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“Wolfwood! Don’t!” Vash’s voice was almost a scream. The metal walkway under him reverberated with each footfall.
The slam of Wolfwood’s heart in his ears nearly drowned out the sound. He could taste blood in his mouth. Sweat stung his eyes. Everything was smooth and simple as he swung his cross over his shoulder again, planting a foot and shifting into position. Brace for recoil. Line up the shot. Send the bastard to hell.
“Nick!”
Damn him. Who did Vash think he was, to grant mercy to every fucker in this wasteland? It didn’t matter what he thought. He was fast, but he’d been way too far when Wolfwood had finally cornered their target. The killer was staring, wide-eyed through the shattered lenses on their blank-faced helmet. Wolfwood’s kick had broken the mirrored glass that had rendered them completely faceless before. Now they could make eye contact.
Good. When punishment was coming, it was better to see it face-to-face.
The action of the trigger was effortless. Wolfwood had practiced it until his fingers were sore, then bleeding, then calloused over. He kept the mechanism pristinely maintained and his diligence paid off. There was no hitch, no moment of pause he could use to back out or wrench the barrel in a different direction.
Not even when red flashed across his vision, not even when Vash– damn him, damn him– was between him and his prey.
Wolfwood roared. Fury was the first emotion up his throat, clawing out of his mouth in a string of curses. The barrel dropped and clanged against the ground. It was terrible form. An incredibly distant part of Wolfwood remembered being scolded for the habit, voices shouting about the damage he could be doing to his weapon.
Nothing mattered. Vash was hit, his momentum changing sharply and slamming him into the floor. He skidded to a stop against the same railing that the enemy was in front of, cowering. Wolfwood should have raised his cross again, finished it, then moved on. They were still a fuckin’ threat, Wolfwood hadn’t even disarmed them.
But nothing mattered. Obviously.
Wolfwood was frozen and staring for the first few heartbeats, his brain jolted to a complete standstill. Vash wasn’t moving. From here, there was no way to tell if he was breathing. He was turned away, half-curled in on himself. Was that blood his, or from the enemy, or from the explosion in the middle of town? The cross landed hard again, dropped and ignored.
“What the fuck?!” the enemy shrieked in a mechanically-tinted voice, altered through whatever comms system remained in their helmet. They scrambled back, grabbing the railing to stand, then turned to run. Where was there to go? The town behind was ruined, Vash had disabled the getaway vehicle they’d been aiming for after the explosion and–
Why did Wolfwood even care where they went? It wasn’t like it mattered anymore. Their escape was as meaningless as anything else.
His legs moved, carrying him in a clumsy sprint to bridge the gap between himself and that crumpled pile of red fabric. How had Vash possibly made it so fast when now it took hours to cross the distance? He’d been too far away, he shouldn’t have been able to be there in time, why had he fucking put himself there?!
Wolfwood touched him, grabbed his shoulder, screamed his damned name as he rolled him to sprawl limply on his back. For another eternity, Vash didn’t breathe, and then when the breath came it was shallow, wheezing. Wolfwood could see the line of gunshot wounds along his torso through his shredded shirt, bleeding and bubbling.
“No,” he said, as if that made a difference. He scrambled for an option, for some solution. The regenerative serum was used up, and even if he’d had a vial left he had no idea what effect it might have on Vash’s body. He knew well enough that Vash healed quickly and could take a lot more than any human, but. This much?
He shoved his hand against the wounds, splaying his fingers as if he could block off the seeping blood and air and heal what he’d done. Vash’s muscles tensed under his touch. At that moment, he hated the blond bastard more than he’d ever hated anything.
“Stupid, idiot, fucking idiot–” Wolfwood had no idea where to begin with trying to treat this. There were other times when he’d dug bullets out of Vash’s body for him, or guided Meryl to do it when her thinner fingers were required. He knew how to stitch a wound and tie off a bandage, but those were the basic things he’d learned for treating the wounds not severe enough to require the serum. Vash had never needed more. Wolfwood didn’t know what to do.
“Nick–” Vash gasped, his hand flying up to grab Wolfwood’s wrist. Wolfwood almost yelped in surprise– how the hell was he conscious, how the fuck was he managing to speak through the damage–?
Vash’s grip was shockingly strong as he wrenched Wolfwood’s hand away from his wounds. Air actually bubbled out, blood sprayed, and Vash took a deeper breath than before.
