Archive of Our Own ^omega

The night begins like this: Vash and Wolfwood in a golden-lit bar, two tall glasses of beer, and the most beautiful woman they’ve seen in a blue moon.

They’re at a table in the corner when she walks in, nursing their respective drinks. Vash is bathing in the ambiance, listening to people do what they do best. The chatting and arguments and laughter are underlaid by sprightly ragtime piano: sounds of humanity, bright and warm and full of comfort.

The bell above the saloon door jingles to announce a new arrival, and Vash turns toward the sound out of old habit. He takes stock of everyone who dips into the establishment, estimating how many firearms they might have on them—and, crucially, deciding whether that means he’s in trouble, or if he can buy himself another drink.

When he sees her, though—five-foot-four with a smile made of starlight—every thought of guns and bullets falls right out of his head. Instead, his eyes trip over curves and tempting creases. Her black dress leaves just enough to the imagination: tight in some places, loose where it matters. Vash hears a shrill giggle escape his own throat; he quickly turns back to the table and reaches for his glass, so he can hide his face in it before he starts salivating right onto the floor, or something else embarrassing.

It’s only once he resurfaces that he realizes Wolfwood is staring, too. Then Wolfwood appears to sense Vash’s knowing gaze; he startles, sheepishly straightening his neck back out. They exchange a guilty look—alas, we are but men—and Wolfwood takes a long swig from his glass, which is getting dangerously low on beer.

“Wowza,” says Vash, gesturing vaguely in the air. “Women, you know?”

“I concur wholeheartedly.” One of Wolfwood’s scuffed shoes bounces against the footrest of his chair, only nominally following the rhythm of the music. He’s always moving, losing to that restless nicotine itch despite the cigarette wedged between his lips. “As scripture says—goddamn.”

They go back to watching her—in a discreet, courtly sort of way, of course—as she glides over to the counter to order a drink. She takes a seat on one of the stools, tucking a stray lock of hair back into her neat bob; the gesture is endearing, gets Vash’s heart all aflutter.

He lets out a dreamy sigh. “You think she’s here on her own?”

“Better shoot your shot while you still can, Spikey,” Wolfwood warns. “Else I might get there first.”

“Hey, back off. Aren’t you a priest?”

“Not that kind of priest.” Wolfwood looks scandalized at the implication of celibacy , and Vash isn’t well versed enough in the particulars of Wolfwood’s, qu’est-ce que c’est, “unique denomination” to argue. “Well? If you’re gonna go for it, now’s your chance.”

“Oh, it’s been ages since I flirted,” Vash muses, tracing circles into the table with his index finger. “I don’t think I could, even if I tried.”

Wolfwood gives Vash the cool look of a man who was there during Vash’s breezy chat with the repair shop mechanic yesterday, and the guy at the pâtisserie earlier this morning, and the lady at the door of this bar not half an hour ago, but has nevertheless decided to indulge him.

“A hundred and fifty years on this fuckin’ rock and you’re tellin’ me you’ve got negative game?” Wolfwood leans back in his chair, observing Vash through narrowed eyes. He really is playing along. How cute of him. “I don’t believe you. I think you’re lyin’ to me, Spikes.”

“You’re just thinking of my charming personality. My natural pull. The actual, um, techniques I used to use? They’ve kind of … fallen out of favor.”

Wolfwood raises his eyebrows. “Oh? What techniques are these?”

“Ooooh.” Vash winces. “I don’t really like to talk about it.”

“Your dark and tortured past? Well, now I have to know.”

“Ahaha, well—my understanding is—I mean to say, several very patient people have made me aware that what I thought of as harmless flirting might have been construed by the target as, uh …”

Vash twirls his finger in the air, hoping the motion implies enough to spare him from detailing his shame. Indeed, Wolfwood cringes right on cue. 

“Right. I changed my mind. Don’t think I wanna hear it.”

“Um, yeah.” Vash’s shoulders draw up. “It wasn’t great.”

“For shame.” Wolfwood yawns and stretches, propping his arms behind his head and pushing his chest out until something in his shoulder pops. His biceps strain against the sleeves of his suit. Vash bumps his count of guns in the establishment up by two. “So when did you decide to abandon these wretched, sinful ways? Honest answers only. God is listening.”

“Oh, if God’s listening—” Underneath the table, Wolfwood kicks him in the shin. “Owie. Let’s see—probably around the time you were born?”

Wolfwood clicks his tongue in disapproval. “That’s plenty of time to figure things out.”

“Don’t sell yourself short! You are a fresh flower in the garden of life.”

“And you are an observant man.” Wolfwood props one forearm on the table and leans toward Vash, dark eyes twinkling with amusement. “How would you approach a modern lady, such as yon fine specimen by the bar? C’mon, Mr. Stampede. Show me your fiercest moves.”

