One more time and you'll be dead

[lastdecember]

Who: Wolfwood and YOU!
What: January catch-all, for event and non-event shenanigans
When: All through the month
Where: Milton and the surrounding environs

Warnings: Nothing yet; will update! See also warnings for individual comments in subject headers



locked to Astarion

He wakes up warm.

It doesn't register at first, as he's still shaking off the traces of the dream. They're always bad, his dreams, always full of blood and screaming, but since he's come here to Milton, they've been different. Stranger. They're not always memories anymore, not just visions of things he's done, things he's endured, things he's stood back and let happen to others. No, Milton's fucking with his head in more ways than one, and he has to say, if his dreams continue being odd horror movies instead of memories? He'll take it. He'll take it all the way to the bank.

There was a woman in this one, he thinks, trying to recall the details as he dresses for the day. A familiar woman, although he can't recall her face, or her name. She'd asked for his help, was that it? And then he'd been somewhere else, and there'd been a fire. He shivers a little, pulling on his boots. That part, he remembers. Nothing hurts like being burned.

But he's awoken without a scratch on him, and for the first time since he'd arrived in this frozen hellhole, he felt toasty. Not hot, not by a long shot -- this world will never be a desert with two suns -- but pleasantly warm. Warm enough that he lets his scarf hang from his shoulders instead of knotting it tight around his throat. Warm enough that he leaves his gloves in his coat pocket, and even the brisk air outside doesn't have him fumbling to put them back on.

He's warm.

Today's already shaping up to be a great day, he can feel it!


--------------------------------

locked to Raju

A few days after the aurora, when the sky clears and all the electronics have died back to useless hunks of metal and wire, Wolfwood's heading out into a nearby grove of trees to collect firewood. The idea of burning wood for heat is still tough to wrap his head around -- the idea of having trees around to begin with is strange! -- but it burns warmly, the smoke's not unpleasant compared to some things he's burned for heat before, and there's sure plenty of trees around.

The ax sits comfortably in his palm, and the thud when the head bites out a chunk of an aspen's leafless trunk is deeply satisfying. Two or three of these big boys, and he'll have enough wood for the week, and plenty to share around!

--------------------------------

locked to Goodsir


His wrist's been throbbing for three weeks, and he's finally had enough. Normally something this small wouldn't be worth the effort to even notice it -- sure, his wrist is broken, but not badly. It's just one little bone, as far as he can tell, and it's not stopping him from going about his day, not really. He can still do all the chores needed to stay alive in this miserable cold wasteland, can still feed and dress himself, can still shoot (not that he's wasting bullets to test that theory, mind)... but it hurts. It hurts when he rolls over on it in the night, it hurts when he swings an ax or lifts a heavy load of lumber, it hurts when he presses on it to push himself out of bed in the morning. Vash had wrapped it that first day, and Wolfwood had rewrapped it a time or too, but a snug scrap of sheeting wasn't doing anything for the ache.

He's tired of aching.

So a little before noon he's stomping his way across town to the address posted on the flyer, to track down an H.D.S. Goodsir, assistant surgeon, and to figure out why, after almost a month, his damn broken bone still hurts.


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locked to Ruby

The aurora's passed, the days are light again -- or as light as they ever get in this dim, miserable place -- and Wolfwood's running out of things to do. He's tried hunting, but he's only got so many bullets left and he'd rather save them for a fight. He's tried collecting firewood, but that only keeps him busy for so many hours during the day. The house he's moved into isn't in very good repair, but with a broken wrist and less strength than he's used to, going up on the roof to fix all those leaks seems like a good way to kill himself. (It's still on his list of things to do, just maybe after he finishes healing).

So that leaves security. There's no fence around the town, no watchtowers, nothing to stop something like that serpent from sliding itself right up Main street and eating half the town. If they're going to be stuck here for the time being, they need to have better security than just trusting in the cold to keep intruders out.

It's not long after dawn that he sets out, walking the perimeter of the town and making mental note of what the surrounding environment looks like. It'll take a lot to make this place secure, but every little bit'll help.


--------------------------------

locked to Bigby

He's started seeing it in the daytime. It follows him through town, peers through his windows at night, hovers just past his shoulder. He's wasted three bullets on the thing already, plugging slugs into the walls of his room when he wakes in the night, already sweating from a nightmare, to find his own ghost watching him from the foot of his bed.

He doesn't know what it wants -- it won't answer him, not when he threatens it and not when he pleads with it -- but after a couple of days, he thinks he's figured it out. Vash said that people here had seen ghosts, which Wolfwood had assumed meant the ghosts that they'd killed. He's been waiting to see familiar faces, honestly, some of the dozens (maybe hundreds?) of people he's gunned down over the years, but the only ghost that's haunting him is his own.

Because he got himself killed, didn't he? He knew what was waiting for him in December, knew that he'd need help to win that fight, and he'd gone alone anyway. He'd killed himself through his own stupidity, and now the ghost of that dead man wanted its revenge.

That's okay, he thinks, stumbling down the street in the middle of the night, hunched over against the cold. He's hurt so many people over the years -- if this is how they're taking their vengeance, then they're welcome to it. He deserves this torment.

--------------------------------

Locked to Knives:

The houses have been pretty well picked over by the time Wolfwood gets to them. It’s not surprising – none of them have shown up here ready for the cold, and those first few people didn’t have anyone but the old man here to help them out. The warm clothes are missing, as are all of the tinned goods in the cupboards. He hasn’t found a house yet that has so much as a handgun, although there’s been a few where it’s clear a gun had been there once. People have been pretty thorough in their resource collecting.