“I need–” Vash said. “A bigger hole.”
Wolfwood stared at the lunatic in front of him. “What?”
“Air. Trapped in my chest.” Vash’s hand flopped against his side as if suddenly boneless. “Needs to be able to get out or I can’t breathe.”
“Oh, you need to fuckin’ breathe now?!” Wolfwood demanded. “You can’t just fuckin’-- Absorb it through your fuckin’ skin? You can apparently live through everything else–!”
“Nicholas!” Vash hissed. “Please. I can’t do it myself.”
Wolfwood felt like laughing. Or maybe sobbing, collapsing down onto the floor like a child. Vash’s blood was all over his hands and the walkway around them.
“Why did you jump in front of my fuckin’ gun?” he asked as he felt around his pockets for a knife.
“To protect them,” Vash told him, his voice getting fainter. His breathing was labored, but he was breathing. “Did it work?”
“I hate you,” Wolfwood told him. He found his utility knife. It was a lot better for chewing through rope and carving his initials into things than for impromptu surgery, but he flicked the blade open anyway. Dusty. He wiped it on his pant leg, then realized that infection was probably not a primary concern right now. “What… am I supposed to do?”
“Open it up more. Through the chest wall. I’m healing, but if I suffocate it’ll slow down. Needs to be open long enough that air won’t get trapped.” Vash swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth. “The entry wounds will close too fast.”
“That’s insane,” Wolfwood told him. He reached down, sawing up the side of Vash’s shredded shirt. The knife was sluggish cutting through the fabric, dull. He wasn’t going to be able to do this.
Like he hadn’t stabbed people with dull objects before. It was just another body.
The bubbly wheeze of air from the wounds had slowed, and they looked to be clotting up. Vash was so still, the rise and fall of his chest shallow, his lips pressed together tight and pale.
Wolfwood positioned the knife with its tip resting against the bullet hole just under Vash’s ribs. He had to steel himself for a moment too long before he could shove, forcing the knife in along the path and letting out a rush of trapped air as the hole widened. It made a horrible hollow thunk as it pierced through. Vash groaned, managing somehow not to writhe away even as his whole body tensed. Wolfwood dragged the knife up, carving through in jerky motions and telling himself it was just meat even though it was Vash, it was Vash and he was hurting him–
He managed a two-inch slit, then the knife hit bone and slipped out of his blood-slick hand. He let it fall, knowing better than to grab for a dropped blade even in his numb state. It had to be enough. Vash was breathing a little deeper.
“It’s going to take a minute,” Vash said weakly. Wolfwood wanted to shake him.
“I know. I’m the one who babysits your sorry ass every time this happens.” Wolfwood scrubbed at his nose with the back of one filthy hand. “Have you considered not trying to die all the time?”
“I won’t die,” Vash said with an ease and confidence that just made Wolfwood want to shake him harder.
“But you won’t make any fucking effort to stay alive either!” Wolfwood snapped. It wasn’t just this, though it should have been enough. It wasn’t just that Vash was lying there, suffering from the impact of bullets Wolfwood had fired. It was every other fight, every other time Vash had put himself in harm’s way and then never said a word until one of them noticed he was bleeding or that his whole ribcage was painted with bruises or he simply passed out because his broken body couldn’t take any more damage and he was too fucking self-sacrificing to ask for a rest.
Wolfwood had to watch him constantly whenever there was a fight– and it was always the two of them on the front lines while Meryl and Roberto wisely found cover. If he didn’t, he’d miss the times Vash got slammed into walls or impaled by spikes or bled more than any person could from a dozen different places, and then Vash would just keep walking. Until he couldn’t anymore.
Vash had actually been angry when he realized Wolfwood was keeping track. Wolfwood had never seen him mad like that before, shouting at him to just pay attention to keeping himself safe.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” Vash said.
“That’s not the fuckin’ point!” Wolfwood said. He sat back, dropping out of the kneeling position over Vash and crossing his legs instead. The fury in his throat was mixed with relief and thready, dizzying shock. He fumbled for his cigarettes in his jacket pocket, struggling to organize his fingers around the pack and then arrange the lighter in his hand. It took several tries to flick it on and then get the cigarette lit.