“Oh, um. Okay.” Vash closes his eyes, clears his throat into his fist—then fixes Wolfwood in the beam of his stare, turns on his best sparkle, and drops his voice low. “So, gorgeous, you come here often?”

“Absolutely not.” Wolfwood brings a hand up to shield the side of his face, blotting Vash from his field of vision. “That was appalling.”

Vash crosses his arms over his chest and glowers. “You demonstrate then, if you’re so dang clever.”

“Right, okay.” Wolfwood sets his glass aside and angles his body toward Vash—and is he pushing his chest out on purpose, or is it just that prominent all on its own?

“You want a woman to like you, you’ve got to listen to her,” Wolfwood says. He leans closer, and Vash nods, captivated by his—uh, by his words. “Ask her questions about herself. And then—here’s the kicker—actually pay attention to the answers.”

“Listen attentively, huh?” Easy. Vash is doing that right now. Utterly undistracted. “The way one might in, say, a confessional?”

“I mean. I guess so?”

“Wolfwood. Are you using your priest schtick to get laid?”

“I would never,” Wolfwood says grandly, “abuse the trust my profession inspires.”

“Ohoho, I’m not too sure about that.” Vash points an accusing finger straight at Wolfwood’s forehead. “And you don’t, for the record.”

Wolfwood swats Vash’s hand away. “Don’t what?”

“Pay attention.”

The flash of a smirk—white teeth, crinkled dark eyes—tugs Vash’s gaze once and for all back up to Wolfwood’s face. 

“Sorry, could you repeat that?”

This fucker. “I’m armed, you know? I’m a very good shot, you know?”

“Ha! Do your worst, Mr. Pacifist.” And Wolfwood laughs—full-throated, disarming laughter that has Vash’s hackles lowering even as his bottom lip juts into a pout.

Vash looks into his nearly empty glass, then back over at the bar. And, ah, curse it all—while they were busy chatting, the babe in the black dress was sucked into an impenetrable vortex of Other People. Some guy with a bad sunburn but a very expensive suit has his hand at the small of her back. She is leaning into him as if they’ve known each other for years.

“Alas,” Vash says. “It appears we’ve been foiled.”

“It does indeed,” Wolfwood sighs, then adds wistfully, “Ah, but the ass on her—you’d have angels crying for less.” 

Vash nods sympathetically, without bothering to mention his preference for T over A. This is a solemn moment. It’s just not the time.

“Ya snooze ya lose,” he offers instead.

“Right, right.” A thoughtful nod from Wolfwood. “Very wise. And with that, my dear companion—would you like another beer?”

“Would I ever!”

They order another round and wash it down with straight whiskey. The part of Vash’s brain that’s keeping track of who might start shooting is beginning to quiet down, muffled by a warm, boozy haze.

“Hey,” Wolfwood says, low and urgent, tugging at Vash’s sleeve. Vash leans closer, ending up within range of Wolfwood’s body heat. “Over there. We better look lively.”

Vash peeks over in the direction he’s pointing. Oh, happy days—two women, sitting a few tables away, are undeniably checking them out. As he’s returning the favor, Vash happens to meet eyes with one of them—plump, dark-skinned, wearing a tasteful pink dress. He flashes his most winning smile, then turns back to face Wolfwood, who is looking increasingly distressed.

“They’re coming over here,” Wolfwood hisses, hand darting out to grip Vash’s wrist, nails digging into Vash’s flesh arm. “Get your act together, Spikey.”

“Me? You’re the one who’s sweating, Wolfwood,” Vash says sweetly, then squeaks with indignation when Wolfwood pinches his forearm.

“Hi.” The woman in the pink dress is breathless and giggly when she stops in front of their table. The cloud of sweet perfume surrounding her is making Vash lightheaded. “Do you guys mind if we sit here?”

“The more the merrier, yes? We would love to have you!” Vash turns the smolder all the way back up—and although Wolfwood is pinching him again, Pink Dress grins delightedly. Her friend, a brunette in frighteningly tight jeans, is already sliding her skinny assets into the chair next to Wolfwood.

As Pink Dress claims the spot beside Vash—man, she smells really good, especially over the sour reek of spilled booze that’s starting to fill the place—he and Wolfwood exchange a glance. Vash treats him to the told you so eyebrow raise, and Wolfwood, despite all the pinching, has to hide a sunbeam smile.

They never get their names. Instead, the four of them slip directly into late-night camaraderie—Wolfwood orders a round of shots, then conjures a deck of cards from his pocket, and the night slips away in drink and laughter.

Vash and Pink Dress hit it off swimmingly. She laughs when he puts on his eager pup act, blushes when he eats a pretzel from her fingers. Tight Jeans attached herself to Wolfwood the moment she sat down; she’s never once stopped turning her body toward him and twirling her hair when he talks. Vash observes them from the corner of his eye, curious if Wolfwood’s showing off those full, well-rounded listening skills at all.