But Wolfwood’s not here for food or socks. He’s got a sturdy satchel over one shoulder that clinks quietly as he moves, and he’s found a crowbar that now hangs from his belt that he’s been using to break into any houses where the front door is still locked. It’s harder than it should be, to break into a house without messing up the doorframe too much – future visitors might need to take shelter in these houses, he knows, so he’s doing what he can to keep them in good condition.

He wedges the end of the crowbar between the door and the frame right at the lock point and leans his weight into the bar, listening to the wood groan. He’s getting better at this – if he does it right, the frame will only splinter right where the latch is, and the door will still be usable. It takes time, though. Everything takes time, now that he’s weak like a normal man.


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locked to Vash
It's been a month, and he's almost used to the sight of snow instead of sand, of gleaming, blindingwhite instead of the reds and oranges and dazzling golds of the desert. Almost. He's almost used to the dark, the dim single sun not ever putting out enough heat to warm his bones, almost used to the short days and long, cold nights. Almost.

The sight of water bubbling up from between the rocks, though, is almost too much to accept. It's so much water – and it's hot water, too – he can see the steam rising up past the horizon before the water even comes into view.

He'd been picturing a kind of bath, but out in the open... and he hadn't been all that sure how he felt about the invitation, to be totally honest. He'd come along, mostly drawn by his begruding willingness to do whatever Vash suggests, but his expectations hadn't been high. And he's never been so happy to be wrong! This place is something out of a dream. It's bigger than he thought it'd be, and both weird and strangely familiar.

His pace speeds up as they approach the edge of the pool, not bothering to hide his enthusiasm. “This place just gets stranger by the day. Are you seeing this?” Of course he's seen it, Wolfwood knows, but it's just so... so weird. That's a whole canyon, but it's full of hot water! There's been so much new in this month – the climate here is so wet, he's taking ages to heal, he's weak and tired all the time, problems are bigger when he can't just shoot his way into a solution... but he can smell the heat of that pool from here, and he can't wait to duck beneath the surface.

He looks around for anyone else in sight, but the place is empty of people, and so he's already reaching for the zipper on his jacket as he turns to Vash with a laugh: “We can just get in, right?”


Wildcard:
Got another idea? Hit me up on notJoe or on the plotting post and let's plot!

Comments

[amo]

He should have found and brought something stronger to drink. Vodka, maybe, or really anything that might have worked faster and burned him down to numbness instead of the whiskey. The whiskey doesn't do shit, offers no relief, and likely wouldn't even if he decided to grab the bottle and down it all himself. Not in time anyway. Wolfwood is really doing this, here and now, by the sound of it. This was meant to be some lighthearted fun, a much-needed moment of relaxation, and maybe Vash really only has himself to blame for faltering and letting the weight of the memory drag him down like it did, but it's impossible not to get angry with Wolfwood when the other man insists on pressing down on the wound instead of leaving it alone like he should. Vash has to set his glass down lest he gives in to the impulse to fling it at Wolfwood's head. He doesn't heal as fast as before, doesn't have his vials of miraculous poison that Vash wouldn't let him touch anymore even if he did, and they can't afford any potential lasting injuries in this place.

"I don't want your thanks," he snarls, the words acrid and bitter on his tongue. Of course he came, of course he saved the children. That he would ever do anything else isn't even a question. He doesn't need to be thanked for what he's always done, doesn't want his friend's words of gratitude for the obvious. He doesn't know what he wants from Wolfwood aside for him to leave the topic alone which he clearly won't do, cruel asshole that he is. An apology isn't what he wants or needs either. Knives still hasn't apologized and his sins are far more egregious than Wolfwood's, the hurts inflicted upon Vash by his hands far more numerous, and Vash isn't expecting one from him and so he won't expect one from Wolfwood either. It won't mean anything when they both would do it all over again and leave Vash behind.

Vash abruptly turns and paces, wading through the waist-high water, like a wounded animal cornered in a cage. Briefly it looks like he might walk to the other end of the pool to take a sullen seat away from what's hurting him most - away from Wolfwood. Part of him is tempted to get out of the water entirely and make a break for it; running is what he does best, after all. He knows he wouldn't get far without being stopped though. Pausing to dry himself and get dressed gives Wolfwood too much of an opening and running out while wet and buck naked is guaranteed to earn him frostbite. There's no easy coward's way out here for him. Sitting down as far away as possible and ignoring Wolfwood until he drops it is his next best option. Perhaps Vash would have done so if, in his agitation, rage wasn't starting to win out as the most prevalent emotion in the emotional turmoil twisting up his insides.

If Wolfwood wants to open Pandora's box then Pandora's box and all the ugliness it contains is what he will get.

"Why!?" The question tumbles out of his mouth with force as he whirls on Wolfwood, utterly furious. It's perhaps the one question that's haunted him most. "Why did you run off on your own? What the fuck were you thinking, you idiot?!"

Now that the words have started, Vash can't seem to stop them. Like a runaway sandsteamer they keep coming, spilling his unsightly guts all over the sands. Where the first few questions are asked with frenetic vehemence, all burning rage and disbelief, the ones that follow are quieter, more befitting of the tears that still streak down his cheeks and the trembling of his bottom lip. They betray what fuels his current anger: hurt.

"Aren't we friends? Did you believe I wouldn't have gone with you?"

