singillatim | wings of feathers, tails and fin tips

Entry tags:

wings of feathers, tails and fin tips

Who: Vash & YOU?
What: January (+ backdated December) catch-all, includes an open aurora: nascent prompt.
When: All throughout this (and the previous) month.
Where: The Church, Milton's surroundings.
Content Warnings: Will be added as necessary here if not mentioned in the thread itself.

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feel free to hit me up on the plotting post or plurk if you want a personalized starter!
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[ Maybe Vash would have gone on to pop a cranberry into his mouth just to show that it's safe when Wolfwood doesn't take one to try, but all thoughts of food and foraging promptly go forgotten in his subsequent confusion at what Wolfwood proceeds to say. "It finally warmed up some." As if anything about the weather has changed, which it decidedly has not. The only change there's been is the Aurora's more persistent presence. It hasn't done anything about the freezing temperatures.

He can't help but stare at Wolfwood, a niggling sense of uneasy worry starting to form in the pit of his stomach. Even when Wolfwood nods at his wings, his focus doesn't waver. ]

They do...

[ He answers absentmindedly, wholly uncaring for the fact that the tips of the larger wings are soaked through from where they've gotten dragged through the snow. It's inconsequential and can't be helped anyway.

Now that the initial burst of joy at the mere sight of his best friend has settled and Vash is paying closer attention, it's hard to miss the loose scarf and lack of gloves. His fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and wrap the fabric properly around Wolfwood's neck. In the same moment, he realizes he might finally understand Knives' incessant need to fuss over him in tiny ways. He feels it himself now though he refrains. ]

But what do you mean "warmed up"? It's just as cold as it was yesterday. [ His nonplussed expression turns suspicious, eyes squinting as he studies Wolfwood's face. ] You're not getting sick, are you?

[ They do, Vash admits, and Wolfwood could smack him. Would have smacked him, if he wouldn't have dropped all those carefully collected little foods. Vash tries to redirect to Wolfwood's well being, and Wolfwood puts him off with a brusque shake of his head. ]

I don't get sick.

[ Changing the topic isn't going to work, Blondie! ]

Now put that shit in your pocket and get your tail feathers out of the cold! What do you think you're doing, runnin' around with them dragging in the snow? You want to get sick again?

[ If they can feel wet and cold, Wolfwood thinks, arms raised to direct Vash towards the nearest empty house -- and he's not taking no for an answer on this. They are going inside -- then they can feel pain too, can't they? They could feel all those bullets they took back at the orphanage, and whatever happened on the ark after he'd passed out. He's never known anyone who cared so little about keeping themselves safe as this dumb bastard here. It's annoying. It's stupid.

It's heartbreaking, but he's carefully not thinking anything along those lines until he knows more about what's going on with Vash's newfound mind powers. ]

Let's go find you something to wrap 'em up in. You're makin' me cold just looking at you, you idiot!

[ It might not work, but that doesn't mean Vash isn't instantly protesting anyway. ]

I never got sick before I got here either.

[ It's said very pointedly and he might have had more to add if he wasn't getting... well, essentially scolded. As concerned as he is for Wolfwood's well-being, he also can't help feeling very put-upon by the treatment. ]

« As if Knives' fussing isn't enough... »

[ Now he gets twice the concerned badgering, wonderful. Wolfwood raises his arms and resentful of being herded like a disobedient tomas, Vash digs his heels in and doesn't budge even if he is actually pocketing the cranberries like he's been told to. His wings and feathers spread out slightly and puff up in response to his defiant emotions. Although whatever imposing effect it might have had is rather lost when his wings are half-soaked and rather bedraggled in general due to Vash's lack of care. (He doesn't see much of a point taking care of them when they're usually relatively quick to disappear again.)

If he wasn't more worried about whatever is going on with Wolfwood, he might have played obtuse and argued he doesn't have tail feathers for the sake of arguing, but as it stands, he's too preoccupied trying to discern what might be wrong. He can't see anything that's immediately alarming, no flush of fever or anything, yet the weather comment and Wolfwood's state of not being properly dressed for the cold don't sit well with him. ]

I can manage just fine, worry about yourself! Put your scarf on properly! Where are your gloves?

[ He's always got to be so confrontational! Where are your gloves says the jerk who gave up his own gloves when he was sick, the jerk who's standing here now with his feathers dripping like he's fresh out of the shower.