Just as he’s peeking over, a server passes by their table. “We’re closing up shop in thirty minutes,” she says. “That’s three-oh. Last order’s now, if you’re so inclined.”

“It’s that late already?” Pink Dress glances at her dainty wristwatch. “Oh my gosh. It is.”

The piano player is long gone by now. There are plenty of guests still here, in various states of inebriation; some are scrambling for that last drink, others are getting up and stumbling back into the warm desert night.

“Time flies,” Tight Jeans trills, her eyes sliding to Wolfwood with all the subtlety of a careening sandsteamer. “You guys wanna move the party somewhere else?”

Oh. Oh no. A possibility—still nebulous and vague fifteen minutes ago—is now solidifying in front of Vash’s eyes. Pretty girls with willing smiles. Alcohol. The dark privacy of a hotel room. Skin and sweat and—oh dear, he’s not sure he’s having fun anymore.

Looking is one thing. Looking is great. Now, touching? Letting someone come close enough to share his breath and taste his skin? That’s another beast entirely.

Good thing Vash the Stampede, the Humanoid Typhoon, the sixty billion double-dollar man, has had plenty of practice making himself untouchable.

Vash seizes his mug, startling Tight Jeans just as she’s about to ghost her fingers up Wolfwood’s arm. He takes a hearty swig, draining half of what’s left in a single gulp, then exhales in a deep pahhhh and lets his eyes roll back into his head.

“Oh, maman! I think zey are after me! Maman, however shall I get back to you nowwwauuuughhh—” 

He braces himself for impact and slams his head onto the table below.

His skull connects with a dull wooden thud. Glasses rattle, silverware clinks, one of the women screams. A red flare of pain blossoms on Vash’s forehead.

A brief pocket of utter silence envelops the saloon as every head in it turns toward the sound. Vash’s world is pleasantly unbalanced with alcohol. He absorbs the stares into his skin, directed at a drunk and a freak and a weirdo. What’s wrong with that guy? Ahhh, same old, same old. He’s been here before. It’s oh so comfy.

The buzz of conversation starts back up as everyone in the room dismisses him. Vash smiles against the table’s rough grain.

“Is he okay?” Pink Dress, bless her, sounds genuinely concerned.

“Yikes. You might want to take care of him.” That’s Tight Jeans. Her tone is a bit more disapproving. Vash doesn’t blame her.

“I … uh, yeah.” Wolfwood. Scrape of a chair against the floor, then a warm hand on Vash’s back. “Sorry about that.”

“That’s okay. I think we need to get going, though.” Footsteps. Voices receding. “Have a good night.”

“Night,” Wolfwood mutters. The palm resting between Vash’s shoulder blades slides down to the small of his back. “C’mon, Spike. Don’t die on me.”

Vash peers to the side. Once he’s satisfied the girls have gone, he peels his cheek from the table and sits back up. The concern in Wolfwood’s face morphs into disbelief as Vash shakes off the plastered act and reverts to his actual state of moderate drunkenness.

“’M fine. Just fiiiine and dandy.”

“Man, what the hell?” Wolfwood sounds annoyed. The hand on Vash’s back vanishes. “That was it right there. That was the opportunity. And it just walked out that door.”

“Sorryyyy,” Vash whines. “I just freaked out.”

“Yeah, we all noticed,” Wolfwood sighs. Vash follows the line of his gaze: the bartender, starting to give them stink-eye. “We should leave before they kick us out.”

“Mmm, okie-dokie.”

Vash pushes himself up from the table—and, whoa; he’s not as drunk as he was pretending to be, but not as sober as he felt sitting down, either. He stumbles, and Wolfwood’s hand is instantly there again, gripping his upper arm.

“Come on, dumbass. Let’s go.”

Wolfwood slings Vash’s arm around his shoulders, wrapping his own arm around Vash’s waist. This is routine to him by now; he ends up hauling Vash around almost every time they go drinking. Vash considers telling him that he can walk just fine, but decides not to deprive Wolfwood of this cherished bonding ritual.

They drag their asses out of the saloon, onto the street outside. It’s nearly two in the morning. The worst crowds have gone, but dedicated partygoers are still in full swing.

“Ohhh, fresh night air.” Vash inhales deeply. Said air smells like cooling sand and someone’s fresh vomit. “Eurgh. Delectable.”

Wolfwood bumps his hip against Vash’s. “You piss me off, you know that?”

“Eheh. Sorry.” Vash grins. “Heyyy, Wolfwood?”

“Yes?”

“I’m not tired yet, sooo … do you maybe wanna drink some more?”

“After the scene you put on back there, I need to forget all about tonight,” Wolfwood mutters. “So hell fuckin’ yeah, Spikey. Let’s get trashed.”