[lastdecember]

He might not have saved those kids for thanks, but dammit, Wolfwood's offering thanks anyway. It's the closest he can get to saying things that he doesn't even let himself think on for too long: how he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and he heard Chapel give the order and Livio – Livio! – opened fire. He heard all those kids die, heard every bullet that came out of Livio's gun and knew, knew, that every one of those bullets would hit their mark. Livio was too precise to miss – every one of those shots went into a child. He heard all those kids die. He heard Miz Melanie die. His own death was standing over him, pinning him to the ground as he bled out, and he was going into the dark with all those deaths on his conscious.

And then a miracle occurred, two miracles, really – the kids were saved, and, in the end, he didn't have to die alone.

He can't say that. But he can say thank you for saving them, in the hopes that Vash can hear what's beneath his words. In the hopes that Vash will understand why he did what he had to do.

But Vash doesn't understand. There's nothing but hurt and anger in his friend as Vash snaps back at him, turning like he's going to leave, and a jolt of fear runs down Wolfwood's spine, icy cold even in the heat of the hot spring: he went too far. He pushed too hard. That hurt was a hurt that needed to be lanced, opened and aired but apparently Vash felt otherwise. He turns to go and Wolfwood's already rising up out of the water to chase after him, wherever he's heading – the other side of the pool or the other side of town, doesn't matter. He's fucked up, and now he's fucking up again but he will not let that stand, he has to make it right, he needs Vash to understand that he... that he doesn't... fuck, why are words so goddamn hard!

Vash doesn't seem to have the same problem. He rounds on Wolfwood then, snarling out accusations, demands, his tears just emphasizing what he's got no problem saying: you left me. You betrayed me. You abandoned me.

And yeah. Yeah he did.

“He kept you in a cage, Spikey!” In the months he'd been back under Chapel, back serving his old masters in and around the ark, he'd never once had the chance to see where they were keeping Vash. That whole part of the ship was off limits to everyone, but especially to him – that'd been underlined, in blood. His mission was complete, and their lord's brother was no longer his responsibility or concern. He'd had no idea, until he'd burst through that door, just what conditions Vash had been kept in, what tortures they'd been subjecting him to. The coffin-sized hole that Vash had been locked into hadn't been the worst thing Wolfwood's imagination had come up with over those six months... but it was a far cry from what he'd actually been expecting to find.

“You looked like death warmed over, and you had days, maybe a week, before you had to face him.” It doesn't seem right to say his name, here, as if just speaking it aloud would make Knives appear. Knives had made himself into a god – there's really no other word for it – and Wolfwood's whole expression shutters as he recalls how stifling, how terrifying, it was to be in his presence.

God but it's hard not to answer Vash's anger with anger of his own! He's trying, though -- he's trying so damn hard. He's in the wrong here, and god help him, he's trying.

“If I'd asked you to come, you would've come,” he continues, his voice quieter, more level. Of course Vash would have come to save an orphanage full of kids -- of course he would. And then he would have been that much more tired, possibly that much more injured and unready, to face Knives. And that was a fight that Vash had to win, because nobody else could. “That's why I didn't ask.”

That's not the whole truth. That's not even half the truth, but it's still true.

[amo]

Between the suffocating heat of the springs and how his chest feels like it's caving in — the walls he build around his heart to keep the grief locked away being forcibly torn down against his wishes — Vash finds it hard to breathe. His whole frame is coiled with tension so tight he can't stop trembling. Can't stop crying either, but he's not paying attention to the steady trickle of warmth streaking down his cheeks. The steam and tears turn Wolfwood into nothing but a blurry figure and it's somewhat of a mercy. He doesn't think he can look directly at him without that filter. Not when the "explanation" Wolfwood comes with doesn't do anything to relieve him of his anguish.

The words just sound like an excuse, as if Wolfwood was merely looking out for Vash by leaving without a word to go get himself killed. They're-

"Bullshit!"

It would have been a scream if he wasn't shouting with breathless vehemence, the lump in his throat preventing the volume from pitching too high, too loud. Although he's half-sobbing, it doesn't stop Vash from continuing on.

"You should have known I'd come after you like I did. If you'd just said something, we could have taken the ship, we could've done it and gotten those kids out way faster, together. You—" didn't have to die.

Vash can't bring himself to say the words, his breath hitching too hard and cutting his tirade short. In despairing frustration, he brings his hand up to press his palm into his socket as if that might stem the flow of tears, as if squeezing his eyes shut and only seeing the burst of tiny lights behind his eyelid will help him be anywhere but here, doing this. He feels as helpless as he did the day Rem ushered him into the escape pod and stayed outside of it; unable to do anything to save what his heart holds dearest.

He can only repeat the question, hoping for a different answer that might justify all the hurt.

"Why?"

Soft and sad, followed by an even softer admittance of a like he's never admitted to anyone before. Not this sincerely.

"I needed you."

[lastdecember]

You should have known I'd come after you! Vash says, and Wolfwood shakes his head, ready to snap back a response, but Vash isn't done yet. If you'd just said something and Wolfwood can feel the fight in his gut rising, can feel the urge to lash out with his fists instead of his words. It's like Vash never fucking saw him at all. They're friends, says Vash, but what kind of a friend would he be if he dragged Vash into his own problems? A man handles his own business, even if there's help available. Even if he knows it's a trap. Even if he wishes he could ask his friend to come with him.

And sure, he'd broken Vash out of his cell on the ark, but that was only because nobody else could! The world needed Vash the Stampede, but the world's forces couldn't even stop Chapel – and Wolfwood – from coming in, slaughtering their armies, and opening the way for Knives to take their plants. Nobody else was up to the task – he'd had no choice. He didn't--

Then Vash is grinding the palm of his hand into his eye, hurting himself – at least it looks like he's hurting himself – and Wolfwood doesn't even think before moving, closing the distance between them (walking through water is harder than he'd expected it to be!) and reaching for Vash's wrist, to pull his hand away from his face.