The jerk who, if Wolfwood heard that mental voice right, just compared him to his fucking murderous brother. His expression sours and he closes the distance between the two of them with a couple furious stomps, grabbing a handful of Vash's bedraggled feathers in one toasty warm hand. ]

I'm not fussing, asshole.

[ He gives that handful of feathers a shake, just in case Vash somehow missed how pathetic they are. He really is like a little kid sometimes, isn't he? A brat who can't be bothered to brush his damn hair and keep his cuffs out of the dust. ]

Or do I need to knock you down again to make you listen to reason?

[ Having already fallen back into their familiar dynamic the moment they were reunited, Vash is expecting the advance and his shoulders hike up defensively in preparation. Wolfwood getting physical when worked up is a known given by this point, a habit as reliable as the rising and falling of the sun. However, he still manages to surprise Vash. He's fully expecting for that hand reaching toward him to grab him by the collar, get a fistful of fabric, but instead it shoots past him and instead finds purchase in his feathers. Vash just— freezes, not even registering that Wolfwood is responding to words he'd been thinking rather than actually saying out loud.

That's the first shock. Wolfwood has always been wary of him in his changed form, rightfully so, and to act this boldly and just grab hold of what makes Vash so other without hesitation is a surprise to say the least. Vash is also very much not used to anyone aside from his brothers touching his feathers and that feels distinctly different somehow. (Maybe because they're all plants.)

His gaze is automatically drawn to the fingers in his feathers and to his credit, he does feel a bit embarrassed when the shaking immediately sends a few loose feathers drifting down. It doesn't last long though. Before he can even think of anything to bark back with, the warmth of Wolfwood's hand has sunk into the feathers proper and therein lies the second shock. Wolfwood feels far too warm for someone who's walking around without any gloves on. Everything else is promptly forgotten in favor of his alarm, eyebrows knitting together in a concerned frown. ]

Why are you so warm? You don't have a fever, do you?

[ Vash isn't wasting any time taking his right glove off, first pressing his now bare hand over Wolfwood's just to check if what he's sensing is right and then leaning further into Wolfwood's space and relocating his hand to his friend's forehead as he studies him closer. He still doesn't look sick or flushed in any way — not even in that way that would suggest a recent hot springs visit — yet he feels too warm under his hand for it to be normal. ]

[ His gives Vash's wing a shake and to his surprise (and not a little horror), a bunch of feathers come loose, drifting to the muddy snow at their feet. He means to let go immediately, apologize -- he didn't know they were so fragile! -- but Vash is already covering his hand with his cooler one. He's not breaking Wolfwood's grip free, though, not at all concerned that Wolfwood just ripped free so many of his feathers.

No, the idiot's still yammering on about fever.

His hand falls away from Vash's wing as Vash leans in, pressing his hand to Wolfwood's forehead. Feeling suddenly petty, Wolfwood reaches up and pulls open the collar of his jacket, revealing a few inches of his throat and the too-tight sweater beneath. ]

You want to listen to my breathing too, Doc? Or are you gonna believe me when I say that I don't get sick.

[ He's just acclimated to the cold, that's all! Why in the hell is Vash making such a big deal of it? Is his trying that hard to change the topic away from his wings, and mind speech? Because it's not going to work.

Can Vash hear him, too? Only one way to find out!

« I'm gonna bite you if you don't knock it off. » ]

[ Vash is wholly unfazed by the loss of feathers, not paying it any mind in the slightest. He's used to shedding them and his neglect means there's plenty of loosened feathers that get stuck and knocked free at the slightest jostle. It isn't anything new or alarming to him, there's always a stray feather or two to be found at the church in the wake of the Aurora. Between him and Knives, they could probably start collecting enough of them to stuff a pillow with every Aurora.

Wolfwood's petty action earns him a raised eyebrow, but Vash rolls with it, equally petty. ]

You know what? Yes, I want to. I'm telling you, anything can happen here, including getting sick!