How many of those hits had been meant for someone else? Wolfwood knew Vash could dodge faster than he could think, and more often than not Wolfwood walked away from their fights with nothing more than a few sore muscles and scratches. Tough as he was, he knew it had to be because Vash was taking the blows for him.
Vash’s breathing grew steadier as the minutes passed and Wolfwood smoked, finishing his first cigarette quickly and tossing the butt off the side of the walkway. Behind them, he could hear the occasional crunch and rumble as rubble settled or was heaved away by rescuers to search for survivors. Once he could walk again, Vash would want to go back and help, and Wolfwood would have to have that fight too.
His interest in keeping Vash safe was professional, of course. Completing a contract, getting paid, being let loose. The reaction if he had to slink back and admit that he was the one who cut him down would be… unpleasant.
A hand came to rest on his knee and Wolfwood glanced at it, then towards Vash. Vash was looking at him with an expression of faint concern, though there was still a furrow between his eyebrows and a faint grimace on his mouth. Wolfwood couldn’t imagine how much pain he was in.
“What?” he demanded, fishing for a second cig.
“Are you okay?”
Wolfwood’s hands stilled. He almost slapped away Vash’s tender touch on his leg. “How can you even fuckin’ ask me that?”
“Sorry, I mean, are you hurt–?”
“Shut up!” Wolfwood shouted. He crushed the cardboard cigarette box in his fist. It was mostly empty anyway. “Just for one fuckin’ time shut up and focus on yourself. I shot you. I should have killed you. You don’t need to fuckin take care of me right now!”
Vash looked… mortified. Like he’d made some sort of grave error that he didn’t quite understand. “Sorry…”
Wolfwood tilted his head back for a moment, looking up at the late evening sky and forcing himself to inhale and exhale slowly. He reached down and grabbed Vash’s hand, lifting it to his face and pressing it against his cheek. Impulsive. Stupid. He didn’t drop it.
“I thought I’d fuckin’ killed you,” he said.
Vash stayed quiet for a long moment and Wolfwood couldn’t stand the thought of opening his eyes to look at him. Then the hand against his cheek turned, gently cupping his jaw.
“I’m okay. I’m alive.”
“That’s not the point.” Wolfwood’s voice was humiliatingly thick. He wanted to pull away from the touch, or for Vash to pull away from him in disgust, but that didn’t happen. Instead, Wolfwood slumped forward a little more, putting more of his weight on Vash’s hand, and squeezed his eyes shut tighter against the sting.
“Nick–” Vash started.
Wolfwood cut him off, “What gives you the right to decide anything about who I kill? What gives you the right to decide it’s better for you to get hit or shot or– or–”
“It’s not a right!” Vash said, and his voice was fiercer than Wolfwood expected. His eyes flicked open. Vash was looking away, though he made no move to take his hand away from Wolfwood’s cheek. “It’s– a duty. A responsibility.” He hesitated. “A repentance.”
“That’s such bullshit.”
“I don’t expect you to get it.”
“You’re not–” Wolfwood stopped, gritting his teeth. “You can’t save everyone. Especially not like this.” You can’t save me.
Vash didn’t reply for long enough that Wolfwood wondered if he’d passed out. He stole a quick glance over, and saw that Vash’s eyes were open, looking up at the sky.
“I’m almost healed enough,” he said finally, turning his head to meet Wolfwood’s eyes.
“For what? To go get yourself almost killed again?”
Vash’s smile was faint and brief, but Wolfwood saw it. “I doubt it. Unless you’re going to try again, I don’t think any of them could hit me.”
“Don’t joke about it like it’s nothing,” Wolfwood demanded.
“What else am I supposed to do?” Vash pulled his hand away finally so he could prop it behind himself, pushing up gingerly. Wolfwood reached out immediately to put a supporting hand on his back. The places where the bullets had passed right through Vash’s body were visible where his shirt and coat were torn, but the wounds were already almost closed. They would have hit the enemy anyway if Vash’s arrival hadn’t fucked up Wolfwood’s aim just enough. At least there weren’t any bullets inside he’d have to dig out for him later.
Wolfwood didn’t have an answer for him.
“Rest,” he tried, and Vash gave him a look.