“Stop that!”

He'll grab Vash's arm with both hands if he has to, to stop him from hurting himself! Lashing out is one thing – he can throw as many punches as he wants – but he can't be allowed to hurt himself.

“Spikey, I had to go.” He's never seen Vash this worked up before, never seen him this upset. Some part of him wants to wrap his arms around the man like he would for a little kid and just rock him back and forth until the world seemed like a kinder place. Some part of him wishes that Vash would just hit him already, so they could have a proper fight and have done with it.

Some part of him wishes that he'd never been brought back, if this is the kind of pain he was going to cause by being here.

“You had to see to your brother, and I had to see to mine.” He hadn't had a choice in rescuing Vash, not really, and he hadn't had a choice in going to December – in rescuing Livio -- either. “You didn't need me, Vash... but he did.”

[amo]

The pressure of his palm against his eye is certainly felt, but not painful. It's grounding, giving him something to tether himself to in the raging storm of too many strong emotions rising to swallow him up whole and drown him. When he hears the sloshing of water indicating Wolfwood's approach, he's mostly expecting to be hit and he welcomes it. It'll give him focus and tip the scales over in favor of rage. Anger he can work with, not this despairing grief that should have ceased to be with Wolfwood's return to his side.

But rather than the blow he'd been expecting, his hand is yanked away from his face, eyes snapping open to frown down at his caught wrist. He keeps his gaze there, unwilling to meet Wolfwood's, and remains still save for the trembling and hitching of his breath that he can't help as he listens to Wolfwood go on. He understands that Wolfwood had to go, that isn't the problem here. The problem is so glaringly obvious and yet it doesn't seem like Wolfwood is willing to acknowledge it. Worse yet, he tries to tell him that he hadn't needed him; trying to dictate something he has no business doing so.

It's not the punch Vash had been expecting, but it's a gut punch all the same.

They have never needed words to fall into sync, to understand each other on a level no one else does, but now when words are all they have to try and make themselves understood, it feels like there's a yawning chasm between them and Vash doesn't know how to bridge it, how to make himself understood. Most terrifyingly, it feels like they never knew each other at all. And they didn't — not really — did they?

Taking a page from his brother's book, he lets fear fuel his anger into tearing his wrist free and pushing Wolfwood back, palm to bare chest. There isn't enough strength behind it to knock him over, he can't muster it in his current state, but just enough to force him to take a step back or two to create space between them before Vash can do anything stupid he might come to regret.

"You have no idea what I needed," he hisses out the words, quiet and seething, finally looking up again to meet Wolfwood's eyes through his furious tears. "You don't know what it was like after! We both still needed you!"

Because both things can be true simultaneously; Vash needed Wolfwood and so did Livio. Wolfwood doesn't know how much he means to him, how irrevocably he's changed Vash's life and the sheer impact of his loss. Of course he doesn't. The dead aren't meant to know. And Vash doesn't know how to even begin to make him understand, except maybe...

"You know, I came to you that day because there was something I wanted to tell you and you never gave me the chance."

This isn't at all how he wanted to tell Wolfwood yet it's one of two confessions that might make his friend understand and it's preferable over the other.

[lastdecember]

Vash shoves him back but it's a weak push, barely enough to make Wolfwood rock back on his heels. Barely enough to feel. They're all so weak here, weak and worthless and he can't fucking stand it. Everything's harder, everything's heavier, everything takes longer... and nothing makes sense anymore.

We needed you, Vash says, and the only we Wolfwood can think that he could possibly mean is Knives. He doens't bother to hide his sneer of disdain at the idea that Millions Knives needed him around for anything. He's spent too much of his life taking orders from that asshole, and he doesn't give a shit if his death made things harder for Knives. In fact, he's delighted to hear it.

“He's my brother, Vash!” He finds his hands clenching again at his sides and this time, he doesn't shake them loose. This time he lets his short nails dig into his palms and tries really hard to pretend that Vash isn't saying that Knives's well being was more important than Livio's. “The only way I even had a chance of getting him back was if I went to face him and I went alone. And yeah!” he continues, his face flushed with heat from the water and anger both, “I knew you'd be torn up about it, and yeah, I knew there was a chance that I wouldn't come back.”

He thought he'd win that fight – he really did. That's what the Eye of Michael did – they studied their opponants actions and modified their own attacks, getting better and closer with each pass. He'd been watching Chapel and Livio for months before the fight on the ark, and he had been sure that he'd be able to defeat them both.

If he hadn't been trying to keep Livio alive, he would have succeeded.

“But you don't get to say a thing to me about that,” he finishes, and for all the heat pouring off of him, his tone is cold as the ice all around them. “Not unless you want me to call you a hypocrite to your face.”

[amo]

The sneer that appears on Wolfwood's face is cutting. All the more so because Vash doesn't know what exactly has earned him that expression. Does he think that Vash is lying? About himself? About Livio? Does he think himself so insignificant that his death did not cause a monumental shift in the lives of his best friend and the supposed brother he gave his very life for? The very thought is galling and it seems to ring true. 'Torn up', as Wolfwood says, does not even come close to it. He finds himself mirroring Wolfwood, hand curling into a tight fist, nails digging into the meat of his palm to anchor him instead since he's apparently not allowed to touch his own face.

The icy accusation flung his way causes him to hitch his shoulders up defensively and he knows he's being hypocritical, but it's not enough to get him to back down and let it go. If anything, he doubles down.