[ To back up his words, the hand leaves Wolfwood's forehead in favor of resting his cool fingers against Wolfwood's now exposed throat, fingertips on his pulse point. In the same moment, he's turning his head and bending lower, pressing his ear to Wolfwood's chest. He can't really hear anything with the puffy jacket in the way, but it's more about feeling and measuring the rise and fall of his chest anyway. There's no indication he hears the thought Wolfwood thinks his way because... well, he doesn't. There's only a slightly panic-laced thought send out unintentionally from his end. ]

« I can't lose him again. »

[ For all that he's seemingly being petty in response, the mental words hold his genuine feelings. The thought of regaining his friend only to potentially lose him again to illness is too unbearable. He doesn't know how close he'd been to death himself when he'd been sick, but he knows he was certainly in some serious danger when resources are slim and there's hardly any modern medicine available to them. ]

[ He can't believe it, can't fucking believe the nerve of the guy! But Vash calls his bluff, cramming his stupid spikey head against Wolfwood's chest before Wolfwood can shove him away. He's got his fist raised to bash that stupid spikey head right in, flailing backwards to get away -- what the hell is Vash thinking?! -- but Vash's quiet mental voice answers that question for him, and freezing him right in his tracks.

They haven't talked about it. Wolfwood's been hoping they never would, either -- what's done is done, and there's no reason to dig up old hurts... but just because they're not talking about it doesn't mean the hurt isn't still there, apparently. His hands fall to his sides as shame overwhelms him, heating his cheeks. ]

Oi.

[ Vash can't know that Wolfwood can hear what he's thinking, he realizes. He said him, not you -- he didn't mean for Wolfwood to hear that. Thinking fast, he pushes Vash away, schooling his face back to annoyance. ]

What're you doing, get off of me! I'm fine, Spikey!

[ Vash doesn't know he can hear his thoughts. He'll tell him eventually, just... just not yet. ]

I'm not sick, okay? I'm just gettin' used to the cold, that's all!

[ When Wolfwood steps backwards, Vash merely moves with him, stubborn as ever. He's fully expecting to get punched and/or pushed away at any second, it's simply inevitable with Wolfwood being Wolfwood, so he takes whatever he can suss out in the interim. Which is— nothing. The pulse under his fingertips is strong, Wolfwood's breathing is devoid of notable irregularities. When he eventually gets pushed away he's had long enough to establish that, for all intents and purposes, Wolfwood seems perfectly fine. Just weirdly warm. That eases some of the undercurrent of panic he's experiencing, though it doesn't erase his worry entirely.

He stumbles slightly as he's forced back, miraculously not tripping over his wings and managing to keep from toppling over. It means he can still keep scrutinizing Wolfwood with a discerning gaze, trying and failing to find anything else of note; anything at all that's visibly changed even if it's not illness. There's still nothing he can see and he knows better than to push his luck and demand Wolfwood strip out of his jacket. (Out here in the cold anyway, maybe if he gets him inside somewhere... ) ]

That's not how that works.

[ He's been here for months and his body certainly hasn't started regulating his temperature any differently. Perhaps it's something to do with how Wolfwood's body has been changed or the serum, but that doesn't seem right. The desert heat had still affected him back on No Man's Land, it stands to reason the cold shouldn't be any different.

His thoughts turn to what might have changed in Milton itself and almost instantly a realization hits him that feels belated and so obvious in hindsight. His eyes go wide with it as his whole demeanor shifts to thoughtful, gaze never leaving Wolfwood while he tilts his head to one side in consideration — the gesture all the more birdlike for all the feathers he's sporting. ]

Did you have any dreams about the Aurora recently?

[ How the hell did this get turned all around? He came out here to see what was going on with Vash's wings, and to make sure there wasn't anything wrong there, but suddenly the focus is all on him and the fact that he's not freezing anymore?

That's not how it works, Vash says, like he's got any idea how Wolfwood works! Like a single half-dead confession out in the badlands gives him any concept just how adaptable Wolfwood's been made to be, how much effort went into designing him to survive anything and everything. Acclimating to the cold is exactly the kind of thing he'd expect from his messed up, ever-shifting insides... and he's just about to say something to that effort, something he'd regret deeply, when Vash hits on the answer. ]

Oh come on.

[ The thought pulls all the wind right out of his sails and Wolfwood slumps back, thinking through his most recent weird dream. He has to nod -- yeah, he dreamed about the lights in the sky. And then he dreamed about being warm -- on fire, but still. Warm.

And now he's warm. He's been changed. ]

God dammit!

[ Whatever's around to kick is getting kicked, and if there's anything -- other than Vash -- to punch, then he's going to bloody his knuckles against it. ]

Can everybody just stop changing me however they like?!

[ The dismayed reaction says more than enough, the nod isn't even necessary anymore. It instantly makes Vash curious as to what Wolfwood's dream might have been. He and Knives had the same one and ended up being able to talk telepathically in the aftermath, so it's likely Wolfwood's must have been different. What kind of dream leads to an increase in body temperature? Is there more to it than just being able to bear the cold better?