The lamplight glow of the hotel room glints off glass bottles and throws soft shadows across Wolfwood’s face. He is regaling Vash with a tale of successful seduction; Vash had asked for one, since he’d bungled everything back at the saloon before he could see Wolfwood in action. The story involves an escape from outlaws, the humiliating loss of his wallet down a narrow storm drain, and a serendipitous encounter with a handsome older woman in the town square.

They’re sitting at the far end of the room—Wolfwood on the bed, Vash on the floor with his back leaned up against it—so that they won’t disturb the house of cards they built with the deck in Wolfwood’s pocket. They managed four glorious stories. Even shitfaced, ace gunmen have steady hands. Still, they’d backed away from their creation the second Wolfwood put the crowning arch in place (Vash laughing, Wolfwood hissing don’t breathe, Spikey, don’t you dare breathe) and now the table is off limits, lest the castle should fall. 

“You were doing chores the entire time you stayed with her?” Vash leans forward to touch his toes, grasping the arches of his feet. His boots are standing by the door, next to Wolfwood’s shoes and the looming outline of the Punisher. His coat is draped over the back of one of the chairs they aren’t using, Wolfwood’s blazer on top of it, black on red. “Lame.”

“She put me up in that basement for four days straight.” Wolfwood takes a drag on his cigarette. They have the window open, to little avail; the smell is already in the walls. “Three meals a goddamn day. And all I had to do in exchange was the laundry, the dishes, and feedin’ her ugly-ass cat.”

“Nothing else?” Vash says knowingly, straightening back up.

“The other favors were, ah. Mutually beneficial.”

“Oooooh, she was keeping you like a prize thomas. Wolfwooood, you lucky man.”

“It wasn’t bad,” Wolfwood admits, the corners of his mouth tugging into a self-satisfied smile.

“Wowie,” Vash says. “I love women.” He looks down at his full shot glass. “And drinking.”

“To women,” Wolfwood declares. “And drinking.”

They clink their glasses together and knock them back. The spirit burns hot and clean down Vash’s throat, settling like an ember in his chest. Vash has lost count of which toast this is. Enough to make his skin buzz and his hand feel distant and his brain float in a soupy haze.

Of course, part of him is always on alert. He eyes the guns arranged on the vanity table. How many bottles would it take for Vash the Stampede to lose his aim? He hasn’t found out yet, hopes he’ll never have to. But even if something does go wrong, he can’t bring himself to worry. After all, he’s got backup. Wolfwood is here.

In honor of this, Vash reaches for the whiskey and pours himself another shot.

Wolfwood grinds his cigarette into the ashtray on the night table, already overflowing with butts. Some are smoked down to the filter; others must have been lit and almost immediately abandoned, just their tips dusted with ash. Vash can imagine Wolfwood stubbing them out absent-mindedly, then wandering out the door five minutes later, the next cigarette already between his lips.

His lips. 

Unthinking, Vash leans his head against Wolfwood’s leg. The bones of Wolfwood’s knee press a pleasant coin of pain into his temple, mirroring the lingering ache between his eyes.

“How’s your head?” Wolfwood asks. Reading his mind.

“Oh, it’s fine, mostly.” Vash laughs—he can tell it’s coming out too loud, but there’s not much he can do about that. “Don’t flick me on the forehead, though.”

“Finally a weakness.”

“Hey! Rude.”

The reminder of his antics has an odd emotion gnawing at Vash’s gut. He can’t name it, but it feels mostly like guilt. When he drove his head into that saloon table, he was only thinking of himself. He balked at the prospect of taking someone home, and didn’t spare a moment to consider that he was botching Wolfwood’s chances, too.

Vash notes with some dismay that the whiskey bottle at his side is empty. Not to fear—they bought a whole array of sauce on their way back to the hotel. There is a nice rum on top of the refrigerator that he would love to get acquainted with.

“Sorry, by the way,” Vash mumbles, clambering slowly to his feet. “For messing things up earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Wolfwood clears his throat. “I wasn’t really … I mean, I thought you were the one who wanted to get laid.”

“Ahaha, weeell …” Vash sways a little. “It’s the journey for me and not the destination, you know? The game, the chase, the mayfly of love …”

“What are you talking about?”

“What’s not to get? That’s just the life of a desperadooohhhhhh—”

He trips over his own feet. For once it’s not intentional. The mad tap dance he attempts to regain his balance fails miserably, and he topples toward his certain doom.

Warm hands catch him by the waist. They steady him, nudge the trajectory of his fall so that he lands on the bed instead of his face. The breath is knocked out of his lungs, and when he inhales again, against the sheets, his head is filled with Wolfwood’s scent.

He’s not drunk enough to press his nose into the bed and sniff, but it’s a close thing.