"Yes, he's your brother and in the end you left him like you left me. We needed you and you-"

Annoyingly, the lump in his throat combined with the tightness of his breathing cuts him off and he has to stop to actually breathe properly and ease it away. Although it's futile when the tears appear to be never-ending, he brushes his arm over his face for good measure anyway. It's a tiny moment in which he's forced to reach for some fragile semblance of composure. It's just enough for the anger to ebb, leaving a kind of tired resignation in its wake.

"Do you know what it's like to be left behind like that? What that does to you? Because I do."

He doesn't mean to project the memory that springs to mind outward, isn't even aware he's doing it when his heart and thoughts are all over the place, but—

there's a child's desperation for the only parental figure you've ever known, the image of her standing over the escape pod's entrance as the doors slide shut despite your attempts to stop them with your small, too-weak hands, her dark hair swaying as the entire ship shudders and breaks apart all around you and her soft voice is drowned out by the thundering noise of your home's imminent demise, you scream her name over and over again in a litany against the overwhelming fear and despair. Rem, Rem, REM!

It's an ancient grief nearly as old as he is and, even if it doesn't exactly help stem the flow of tears, Vash can let it pass him by for the most part and press on with what he intended to say.

"I wanted to spend my tomorrows with you," he says plainly, defeated where it once was a frightening yet jubilant realization in the heat of battle. "I'm sure Livio would have preferred to have you there instead of the guilt and grief, too."

[lastdecember]

Vash's whole body seems to tense as he clenches his own fist, and Wolfwood's ready for it, eager even, eager and ready to take the blows he's earned, or Vash's anger to explode out. For all that Wolfwood didn't have any other choice when he'd left for December, he was still in the wrong – there was no right path forward at that point, nothing he could have done that wouldn't have ended up hurting somebody he cared about – and Vash deserves to let that hurt and fury loose. He'll feel better for it, Wolfwood thinks. Someone hurts you and you hurt them back – that's the balance of life.

But Vash doesn't take a swing at him. Vash doesn't even get up into his space snarling accusations – we, he says again, we needed you., and it clicks that he hadn't been talking about Knives before at all, had he? He'd meant Livio, and as Vash scurbs his arm across his face to wipe away the tears Wolfwood feels something inside him growing cold. He hasn't let himself think too much about Livio since he's been here – Vash mentioned once that he'd survived, and asking anything more just seemed like pushing his luck. He hadn't let himself think about how Livio must have felt, after. How could somebody be okay, after something like that? After helping to kill their own brother? Sure, he'd argue until he was blue in the face that it was Chapel who'd been responsible, that it was the second vial he'd downed that really did him in, but Livio had been standing at Chapel's side that whole time. If Wolfwood could feel guilty for all the lives he'd taken under the orders of the Eye – and he does, god, that sin's on his soul forever – then how much worse must it have been for Livio?

Do you know what it's like to be left behind?, demands Vash, and all Wolfwood can do is start to shake his head – no, he doesn't, he's never let anyone get close enough to feel their loss when they were gone – when the vision kicks in. It's not his memory, not his hands pounding on the door, not his home falling apart. A knot rises in his throat, but he can't tell, in the moment, if it's his throat that's aching with the loss or if it's the child he never was, screaming for his mother. He knows this pain, he realizes, as the vision fades. He felt this pain, when Livio opened fire and murdered everyone at the orphanage – only his family was redeemed. His Rem is still alive, somewhere... because of Vash. Vash, who suffered so much at such a young age, and who's been hounded and tormented by humanity ever since. Vash, who loves everyone so goddamn much, even those who don't deserve it. Vash, who's big soft heart apparently sees every loss as a reflection of that first, terrible one.

He's never walked away from a fight in his life and he won't run from this one, but he can' sure as fuck yield. His gaze drops to the water rippling gently between them, all the fight flowing out of him with every uneven breath. This hurts so much more than a couple punches would have, but it's only what he's earned for himself. He hurt a good man, and it's only right that he feels that hurt himself.

“I meant to come find you, after.” He hadn't wanted to die, he really hadn't! He'd spent his life doing horrible things in order to stay alive! He just hadn't been strong enough, fast enough, good enough to live up to Vash's example.

But he'd tried.

“I've never...” had anyone to rely on before, is maybe where he's going with that, or maybe had anyone who would care if I lived or died. But finishing that sentence, however he phrased it, feels like admitting to something too big, too much like something he's not allowed to want, much less claim. He tangles a hand in his hair in frustration, combing roughly through the shaggy mess, wishing desperately that he was better at words. Wishing desperately that he knew what to say, to make this right.

“I meant to come find you,” he finally repeats, and it's not enough. He knows it's not enough, but he doesn't know what else to say.

[amo]

Vash has lost count of all the fights they've had over the relatively short time they've known each other and although most of those have been petty squabbles, there have been serious ones, too. However, none have ever been quite like this. This has to be the worst fight they've ever had and it doesn't even involve the usual exchanging of blows. Vash knows he's "won" when the fight visibly drains out of Wolfwood, knows he leveraged Livio just right to finally break through and make himself somewhat understood, but it doesn't feel like a victory at all. They're both merely left miserable. He doesn't actually know how Livio feels about everything that's happened — they never talked about it, there hadn't been any time, the loss too raw to begin putting into words — and so maybe he's projecting a little. Given how hard Livio worked to fill the gap by Vash's side, he can imagine well enough though.