Before he can ask anything, Wolfwood curses and Vash's curiosity is promptly forgotten as his stomach drops. Knowing what he knows now about Wolfwood's past, it's no wonder he responds like this. Vash has taken the change in stride even if it takes a little getting used to, but no one can blame Wolfwood for being mad. ]

Wolfwood... I'm sorry.

[ He holds out his hands in an attempt to placate and soothe. With his gaze remaining on Wolfwood's face, he's not paying attention to his wings and feathers and it gives the feather that had been trying to reach Wolfwood previously another opportunity to do so. Vash is oblivious to it, the feather moving to curl around Wolfwood's wrist while he desperately tries to think of anything to say to alleviate his friend's (justified) anger. ]

I think whoever did this is just trying to help us.

[ If they meant them harm, they would not have given them powers that allowed them to connect and survive better, right? ]

[ That dream the other night warned them, didn't it? That fucking threat from that fucking woman -- see how you'll be changed, or whatever it was that she'd said. He'd been expecting something more drastic, honestly, bigger and more obviously for combat than being warm. But maybe they're starting small. Maybe this is just the beginning of the changes.

His heart's thudding against his ribs, fury -- and the first threads of panic -- threatening to overtake him when Vash's feather wraps softly around his wrist, halting him mid-thought. He's seen those things stop bullets and so he doesn't dare pull away -- Vash said he doesn't have control over them anymore, so who knows what the feather would do if he fought back? Would it let go, or would it tighten?

A shackle's still a shackle, though, whether it's meant in kindness or not. The feather has the desired effect -- he stops pacing, stops shouting, but his voice is still tight with suppressed anger when he finally manages to speak. ]

Yeah. Yeah, they're helping us to be better. [ Is the feather going to let go now? He's calm. See how fucking calm he is. ] I've heard that line before.

[ If they're coming for them in their dreams, then he'll just have to sleep less. Short sleeps, with no time for dreams -- he's done it before and he can do it again. ]

Edited 2024-01-25 17:26 (UTC)

[ He's not sure whether to count his attempts at being soothing as successful when Wolfwood is almost vibrating with anger, but at least he's gone more still and quiet. Vash stays close in his personal space, resisting the urge to reach out for his hands or to put his on Wolfwood's shoulders or— something, wholly ignorant of how the one unruly feather has already gone ahead against his wishes. In Wolfwood's stillness, it gently wends further down after capturing his wrist, moving across his palm to slip through his fingers; betraying the very desire Vash is trying to suppress. It being the very end of a single feather, not anywhere near the nerves where the feathers attach to the wings, means that Vash isn't really feeling it either. ]

No one's going to take you and make you do anything here, I promise.

[ Does he have any business making such promises? Probably not. That's not going to stop Vash though, it never has. He intends to keep it, no matter what. After all... ]

« They'll have to go through me. »

[ There is a fierce protectiveness woven through the very thought; an unshakeable resolve not to lose what he's lost before. He'll do anything he can to make life better for them here, too, if he can. Milton and its mysteries don't make it easy — the chase for happiness all the more elusive in the face of everything they're up against, most of it unknown — yet Vash is not deterred. Wolfwood and his brothers deserve better and although Vash can't provide it, he'll do whatever he can do. That certainly includes guarding what bit of freedom they have here.

He may not have his powers, but he still has his gun, his skills, and his relentless stubborn force of will. It's gotten him this far. ]

We'll figure this out, okay? Together. [ 'This time' is left implied. ]

[ The feather doesn't let go. He's calm, heart pounding in his wrist beneath the feather's grip but outwardly there's no sign any more. He's spent too long learning how to conceal his reactions, learning to accept the unacceptable without flinching, to let himself stay obviously mad when Vash wants him calm. His rage has always been a hot thing, quick to flare up but just as quick to die back, and today's no exception. There's no benefit to anyone in a temper tantrum – he needs to hurt somebody to fix this, and there's nobody here to hurt, so he's fine. He's calm.

But the feather doesn't let go. Vash is making him sweet impossible promises, both with his words and with that slightly buzzing mental speech, but Wolfwood's only half listening, because the feather isn't letting go. The feather is, in fact, holding his hand – it's the only way to describe it. It's slipped down over his palm and curled between his fingers, and it's that more than anything that finally actually settles the fire churning beneath his skin.