Vash turns his head toward Wolfwood, sitting on the bed beside him. One of his hands is still resting on Vash’s hip. 

“Hey, you no-good womanizer.” Wolfwood’s smiling, the faint beginnings of crow’s feet radiating from the corners of his eyes. They’re something Vash will never have, and that simple difference makes them seem so precious. “Might wanna take it easy.”

“I think I’m a little drunk,” Vash breathes. Yeah—now that he’s horizontal, blood rushing into his head, he can really tell. His legs hanging off the side of the bed; his cheek smushed against the mattress—they feel like they belong to someone else. Only his heartbeat is entirely his, throbbing in his chest and temples.

“You don’t say. D’you mind scooching over?”

Obediently, Vash pulls his legs up into the bed and rolls to the side. The mattress sags under Wolfwood’s weight as he stretches himself out beside him, head resting on one arm, mouth still tilted in that faint smile.

He drops his hand back onto Vash’s hip.

There’s no way he would do that sober. Right? And if Vash were sober, the voice in his head wouldn’t be so loud—but now it’s drowning out the thoughts that know better, murmuring wow oh wow, his nose, his brow, his eyelashes. His lips his lips his lips.

Vash blinks, and finds himself staring into soft black eyes.

Heat stirs in his abdomen. The window is still open—he can hear the breeze, faint voices calling out from far away—but, fuck, it’s boiling in here.

Wolfwood’s thin white shirt is wrinkled, unbuttoned past his sternum. Vash’s eyes slide down the tendons in his neck, catching on the divot of his collarbone—it looks delicate, breakable, despite the strength of the chest below.

The chest below. Dark hair on firm pectorals. Smooth brown skin. I should have drunk more water. The back of Vash’s throat is tight and dry.

“Pretty good night, huh?”

Wolfwood’s voice is low and husky. With exhaustion, alcohol. Yeah. That’s it.

“Uh-huh,” Vash says, so aware of his own lips as he moves them.

Wolfwood is so close. Close enough to share his breath and taste his skin.

If it’s you …

It’s going to happen. Vash knows it. Still, he suspends the moment for as long as he can. Time stretches like taffy. There is a tingling in his lips and groin.

Wolfwood moves first. Vash isn’t sure he knows how to do that anymore, if he ever has—always waiting, reacting. But ever since Vash first glimpsed him across the sand wastes, Wolfwood has played off that reactiveness, used it to pull him in new directions.

He pulls him in now, too. His hand cups the back of Vash’s neck, draws Vash close—and he presses their lips together.

The world splits into a before and an after. In a single moment, Vash has learned what Wolfwood’s mouth feels like against his own, learned the shape of his face when he is so close that Vash’s eyelashes nearly brush his cheeks.

Vash learns what it is like to kiss Nicholas D. Wolfwood—and, best of all, what it’s like to have Wolfwood kiss him back.

Vash’s arm wraps around Wolfwood’s waist. He licks at Wolfwood’s lips, and Wolfwood grunts, kissing back harder in response. They come together rough and desperate, bodies pressing tight to one another, needing to experience everything, everything, before the moment shatters and the chance to have him slips away.

The tip of Wolfwood’s nose presses into Vash’s cheek, dimpling flesh each time he kisses. Vash’s heart throbs. Just what I imagined it would feel like. 

He’s never acknowledged that before—that he’s imagined it. Those thoughts have stayed at the very back of his mind, along with the prickling awareness that Wolfwood hasn’t told him everything about his reasons for running into Vash the Stampede. Suspicions that, in daylight, Vash keeps neatly tucked away: you are more than you let on, and I may be too captivated to care.

They pull apart. A thin string of saliva still connects their mouths. Neither of them attempts to break it, as if it’s the only thing letting them hold on.

Vash is breathing hard. He’s drunk on more than whiskey. 

Wolfwood strokes Vash’s hair back from his face. Vash is about to lean into the touch, but his skull throbs with pain when Wolfwood brushes the sore spot.

“Ow. Forehead.”

“Oh—right. Sorry.” Soft breathless laughter. “Just the journey for you, huh.”

“I did say that. But I’m pretty flexible. And inconsistent, and—”

And Wolfwood kisses him again.

Vash’s hands clutch at Wolfwood’s arms. Wolfwood’s hand slides down Vash’s neck and side, coming to rest on his pelvis, fingertips just brushing the curve of his ass. Vash huffs, grasping Wolfwood’s wrist, and places his palm firmly over the cheek.

“I don’t have much to work with,” he apologizes. “No angels crying over this, but—”

“But I might,” Wolfwood mumbles, and squeezes. God, the strength in those Punisher-slinging fingers—Vash wishes he would grab on harder. He giggles despite himself, the sound swallowed when Wolfwood claims his lips again.

He’s hard. Vash can feel it where their hips press together. His own body responds to it, quickening against the outline of Wolfwood’s cock—and his mind, true to a century-long habit of relying on no one but himself, resists.