His own hand unfurls, nails leaving indents behind in his palm, and his shoulders sag as he watches Wolfwood yield with no satisfaction, only exhaustion and an aching heart. He believes his friend when he says he meant to come back. At the very least, Vash knows he hadn't wanted to die when he's well-aware of just how afraid Wolfwood is of death. In that, he and Knives differ. Knives had embraced death and left Vash behind in doing so of his own volition. Wolfwood's had been an unwanted outcome; a parting never intended to be so permanent. From what little Wolfwood has told him about his past, he can fill in the blanks of the unfinished sentence that follows, understands he must have been taught never to rely on anyone else.

"I know," he responds and after a slight moment of hesitation, he acquiesces as well and closes the gap he himself created between them to stand before Wolfwood with his proverbial heart in his proverbial hands. He's already admitted it and so it feels easier to say it again out loud, although it's no less terrifying. He's never let himself even want to get close to anyone — heartbreak is the only possible outcome whenever he allows himself to want anything for himself (and he doesn't deserve it, besides). But this is Wolfwood and Vash has already lost his friend once, he needs him to know...

"I'd still like to share my tomorrows with you."

Here in this frozen hell where unknown forces have it out for them, where by some miracle they've been reunited against all odds. It's a second chance and although the hurt and damage has been done and can't be erased, the ticket to the future is always blank. They can start again. Do it differently. Better.

"You don't have to do everything on your own, Nicholas."

[lastdecember]

They're not flighting anymore, he doens't think, but he can't tell what comes next. Vash moves in so close that Wolfwood has the choice to look him in the junk or look him in th eye and so he lifts his head, warily meeting Vash's gaze... and what he sees there is nothing he deserves. Vash really would forgive anyone for anything, wouldn't he? He's just too goddamn kind for his own good.

“Yeah, now you tell me!” he laughs weakly, still not quite believing that Vash hasn't knocked him over yet. That Nicholas almost does the trick better than a fist ever would, though – it's the second time Vash has called him that, and both times it's felt... he doesn't have words for this feeling. It's got a kick to it, this feeling... but it's good. It's really good.

The idea of having somebody he can rely on feels pretty damn good too. It's not like trusting somebody is entirely unknown to him – he trusted Miz Melanie, knew right down in his heart that she wanted nothing but the best for all the kids in her care. But she wasn't strong enough to protect him from anything more fierce than a child's nightmare. The imsurance girls, too... he'd been impressed as hell by the big girl during the fight with Hornfreak – annoyed, but impressed – and it was clear that she'd do anything to defend those she cared about. But even if that list had included him – and he knows it hadn't. It couldn't have – the things that threatened him were far bigger than anything she could face.

Vash, on the other hand... Wolfwood's never believed any of the Eye's teachings about the twins – hell, he's never believed any of the Eye's teachings about anything, God or man, save for one thing: their strength is beyond that of any mortal. It doesn't feel right, putting any of his burden on another's shoulders, but Vash's, at least, could bear it up awhile. Fight against those who fight against me, he thinks, the psalm coming to mind before he can stop it, Say to my soul, I am your salvation.

Fuck., that's not... nobody's getting saved here, he snarls at his own brain. They're just talking about fighting. About having each other's backs. About trust.

And there isn't anyone he trusts more than this asshole standing in front of him, nobody he'd rather have beside him for the rest of this life and the next, and whatever comes after that. He'd walk through fire, if Vash needed him to – maybe it's time to accept that Vash would do the same for him. It's got to be a two-way thing... which means, he realizes, that it's probably time for his own confession.

“And as for this tomorrows stuff... Guess I should tell you that I decided a year ago that I was going to follow your stupid ass forever, so.” The heat in his cheeks is solely from the hot water, and he'll pummel anyone who says otherwise. “It's about time you caught up.” He glances back over his shoulder at the abandoned bottle -- can they just go polish that off, and put this all behind them now? "Sorry, pal. You're stuck with me."

[amo]

The use of Nicholas is deliberate, meant to address the child Wolfwood never quite got to be, to tell that boy 'it's okay, I'm here, you're not alone' for whatever that might be worth when, deep down, it's just one lonely lost boy trying to reassure another. The response he gets with that weak laugh is meant as a joke, but it does sting. Vash should have said it before, he knows. There's so much he should have said instead of just assuming Wolfwood already knew somehow. This fight between them has made it clear that the wordless understanding between them only stretches so far and encompasses only so much. They can move in tandem without speaking, without even having to actively think about it — simply trusting the other to cover whatever weak or blind spot they might be showing, to be there at their back — when it comes to battle. Some battles can't be fought with bodies and steel though. Some require words and an open heart and it seems they're both lacking in that department.

At least they'll have the time to work on it now. (Hopefully.) This is... a very painful start, but probably a good one. Necessary. Maybe even worth all the pain and tears for the confession Wolfwood decides to grace him with in turn.

It makes his breath stutter in his chest and his heart soar to have the sentiment be returned. It's more reassuring than words could ever hope to convey to know that, despite everything, they have the same desire to remain in one another's lives; they're still on the same wavelength after all. Wolfwood had wanted to stay by his side all this time, had clearly figured it out long before Vash realized and acknowledged it for himself. Staring at Wolfwood's flustered face, Vash knows with unwavering certainty there is no one else he would rather be stuck with. His anguish is washed away then by the tides of familiar fondness, relief, and a fierce joy that renews his well of tears enough to make his vision blurry again. He's too glad to care. That he's taken on the role of crybaby in his family — swapped with his brother — is nothing new anyway.

