Well I’d say”, gaze dropped to his diabolical creation bubbling over the fire though a smile of his own lingers on his lips. His ears are an interesting shade of pink.
“Better not be laughin’ at me, Spikes. Got hot sauce in my bag even a Typhoon can’t handle.”
(Doubtful. Vash has tried every dish under the twin suns twice over and never balked once, but it’s sweet of Wolfwood to aim so high.)
“Oh, so if he can stand it, it’s fine?” Meryl huffs, though it lacks the put-upon anger. She then sighs and adds: “At least one of us is having fun, I guess. Hey Vash, what about those crackers from earlier? Got some left?”
Blinking, it’s Vash’s turn to stare owlishly at her. Meryl tilts her head at him; Vash nods, tentative. Meryl gives him a pleased grin back.
“Nice. There is yet hope for me, then.”
Returning to Milly’s side, Meryl makes grabby hands at the pile of completed letter pages for their usual round of beta-reading, which Milly passes her with a cheerful thanks. Wolfwood, for his part, puts out his cig and lights a second one, dark eyes briefly aglow from the flame — and he does look Vash’s way, but only to jut his chin at the free spot next to him in unsubtle invitation before dedicating himself to his task again.
That’s it. That’s all.
Vash hesitates. Lowers his hand, notices them not noticing, or pretending not to notice, his friends are anything but careless after all, and ultimately slinks over and around the fire to Wolfwood. He’s barely settled in before he goes ah! and leaps back to his feet to find those life-saving crackers for Meryl.
Wolfwood chuckles at that, smoke-filled and fond.
And when Vash returns (triumphant, he must add), he meets Wolfwood’s idle glance and muttered “Got everythin’ this time?” with another nod... and a nervous smile that’s more an experiment than anything else.
Wolfwood’s gaze flicks to his fangs, back up to Vash’s eyes and away, smoking on with demonstrative nonchalance.
Oh!
In Vash’s chest, his heartbeat soars anew, the resulting giddiness so strong his legs jitter throughout a dinner of delicious — if dangerously hot — noodle soup.