They'll have to go through me.

He's not the only one affected here, he thinks, unable to resist giving the feather-hand a squeeze. He's got a friend, and they're both in this mess together. All of them are, really – the other Vash, and even that asshole brother of theirs, all of them trapped here. Together. ]

You know you're projecting, right?

[ He raises the hand that's being held in Vash's feather to tap one finger against his own temple.]

I heard you earlier, thinkin' too loud. Is that a plant thing, or did you get helped too?

[ Is he going to say anything about the feather holding his hand? He certainly is not. ]

[ Wolfwood hits him with a double whammy and Vash is entirely unprepared for it. First it's the statement that catches him off guard, both surprising and confusing him until Wolfwood raises his hand and taps his temple and then he's hit by the next shock when he sees his feather intertwined between Wolfwood's fingers. The sight briefly makes him forget the previous statement entirely, heat flooding his face and staining his cheeks and the tips of his ears crimson. He wants to rip his feather away immediately, but pulling on it will mean tugging on Wolfwood's hand and— ]

Huh? Wha- oh! Oh no, I'm sorry!

[ He only proceeds to get more embarrassed when it becomes crystal clear what Wolfwood is talking about, visibly so. ]

« How much- »

[ No, on second thought, he doesn't want to know how much Wolfwood heard. He's already mortified and flustered enough. Now that he knows he's been projecting, he's also promptly trying to cut it off. It's still a struggle to get a sense of when he's doing it, but now that it's been pointed out, he can feel it. He's quick to start babbling to cover it up. ]

It's not a plant thing, plant speak is different. Knives and I had the same dream and we've been able to talk like this since. The Aurora made some sort of connection, I think? Sorry about that. And this. Stupid things always doing whatever they want...

[ As he mutters darkly to himself, Vash is reaching out for Wolfwood's hand to untangle his treacherous feather from his friend's fingers. Today is just a day for making a fool out of himself, it seems. Maybe he should've stayed inside after all. ]

[ Vash turns red to the tips of his ears when he sees what his feather's doing, and it's the final distraction that Wolfwood needs from his frustrated rage at this place. He really doesn't have any control over these feathers, does he?

He could take pity on Vash, hold out his hand, uncurl his fingers from around the soft feathers and let Vash reclaim his wing and some of his pride. He could. But it's funnier to hold out his other hand instead, stopping Vash's advance and pulling that hand-holding feather up protectively close to his chest. ]

If it wants to be friendly, let it be friendly. It's not hurting anything.

[ Vash and Knives both shared a dream -- or had the same one, he's not clear on that -- and they woke up being able to talk in people's minds? This can't have just affected them. Chances are the rest of the newcomers woke up from nightmares to find themselves changed, too. He's warm, and Vash can talk with his mind. Wonder what other changes were made to people? He'll have to ask around. ]

I never got a chance to really look at 'em, before. [ He looks down at the feather in his hand, talking to it like it were a cat. ] He hasn't brushed you at all, has he? He's so neglectful.

[ Vash automatically halts his movements when Wolfwood holds up his free hand and bids him to. His puzzled gaze darts from that hand to the feather-laced one that Wolfwood raises to his chest and then his face with an obvious unspoken question until Wolfwood speaks. He can't help but splutter, face growing even hotter, at how Wolfwood proceeds to treat his feather like it's a poor, neglected pet. Not that he can entirely refute the accusation when he's standing there with snow-soaked, bedraggled wings, but still... ]

They're just feathers! They don't need brushing when they're just gonna disappear again anyway!

[ Try as he might to will the feather to let go and come back of its own accord, it... decidedly doesn't budge an inch to Vash's continued frustration and embarrassment. It's this teasing more than any of his brother's chiding and fussing that makes him maybe feel a tad bad about it in that ashamed, self-conscious way. He's never been good about accepting this part of him; monstrous in his own eyes. At least he's flustered enough to finally cave. ]

Ugh, let's just go inside somewhere.

[ He'll go dry his stupid wings. Which he can't control. But what he can control is the rest of his body and so by turning to the side he can still give Wolfwood that closer look via a face-full of feathers as he uses the twisting of his whole frame to direct his largest wing right into Wolfwood's face. It's like petty payback or getting the petulant last word in even as he's capitulating.