"That's not something you should be sorry for. Thank you," he says softly, utterly shameless in his absolute sincerity. He brushes away the stray tear that spills over and falls before reaching out and pressing a single knuckle to the center of Wolfwood's chest, delivering a gentle rap in a playful gesture. It's a signal that the storm has passed. Having caught that glance at the bottle, Vash breaks away to go grab it. God (or whoever) knows he needs that drink now and he wastes no time taking a good sip straight from the bottle before turning and holding it out to Wolfwood, forgoing the glasses entirely this time.

"This is the shittiest date ever, by the way. No wonder you're a cheap one," he calls back to the joke that landed them here in the hot springs in the first place.

[lastdecember]

It hadn’t been a hard decision at all, he could explain, but that soft touch of a single knuckle against his chest drives all the breath out of his lungs. It wasn’t just because Vash was strong, and was the only option Wolfwood could see to stop Knives from killing everyone. It wasn’t just that Vash was kind, and fought to protect people instead of looking for ways to hurt them. Wolfwood rubs at that spot on his chest as Vash heads over to grab the booze – he can feel it right down through his bones, hot like a brand or a bullethole.

It was that Vash really believed that things could be better than they were, than people could be better than they were. Hope was something Wolfwood had put away long ago, even before the Eye had taken him. He didn’t hope for good things – he fought hard to keep what little he had, with the expectation that it would still be taken away from him eventually. Life didn’t get better, for people like Wolfwood, and he saw his same struggle reflected in a thousand faces during his travels. But Vash, with his foolhardy, childish worldview, knew how to hope. He knew how to dream, and to trust, and to care. He knew how to want. He’d snarled his realization at Chapel during their fight, not really thinking about what he was saying – the words were meant as an attack and a threat as much as they’d been his epitaph. I believe in Vash the Stampede, he’d said, or something similar – he doesn’t really remember his exact words, but he recalls his intent clear as day. He’ll never give up, and I won’t give up on him. It’s a little embarrassing now to look back on, but that the time it was that hope, that belief that had kept him going. That faith, in this spikey-haired idiot, that kept him alive long enough to see the orphanage saved.

Hope’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it?

But there’ll be no hope for Vash if he keeps running his mouth like that! “What the fuck is wrong with you, sayin’ shit like date when we’re both standin’ here naked!” he roars, and that flush in his cheeks isn’t going anywhere. He snatches the offered bottle out of Vash’s hand, hiding his embarrassment in two deep gulps, before shoving the bottle back roughly into Vash’s chest, grumbling. “It was only funny when I said it.”

[amo]

Wolfwood sure put him through the emotional wringer just now, but admittedly, he feels lighter for it in the aftermath. Lighter still when the reaction to his joking callback is one that makes him laugh. Vash doesn't quite mean to, it's just startled out of him at that strong response. He doesn't care to hold back once he's started, Wolfwood's embarrassment is too funny and frankly, his friend deserves it after what he just pulled. As the bottle is snatched from him, it leaves his hand free to finally brush his tears away proper and he wipes his face while laughing all the while. It's so good to laugh after all that crying and heartbreak.

The laughter is only briefly interrupted by an 'oof' when the bottle is half-slammed into his chest, hand automatically grabbing hold before it can so much as spill a single drop at the rough motion. (It's far too precious in this place to waste.) In the next breath, he's right back to cackling again, just slightly more subdued. Wolfwood sounds like a sulky teenager and it's highly amusing.

"I think it's way funnier now, actually. What are you getting embarrassed for? Little old me?"

Like a dog with a bone, there's absolutely no way Vash is going to let this dumb joke that Wolfwood started die now. He probably looks every bit the soppy puffy-eyed mess he feels like, yet it doesn't stop him from putting on the most winning smile he can muster in his pathetic wrung-out state, jutting his hip out to the side in a coquettish pose, and — for the final blow — delivering an exaggerated wink before he's throwing his head back and taking a long pull from the bottle. The mirth is still dancing in his eyes when he holds the whisky back out after drinking his fill.

"I do hope you treat your actual dates better than this. Making a dame cry won't do. Or a gent for that matter. Whichever."

[lastdecember]

“Good to hear you’re so open minded,” he grumbles, taking the offered bottle back with his most sour expression – he’s absolutely playing up his discomfort with the topic since it’s got Vash laughing so hard. That whichever comment’s earned Vash a smack, but they’ve only just stopped fighting. He’ll save it for later, as a surprise. The whisky burns beautifully going down his throat, and he doesn’t know if it’s the heat of the water or something in the drink, but he’s already feeling loose and relaxed after only a few swigs. Maybe he’s become a cheap date after all!

Not that this is a date.

“An’ whaddya mean, dame, nobody says dame anymore,” he continues on, holding the bottle back and trying to maintain his fake annoyance. “You sound like somebody’s great-great-grandpa talkin’ like th--…”

His gaze drifts lower of its own accord, and immediately Wolfwood whips his head around, pretending to scan the far side of the pool like he’d heard a noise. With all the scars Vash carries he really shouldn’t be all that surprised at the extent of the damage, but he still never imagined it would be that bad. Of all the things for a man to lose!

“I, ah… Heh.” He shakes his head, still keeping his attention mostly on the rocks on the other side of the water, and pointedly not on Vash. God. Fuck. He’d had no idea. “Thought I heard something.” It’s a pretty pathetic lie, as lies go. The wind is still, the trees aren’t moving, there aren’t even any critters out making nighttime critter noises. “Guess it’s nothing, so, uh… what stupid-ass thing were you saying?”