As bad as he wants this, some discomforts are too rooted to shake. It’s more wariness than shame—conviction not to pull anyone else into the storm of circumstances that has marred his body. The feeling lingers even here, in the arms of someone who, in his own way, is already inextricably involved.

There are ways around it, though. Ways to touch without being touched.

Vash breaks away from Wolfwood’s lips, kissing toward his ear, down his neck. He smells good, even underneath the sharpness of the booze and the ashy tang of cigarettes. Masculine and sweet.

Wolfwood’s pulse flutters against Vash’s lips. It’s only once he’s kissed past the collarbone, down that sliver of exposed chest, that Wolfwood realizes where he’s headed.

“Oh, fuck . Vash—”

Hearing his name in that low voice has a cool finger of pleasure stroking down his spine.

“Let me?” Vash glances up from Wolfwood’s belly, his fingers already hooked in Wolfwood’s belt. “I really wanna taste you.”

Wolfwood’s neck and chest have gone pink. His hand comes up to cover his face, a gesture of genuine bashfulness that is hard to imagine from him sober.

“God help me,” he mumbles, mostly to himself.

Vash’s hands are a little unpracticed as they unbuckle the belt, setting Wolfwood’s heavy length free. His tongue and fingers have been places in the past hundred years, mostly up the cunts of women offering favors he couldn’t refuse. But the last time he did anything like this was decades ago—an emergency out, the easiest way to defuse a situation without anybody getting hurt. Vash the Stampede has no problem smiling and getting on his knees, if that’s what it comes to, but he is painfully unused to doing this for himself.

This, though. This is selfishness incarnate.

And it really is different. He can’t remember anything like the thrill that goes through him when he takes Wolfwood into his mouth, the delicious satisfaction as Wolfwood gasps and shudders. 

He wraps his lips around him and strokes him with his tongue, running his fingers through the coarse dark curls nestled at the base. Wolfwood’s skin is so soft. Dick like fine velvet, Vash doesn’t say; perhaps it is better that he can’t run his mouth during this.

He treats himself to a little peek. And, oh, that sends a hard pulse straight between his legs—Wolfwood’s face is flushed, and in the soft golden light, his thick, dark lashes throw shadows down his cheeks. His parted lips are plush and wet from kissing, and there’s something so lewd about that open shirt: pushed partway up his stomach, the collar wrinkled and askew.

Vash returns to his task, heart punching him in the ribs all the while. Wolfwood’s hands come up to cup his head, fingers threading through his hair. His palms are wide and warm; Vash knows they’re callused, from the burden he carries, from the work he does with his hands. There’s as much restraint as tenderness in those palms—full of so much tension, as if holding them still is taking everything he has. What would happen if he let that restraint go? Would he pull Vash closer? Make him gag on it? Oh, Nicholas, are you afraid you’d be cruel?

It’s okay, Vash wants to say, you can hurt me a little. I don’t mind if it’s you. What a shame his mouth is full.

Vash licks around the tip, kissing, suckling. He trails his tongue along a vein, prominent and throbbing, and feels Wolfwood harden and swell. Then Wolfwood moans; Vash glances up, and his insides flip over. Wolfwood’s head has tipped back, his mouth half-open. He’s close.

Vash sucks harder, dipping in for a deeper stroke. His hand fists what he can’t fit, working in tandem with his mouth, keeping a sweet, smooth rhythm. The other hand—the gun hand—stays at the crease of Wolfwood’s thigh, dormant for now, steadying.

“Oh, oh God, oh fuck—”

Fifty-odd years since he did this, with alcohol in his system to boot—suffice to say he’s not prepared for the way Wolfwood’s cock pulses against his lips, spilling heat onto his tongue. The back of Vash’s throat flexes; he chokes, Wolfwood’s cock slips from his mouth, and the rest of Wolfwood’s cum splatters Vash’s face.

Warm. Vash blinks, but a thick, viscous glob stays across his vision. The orange tint reminds him—he never took his glasses off. Oops. Aside from that solid smear on the left lens, most of the load landed along his cheek and chin. He can feel its slow ooze down his jawbone. Evidence of what he made Wolfwood feel, wet and sticky, all over him … Desire stirs in Vash’s own body, a low, heavy need.

“Shit,” Wolfwood’s mumbling, “shit, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay.” Dazed, Vash dips his tongue out to lick at the mess. Salty. Unfamiliar. This is what Wolfwood tastes like. He glances up; Wolfwood looks like he might pass out at any second. “I kind of like it.”

“Holy motherfuckin’ damn.”

“That’s not in the Bible,” Vash says weakly.

Wolfwood exhales hard, covering his face with the crook of his elbow.