Discussing the dreams and their newfound powers will be nicer somewhere dry and less cold anyway. Wolfwood might be warm and toasty, but Vash sure isn't. ]

[ He'd always assumed Vash's singular hairstyle was an affectation, something to make him look sillier and less threatening, but as Vash turns and smacks him with one of his wings, Wolfwood can't help but wonder if it's a style chosen because Vash doesn't have to do anything to it, day to day. His blond spikes used to stick up day and night, in any conditions, glued in place with sweat and dust and who knows what else.

I don't have to brush them if they're only here for a little while. He's heard that argument before, from little kids who didn't want to clean up or make their beds or put their things away -- he didn't accept that nonsense then, and he's sure as hell not accepting it now from a grown man.

Shaking his head more or less free of the feathery mess -- they're wet, and a little muddy, and the mess makes some of them stick to him -- Wolfwood falls into step right at Vash's side, the feather holding his hand between them. ]

You already got sick once, dummy. Runnin' around with wet hair... or wet feathers, just seems like a good way to get yourself sick again.

[ Plus, he's seen them outstretched in all their glory, and they're beautiful. Unwieldy, sure, undoubtedly a pain in the ass when going through doorways or trying to sleep, but they're a part of him! For somebody who puts so much effort into training every morning, to see him neglecting his wings just doesn't sit right. ]

Have a little pride in 'em.

[ The satisfaction his petty revenge brings him as he watches Wolfwood shake himself free from the damp feathery mess doesn't last long when his disobedient feather isn't letting go nor is Wolfwood pulling his hand free from it even as they turn and start to walk. Seeing it remain curled and woven through Wolfwood's fingers — it looks... kind of like holding hands, doesn't it — causes the heat to linger in his cheeks. He's quick to look away and adamantly ignore it, pretending he's not keenly aware of the contact in his peripheral. That Wolfwood is so accepting of his more plant-like form is— not surprising, per se, not when he's always known what Vash is, but he'd been afraid before and so this easy acceptance and curiosity sure is making Vash feel some type of way. (He's ignoring that, too.)

The reprimand is met with a huff and a mutter under his breath that goes something along the lines of "it's not that big of a deal" although he doesn't actually argue. The thing is, Wolfwood is probably right. Not having suffered from any kind of human illness before, he doesn't know exactly what might get him sick and what won't. Being cold is the default state of being here, being a little colder because of his wings hardly seems like it should make any difference. Then again, going out in the storm and getting colder than he's ever been before had likely been the reason he'd gotten sick in the first place.

He feels thoroughly chided when Wolfwood adds a comment about pride and he's also struck once again by how alike Wolfwood and Knives sound. He almost comments on it, but refrains when he knows it's a comparison that Wolfwood certainly won't appreciate and one that might set him off. It's not a comparison he ever would have made before coming here, yet now he can't stop making it. It's the same sort of fussing and nagging he's been enduring at the hands of his twin for months now. Telling him to take pride in his wings is the exact sort of thing Knives would say.

But Vash has never been good in taking pride in what he is, far better at denying the part of himself that sets him apart from the humans he so dearly loves. It's unlikely he'll change that any time soon. ]

I don't see why I should. They're just troublesome...

[ He grumbles with no small amount of petulance. Maybe if they still functioned, he'd feel a bit differently about them. However, in this place they're merely a nuisance. ]

[ Being cold's the default state here, sure, just like being hot was the default state back home. But even the dumbest of dumbasses back on Noman's knew that if you got too hot you got sick from it, so you had to stay cool, find shade, drink water, and not just walk around letting the weather kick your ass! Vash doesn't get to worry about Wolfwood's damn gloves when his feathers are getting soaked, okay?

(And he better fucking not ever compare Wolfwood to Knives again, not if he knows what's good for him!)

At least the feather that's holding his hand has managed to stay nice and dry. They really are soft, aren't they? Wolfwood can't help but run his thumb over it, learning its texture and shape, as they head towards the nearest open building. It's hard to imagine something this soft being able to stop a bullet. Are they still that strong, he can't help but wonder? Could he arm wrestle with it, and find out?

Just picture Vash's face when he brings up that brilliant idea! ]

They're troublesome? Why? Because they don't do what you tell 'em to anymore?

[ He knows he's pushing into territory that's not really any of his business, but if Vash is going to look like a spooked toma every month, then he's got to learn how to deal with troublesome! He can't run away from this problem, and ignoring it is just the same as running away. Men face their problems head on, dammit, whether those problems are serious or silly. ]

Because they get in your way and mess up the way you like doin' things? Can't imagine what that's like.