[amo]

"Love is love," he retorts instantly with great amusement at Wolfwood's sourpuss expression. Mere moments ago he wasn't sure if they could ever fall back into their sense of normalcy again, but here they are, doing just that. It's such a relief and although Vash feels utterly emotionally drained; between the heat of the water, the warmth of the whisky settling in his belly, and the comfort of their usual back and forth, the tension is starting to bleed out of him again. He's going to be in dire need of a nice long nap when he gets back to the church, but maybe their "date" is salvageable after all. (It's still going to remain the shittiest though.)

As if to prove that point, Wolfwood starts in on his choice of words and the allusion to his age has Vash's mirth vanishing to be replaced with an offended pout as he snatches the bottle from Wolfwood. It's not the first time Wolfwood has poked at his age and he's no less bothered by it. He's already snapping back before Wolfwood's finished the sentence. "There's nothing wrong with dame, it's charming!"

The words have barely left his mouth and he's already tipping his head back for another swig from the bottle thus entirely missing where Wolfwood's gaze wanders. It makes the abrupt motion of his friend's head all the more puzzling and Vash, utterly oblivious, finds himself frowning and lowering the bottle before he's even taken his sip. Automatically his eyes follow along to where Wolfwood's staring, hesitantly tensing in case of— well, whatever.

But there's nothing there and the lie that follows couldn't be more obvious when the only sounds are them and the gentle running of the water. So he redirects his focus back to Wolfwood, eyes narrowing in suspicion as he ignores the insulting question entirely.

"What are you being so weird about?"

[lastdecember]

There is no way in God’s great world that Wolfwood is going to confess what he’s being weird about. Ever. Under any circumstances.

“Guess I’m just jumpy,” he shrugs, leaning back against the cool stone of an outcropping and willing his heartrate to slow. He needs a change of topic, and fast, but his idiot traitor brain just keeps replaying that flash of smooth pale skin, and he’s pretty sure that there isn’t nearly enough whisky in the bottle to purge that vision from his mind.

Some days, he really wishes that time travel were possible, and that he could go back and find every person who’d taken a chunk out of this stupid, generous man, to pay them back tenfold.

Still not quite looking at Vash, he reaches out to claim the bottle again. They’re going to finish it before too long, at this rate!

“Now let’s see… I think you were pretendin’ that anyone other’n you likes bein’ called a dame.”

Wait. That’s not really how he meant to say that. Oh well, too late now.

[amo]

Not having had his sip yet, Vash moves his arm just enough to hold the bottle out of Wolfwood's reach. All the while still pointedly staring at his face, trying to discern what's gotten into his friend when it's clear that he's not going to give a straight answer. His mind races for an explanation, trying to backtrack what was said and done that might have caused the sudden strangeness, and coming up with... nothing. It can't have been the date joke, Wolfwood was playing along with his usual annoyance just fine, and it can't be their state of undress when he's seen Vash bare-ass naked before and tackled him without reserve mere moments ago. What Wolfwood's saying seems unlikely to be the truth as well when Vash saw and heard nothing that warrants such jumpiness.

Frustratingly, he doesn't know what's going on — missed a crucial step somewhere along the way — and his confusion only grows when Wolfwood continues and tries to steer them back to their previous topic; suspicious enough on its own, but made all the more obvious by the fumble.

"Huh? Who said anything about me wanting to be called a dame?"

The look he gives Wolfwood is incredulous, the feeling of having missed an important beat growing all the stronger. At a lack of knowing what else might be the cause, he glances at the bottle in his outstretched arm and then back at Wolfwood. This little bit of whiskey should be nothing to them, doesn't even come close to the copious amounts they've drunk before, but it has been a while and it's the only thing Vash can think of. So, slowly, he retracts his arm, cradling the bottle close to his chest and shifting to give Wolfwood his shoulder. Still squinting suspiciously, of course.

"You know, I think maybe you've had enough..."

[lastdecember]

Vash turns away from him, giving him that look that says Wolfwood, you’re being an asshole and I don’t like it, and all Wolfwood can do in response is bury his face briefly in his hands, blotting out the world for a moment as he tries to get his shit together. “This was so much easier when we were getting shot at,” he groans. If the ground decided to open up beneath him right now, he’d dive into the chasm without a single hesitation, anything to not have to try and dig himself back up out of the hole he’s currently in.

When did things with Vash get so complicated?! It’s not the booze – god, he’d love to blame it on the booze, but it’s him. All this stupidity is his doing. If they were back in the desert he’d just light a cigarette, talk a walk, maybe turn on the radio and drink every time static tore the song apart until the world spun backwards. They never talked, not really, and sure, it’s his own damn fault for taking this little vacation sideways with that stupid stupid smile remark, but god he wants to stop talking now. Possibly forever.

Maybe it is the booze? He lets himself sink lower into the water, until the rough rock scrapes his ass and he has to tilt his head back to keep his face above the surface. He’s feeling really warm, much warmer than he should have for just three or four swigs – he can feel the blood pounding in his temples and he’s sure his face is red. Vash had the nice idea of coming out here and being warm for a change, away from town and the other plants and everything, and all Wolfwood’s done since they’ve gotten here is stick his foot in his mouth. He can plan an attack, or comfort the family at a funeral, so why can’t he be fucking normal and just have a couple drinks with his friend? Why does he have to make everything worse?

“The rest’s yours.” The stars here aren’t even right, he thinks, gaze shifting back up from the water’s rippling surface to the night sky -- anywhere but in Vash’s direction. Nothing about place is familiar and it’s stupid to care about something like the stars when there’s so many bigger problems facing them, but he’s spent so much of his life lying out and watching those little lights. They were always steady, when nothing else was, and now he’s got nothing to orient to.

Huh. Maybe he is a little drunk.

“I’m just gonna sit here and keep my mouth shut, keep all the stupidity inside.”