“So, how was it? Did it feel good?” Vash can hear how needy he sounds, demanding reassurance, but he craves the admission—it’s a way to make a tiny part of Wolfwood his.

“Yeah. Real good.” Wolfwood huffs with incredulous laughter, like he can’t believe Vash is asking. “You’re very, uh. Attractive.”

I know, Vash doesn’t say, because hearing it from Wolfwood is like finding water in the desert.

“You too.” The spunk is starting to dry. It doesn’t even occur to him to clean it off until Wolfwood’s trembling hands retrieve a handkerchief from his pants pocket, proffering it in front of his face.

“Um. Here.”

Wordlessly, Vash takes the folded square and wipes Wolfwood’s cum away, resisting the bizarre urge to lick up as much as he can, to keep Wolfwood inside him. He removes and polishes his glasses, sets them on the night table, then hands the hankie back. Wolfwood uses what clean fabric is left to deal with his own mess, then tucks his still-swollen cock back into his pants. Vash crawls up the bed to lie down beside him, and those wet dark eyes are on him again, dazed and a little awed.

“Let me do you next.” Wolfwood strokes Vash’s cheek, the hand that normally wrestles him or slaps him around so improbably tender. “Please. I wanna make you feel good.”

Vash pushes against Wolfwood’s shoulders, holds him at a few breaths’ length. “Sorry, Wolfwood. Not tonight.”

The story written on his body is long and inhuman. There’s no one he trusts to read it more than Wolfwood, but he’s not ready to share it just yet.

It’s okay. There is tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Wolfwood’s expression is so open, so earnest. Vash hates to think he’s hurt. “But I …”

“It’s not that I don’t want to.” You’re so handsome it makes my chest ache. “I’m just—I can’t. Not yet. Not this time.”

Next time. Vash sees hope glimmer across that sweet face. 

“You sure? Don’t seem fair that I’m the only one who gets to … mmn.”

The back of his hand—veins, knuckles; good God—ghosts down Vash’s hip, brushes close to his crotch. A shiver twitches through Vash’s shoulders, but he catches Wolfwood’s wrist in his robotic hand—the one that can’t feel Wolfwood’s warmth, the one that will keep him sane—and gently moves it aside.

“I’m sure. I liked doing it, though.” Vash’s head spins at the admission, which is completely true and utterly inadequate all at once. “It was good for me too.”

A blush erupts across Wolfwood’s cheeks.

“Keep this up an’ I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“Would that be so bad?” Vash hears himself mumbling. He must really be drunk.

“Well, Spike, you’re makin’ me wonder.”

Wolfwood kisses him again. Clumsily this time; their teeth click together uncomfortably. Then Wolfwood’s tongue is in Vash’s mouth. Can he taste himself? Does he like it, his own salt on Vash’s lips?

They tangle around one another, close as sin, Vash’s head light from touches, kisses, gentle moans. Wolfwood smells like whiskey and tobacco and sweat. Vash inhales him greedily, flesh hand groping for those firm tits. Wolfwood lets him squeeze and stroke, shuddering so sweetly when Vash’s thumb rubs his nipple. Ah, fuck. Wolfwood’s not the only one about to lose it.

And then, mid-kiss, Wolfwood pulls back and yawns—a big heaving breath that exposes all of his teeth. They’re white and strong, the canines slightly pointy.

Vash can’t help but smile. “Need sleep?”

“Need you.” He yawns again. “But now that you mention it, that does sound pretty good.”

The inside of Vash’s chest is one big bruise, unbearably tender. “If you’re not gonna smoke any more, I’ll close the window. So our stuff will still be here in the morning.”

“Go ahead. Don’t trip and fall, though. Be a shame if you broke that pretty face.”

Vash staggers to the window, a sound of lament leaving his throat when he sees that half their card palace has collapsed—a tragic victim of the breeze from outside. After he closes it and makes his way back, turning off all the lights as he goes, they arrange themselves in the too-narrow bed. Wolfwood, closest to the wall, claims big spoon, draping his arm over Vash’s waist. Vash feels Wolfwood’s heartbeat against his back, ticking time-bomb quick. He reaches for Wolfwood’s hand, threading their fingers together. If he wasn’t so exhausted, he’d want to take his glove off, maybe his tank top too, and savor the feel of Wolfwood’s skin. He’d want to press that hand to his own heart and make sure Wolfwood feels it flutter—me too, Nicholas; me too.

He closes his eyes. The world tilts around him, lopsided with drink, but Wolfwood is an anchor, warm and solid. They curve around each other like commas, promises that something else is sure to follow. 

It will be dawn soon, Vash thinks, and fades into unconscious bliss.

Morning comes too early. Vash’s eyes open on their own, his body so used to five o’clock drills it’s forgotten how to sleep in. He squints at the wall clock—seven-fifteen. Lovely.