[ He'll continue his hypocritical fussing all he likes, thanks.

Vash can very faintly feel what Wolfwood's doing, the slight vibrations of the movements send up to where nerves can perceive it. It makes it harder to ignore it and pretend he's not thoroughly flustered by this whole interaction. No matter how it tugs on his attention, he still doesn't look. Can't bear to when he has no idea how to handle anyone treating this monstrous side of him with such undeserved gentleness, least of all someone who has seen him at his most destructive and out of control. His feathers might be harmless and soft now, but they certainly haven't always been.

Here they're a burden in all the ways Wolfwood goes on to question much to Vash's growing annoyance. (At least it helps him to forget his embarrassment.) They betray his inhuman nature in the most visible way possible, they're rendered useless without their ability to harden and move in accordance to his own will, they're cumbersome to move and navigate around with. He's been secretly envious of Vee and his beautiful glowing markings which, although still plainly show his heritage for the world to see, at least don't get in the way and require different adjusted clothing the way his wings and feathers do. It's an inconvenience he can do without when so much is already a struggle for survival as is.

He stops staring downwards at his moving feet in the snow to glower at Wolfwood. Frankly, it really isn't any of his friend's business nor can he ever fully understand what it's like when, no matter how much he's been changed, he's still so very human at his core and doesn't appear anything more or less so. Still, Vash bites rather than telling him to stuff it like he's tempted to do. ]

What are you getting at?

[ Well shit, that went sideways fast. He stops when Vash does, and not only because they're still joined together by that feather (a feather Wolfwood's now trying surreptitiously to slide his hand free of – holding Vash's wing-hand was funny at first, but Spikey's not laughing anymore). It's not like he can just come out and say I want you to stop hating yourself so much. He can't even think it, not in those words. That's too... too personal, too invasive. Too much Vash's business, and not his own. He knows this. Of course he knows this.

But knowing something and being good with it are two entirely different things. The wings might be a nuisance, but it's not simple annoyance that's got Vash letting them drag through the ice and mud, is it? He's pretending they aren't there, ignoring them as much as he can, and that's unsafe. That's going to get him sick again, or snagged in the brush and hurt, or, more seriously, caught by an enemy. If Vash can't keep his feathers under control enough to walk down the street, how's he going to be able to fight when the time comes?

His words were a mistake, he realizes, running back over what was just said with not a little regret. He'd been meaning it to be a crack about having somebody stuck to your side who's every action is an annoyance, who makes you change the way you're doing things because they can't be changed themselves, who never fucking listens. It'd been a dumb joke, sure, but it had been a joke.

It just didn't land that way.

He holds his hands up in brief surrender – peace, friend, he was wrong and he admits it, okay? – trying to find the words to say things that he's not allowed to say. ]

That was supposed to be a joke. [ Whoops? ] I just meant... shit, Spikey, if this is gonna happen every time the damn sky lights up, then you've got to do something with 'em other than letting 'em drag around!

[ Is he just digging himself deeper into that hole? Maybe? ]

I get that they don't work like they used to but look, if they grabbed me then maybe they can grab other stuff?

[ He knows what Wolfwood meant, understood that it had been a dig at him, but it doesn't make the sore spot that got inadvertently pressed sting any less. He also knows that he's potentially being unfair and snapping at Wolfwood when the other man doesn't deserve it. He's just trying to help, in his own abrasive way. What he goes on to say certainly isn't wrong. Vash needs a better way of handling his transformed state. His usual method of simply hiding away inside somewhere might have worked so far, but it's not sustainable. That much is evident by the fact that the Aurora is lingering longer than usual. What if they start lasting for weeks? His coward's way of dealing with it (or rather the lack of) is not going to be feasible in the long run. Especially if it coincides with any danger happening.

The Aurora's effect on him just remains a bitter pill to swallow. If his wings and feathers were still useful, it'd be easier to accept them. Now he just drags around their dead weight with all the awful reminders that come with seeing them. It doesn't help that there's no easy solution save for perhaps an unthinkable one that's occurred to him in the form of an intrusive thought that his brother would kill him for if he knew. (Knives wouldn't, but he'd be so furious. His brother's disappointment at Vash's rejection of his true nature is already enough to deal with.) But who's to say that would even take, that they wouldn't grow back with the next Aurora.