“What, are you going to carry me back to Roberto and Meryl? I can walk and you’ve got enough dead weight to lug around already.” He braced his feet as if to stand, but his elbow buckled and he grunted, barely catching himself by grabbing Wolfwood’s arm. He breathed out harshly. “I will be able to walk. In just a minute.”
Wolfwood scoffed, then shifted back a little so he could get another cigarette lit. It was really just for something to do with his hands so he could have an excuse to pull away from Vash’s touch, and once he’d finished he felt adrift again.
Vash stood, finally, grabbing the railing instead of Wolfwood. There was an instant where he swayed, then found his balance. His face seemed pale and drained, and Wolfwood knew him too well to believe that smile even for an instant.
“Let’s head back,” Vash said, forcing cheer in a way that made Wolfwood nauseous. “We can still help.”
Wolfwood wanted to scream. Instead, he heaved himself upright and walked the distance to his weapon with his shoulders hunched. The motion of hooking his fingers in the grip to sling it up over his shoulder was familiar, and even the tacky pull of blood mostly dry on his fingertips wasn’t new. But, it was Vash’s blood cracking across his knuckles this time. The guilt settled on him much more heavily than the cross.
By the time he looked back, Vash was already walking back down the incline towards the shattered town. Wolfwood breathed out a snarl under his breath, wishing he had the words to stop the inevitable march. He fell into step behind him, his shoes loud on the metal grate.
“I’m not letting you do this,” Wolfwood said, his eyes moving past Vash to the smoky pile of rubble that had been the town. “You’re going to make it worse.”
There was a slight falter in Vash’s step before he pressed on.
“I have to try,” Vash said without turning. “If I give up, there’s no hope at all.”
Wolfwood grit his teeth. Who lied and made you think there was ever hope to begin with? “You’re a lost cause, blondie.”
“And aren’t you the patron saint of the falsely accused?” Vash said. “Doesn’t that mean you’ll stay with me to the end of the line?”
Wolfwood’s brow furrowed. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Vash laughed— actually laughed, the shithead. He turned on his heel, fixing Wolfwood with his smile again. He let Wolfwood keep coming until they were close enough to touch, then held out a hand.
“Nothing. I’m just glad you’re not going anywhere.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Wolfwood said, glaring at the hand as if he could will away everything it represented. “I should leave you to make your own shitty decisions.”
And then where would they be? Vash wasn’t going to take care of himself– that’s why Wolfwood had been sent out in the first place, to keep him on track and… Well, could it really be called protection if he was leading him to slaughter? It scared him just as much to imagine that Vash knew where this would end as to believe he didn’t have a clue.
But he hadn’t run yet. If there was one fucking thing Wolfwood knew about Vash, it was that he could get away when he needed to, but here he was standing in front of him with his hand outstretched. Vash had shouted at him for trying to watch his back before, but maybe it wasn’t entirely a coincidence that Wolfwood could nearly always keep him in his sight.
How the hell could Vash keep smiling, as if he was so damn sure Wolfwood was going to take his hand? Didn’t he know a damn thing about how this worked? As if one sacrificial lamb was going to spill enough blood to wash away all the stains on the world. Vash was an idiot.
Wolfwood absently rubbed his free hand against his pant leg, managing to flake off some of the dried blood. It clung in the lines of his palm and around his nails. He didn’t want to try and touch Vash’s hand when he was this filthy, but it wasn’t like he was going to have a chance to find hot water and a scrub brush. Besides, this was Vash’s own blood. He was just as covered in it as Wolfwood.
Vash wiggled his fingers, waiting. It would have been smarter just to brush his hand aside or walk away. The anger in Wolfwood’s throat was still as hot and choking as the fear and guilt. Wolfwood reminded himself that he had a job, that walking away from Vash was not an option for him, but he wasn’t really that good at lying to himself and he knew when he reached out that he didn’t give a damn about what he was being paid to do.
“Thank you,” Vash said softly. He squeezed Wolfwood’s hand as if sealing a pact. When he released his grip, Wolfwood’s skin tingled where their fingers had touched. “We should keep moving.”
“Fine,” Wolfwood said, hoisting his weapon a little more securely on his shoulder. “But next time you jump in front of my gun, I’m not stopping to deal with you.” Lying to Vash was just about as successful as lying to himself. He didn’t miss the small smirk even when Vash glanced away to hide it.
As Wolfwood turned to start moving towards the town again, Vash fell into step beside him.