He slept three hours, give or take. His eyelids are sandpaper rough. The booze lingers in his system, but all the fun has already passed through him. Only nausea remains.

His clothes feel clingy and slept-in, weighed down by last night’s sweat and dust. A quick sniff confirms he’s kind of rank. Probably they both are.

Both of us. Wolfwood.

It feels a little bit illegal, now that the sun is peering through the curtains. Still, Vash turns over in bed, just for a peek.

Wolfwood’s eyes are closed, his eyebrows slightly pulled together. It makes him look concerned, a little vulnerable, and very sweet. 

Good morning, beautiful man whose dick I sucked. The bragging rights are mine for life.

His rumpled shirt and exposed collarbone are unbearably erotic. Maybe looking was a mistake—Vash’s heart is picking up speed, knocking so loud against his ribs he’s afraid the noise might wake Wolfwood. Vash the Stampede has been alive for a hundred and fifty years, and he cannot remember the last time he felt this nervous.

You are so young. I feel like I’ve known you forever.

Why can’t I take my eyes off you?

Vash lies very still, curled up on his side, and watches Wolfwood sleep. He’s close enough to see the spots Wolfwood missed while shaving, tufts of dark whiskers longer than the fresh stubble growing in. The gentle rise and fall of his chest is mesmerizing—and, conveniently, takes Vash’s mind off the fact that he kind of wants to puke. 

After a few hours—two? three?—Wolfwood shifts and stirs. His eyes slit open, squinting against the thin finger of sunlight reaching into the room, then settling on Vash. Vash hasn’t moved an inch, contentedly observing.

“Mornin’, Spikey.”

“Hi.”

“Head hurts.”

“Yeah.”

Wolfwood blinks and stretches, pushing himself onto his elbows. His hair is a mess, sticking up at the back. One side of his face is covered in red markings from being pressed against the wrinkled sheet. He is a work of fucking art.

“What timessit?” He groans, rubbing at his temple. “Need a shower …”

Vash is gripped by the sudden, dreadful conviction that letting Wolfwood get up now means it’s all over. If he gets out of bed and throws the curtains open, the sunlight will burn away this fragile thing between them, and it will be as if it never was.

I want him to stay.

The thought comes through so sharp and clear it almost startles him. It’s a rare thing to hear, in a mind so full of guilt and penance: I want.

He lays his flesh hand on Wolfwood’s waist. Wolfwood stills, his gaze meeting Vash’s, and … did his breathing hitch for a second?

Vash’s mouth is very dry. He summons all of his resolve and looks Wolfwood deep in the eyes.

“We are both so gross right now, but do you mind if I kiss you?”

And gratifyingly, blessedly quick, Wolfwood’s sleepy face cracks into a soft smile.

“Oh, man. Was half wonderin’ if I’d dreamt it.”

“You didn’t.” Wolfwood’s smile widens at that, and he blinks slowly, like a trusting cat. That’s not an answer, though. To his own mortification, Vash’s tone slips into a whine. “But seriously, can I?”

And there’s that disbelieving laughter again, the same as last night—do you even need to ask? “Yeah, Spikey. Sure ya can.”

So Vash scoots closer, and the smell of booze and sweat and morning breath means nothing to him as he leans in to kiss Wolfwood on the lips.

The kiss is dry and chaste. As far as kisses go, it’s a little disappointing—hard to enjoy between the nausea and the twin headaches of his hangover and last night’s bruise—but Vash’s heart is full of Wolfwood, so he doesn’t mind at all.

They break apart, and Wolfwood grins, thumb stroking Vash’s jawbone.

“Yer mouth tastes like a barroom floor.”

“Yours tastes like crusty cigarettes.”

“Yeah, yeah. At least you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

By some silent agreement, they end up back in each other’s arms. Wolfwood nuzzles into Vash’s shoulder, and Vash buries his nose in Wolfwood’s hair. He’s nice and warm, even through last night’s clothes.

Pressed close to him like this, Vash feels Wolfwood’s heart beating hard. A little quick for a guy who just woke up, eh? Delight unfurls in Vash’s chest.

“Should probably get goin’.” Wolfwood’s voice rumbles against Vash, still a little rough with sleep. “D’you think we have enough cash for bus fare?”

“Doubt it. We spent it all on the good booze.”

“Lord have mercy.”

“It was worth it, I think!”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not driving.”

“But I’m good at boosting morale.”

Wolfwood gives Vash’s ass a sharp tap. “You’re a worm and a gremlin.”

“Aye! And I pull off both so well.”

Wolfwood makes a low grumbling noise, then lifts his head off the mattress like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. His eyes narrow as he catches sight of Vash’s expression.

“What’s with the shit-eating grin?”

“Heh. Cute, right?”

“Hm. Hold that thought.” Wolfwood’s huff sounds indignant, but there is a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I think I need a smoke.”