Vash sighs, the glower melting away for an expression that's simply tired and worn. ]

They're just feathers, Wolfwood. They can't lift a thing.

[ Case in point: Wolfwood's attempt to surreptitiously get his hand free is met with about as much resistance as dealing with a stray tangled hair would, there's no real force behind the feather's grip. Wolfwood's freedom is further assured by the way Vash's wings and feathers respond to his emotions, curling forward slightly with the same self-soothing urge Vash usually caves to when he's sitting with his knees pulled up. They don't wrap around him entirely, but they do enter his own line of vision and Vash looks at them with defeated resignation. He reaches out, plucking out a loose feather that he rests on his palm, holding out his hand and watching the wind pick the feather up and send it drifting up into the sky. When he speaks, his voice is wistful despite his attempt at sounding casual. ]

Y'know, I actually learned to fly before I got here.

[ He doesn't speak feather, but the way Vash's wings curl around him sure seems sad, but all Wolfwood can do is watch with frustrated empathy. He knows what it's like to hate yourself, knows only too well what it's like to be disgusted by the shape in the mirror, to be horrified by the way bodies can change, shift, be twisted and perverted into something unnatural and shameful and dangerous. He gets it. And he was there at Jeneora Rock – he was there at the Dragon's Nest. He saw what those feathers could do, once upon a time, and he saw, close-up and personal in a way he'll never forget, how frightened Vash had been at what his body was doing, at how little control he had. He gets it.

But other than a brief glance when he first arrived here, Wolfwood hasn't looked in a mirror in years, and doesn't plan to ever again. His body's a tool that he's been given to use, like his gun, and like his gun he maintains it, cleans it, tends to it when it's damaged, but there's no joy there. There's no celebration of what it can do, no satisfaction when it performs well or pleasure at its appearance. He doesn't take any pride it in, and it was hypocritical of him to say that Vash should be any different.

But Vash is different. Vash is better, and he deserves better. He deserves to be able to fly again. He deserves to be happy. ]

C'mon.

[ There's still dozens of empty houses in the town, picked over for clothes, food, medicines and weapons, but otherwise just as they were left when their owners vanished. Wolfwood reaches through the feathers to put a hand on Vash's shoulder and gives it a squeeze, before steering the man towards the nearest shuttered and quiet empty home. It'll be cold inside, but he's betting there's chairs in the front room and towels wherever the shower is. ]

You could really fly? Not just jumpin' extra high, but flappin' these and really flying?

[ The hand that finds his way to his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly, comes as a soothing balm. Vash offers no resistance when Wolfwood starts steering him away, letting himself be led easily as his feet pick up their previous pace again. Even if Vash doesn't think he deserves it, the easy acceptance and handling is comforting despite it all. He probably should have expected it coming from his best friend. Wolfwood had stood by him even when he'd been terrified and now that Vash is rendered powerless, there's not much to fear despite the visible manifestations of his heritage. Still, it remains a novel and a wondrous thing to be treated the same as usual even if there have been other fellow Interlopers who hadn't batted an eye at his appearance. (It means all the more coming from Wolfwood though.)

He hums an affirmative at the question as he nods. ]

Mmhm, soaring like a bird. I didn't really have time to enjoy it, I was trying to make sure the Earth Forces wouldn't blast us out of the sky and I passed out shortly afterward.

[ Which is really glossing over the whole situation and the circumstances in which he'd been forced to learn how to fly on the spot; do or die for both himself and his brother. Vash isn't elaborating either, just barrelling right on through with continued wistfulness. ]

But just imagine how useful it would be here.

[ Exploring would be made so much easier if he was still capable of flight. Threats could be spotted more easily from above, vast distances covered more swiftly than his feet could ever carry him now, he could go anywhere. If there are other towns out there, they could be reached and he'd probably be able to get back to Milton within the same day. He could finally channel the part of him he loathes most into something that can be useful and beneficial for the whole town.

If only.

That small panic-laden taste of flight is all he'll ever get to know and it's a shame. Maybe it's stupid to miss something he never truly got to have in the first place, but he can dream beyond the memory-filled dreams of hot, sandy winds and a hole in his gut draining his life away while his brother shouts desperately in his ear and the fear of Knives being obliterated with the next shot fired urges him on.

It'd just be nice, he thinks, to feel the wind in his feathers again and only that. ]

wings of feathers, tails and fin tips

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cw: allusions to self-harm & amputation

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