Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

While No Man’s Land had once been a barren desert, greenery now stretched across the planet. Ships from Earth brought seeds and saplings bioengineered to withstand the harsh climate, and now sand dunes had been replaced with rolling hills of grass dotted with wildflowers. There were even clusters of trees, enough to be called forests, strategically located in areas projected to not hinder urban development. Wildlife had been introduced in order to maintain proper ecosystems, and now the planet was full of living creatures. The climate had changed too. The days no longer got nearly as hot, and the nights no longer dropped to unbearable cold. There was enough variation in weather now for seasons to occur as the planet rotated around the suns. It even rained from time to time. Snow was rare, but not unheard of far north or far south. Proper agriculture bloomed in this new environment. There were golden fields of wheat and endless mazes of corn. It was no longer near impossible to grow a fruit tree in your backyard. Some individuals without proper land grew herbs in pots on their windowsill, because they had enough water to spare from their faucets to care for them. Most citizens of this planet were still armed, but few had to fight to survive. People still killed for money, but rarely did it impact the average innocent family. Guns remained locked in safes. Parents took their children to school, to parks, to movies without fear.

The cities remained, but they changed too. They expanded outwards, and when they couldn’t anymore they went upwards. Alternatives to plant energy, particularly solar energy, became the norm. Sandsteamers were demolished. Train tracks connected each city instead. Long, winding roads spanning the planet were paved. If one had a car, they could get just about anywhere without having to worry about bandits or ending up buried in the sand.

On the side of one of these long, winding roads—the highway that led directly towards December—a dilapidated building still barely stood. Only one man remained with any memories tied to this place. He never passed by it though, because he was a terrible driver and preferred to take the train. This building, now overgrown by life that should have been impossible on this planet, had once been an orphanage. Grass had long since covered the grave behind it that had remained untouched for decades. The place looked particularly eerie in the dark of the night.

With advancements in technology, mass media became widespread. The newest pop culture craze was a horror film featuring zombies. As if acting out a rendition of the opening scene, a hand clawed its way through the dirt, tearing through the grass to the surface. Muffled shouts for help betrayed that whatever was digging its way out of the grave was likely not a zombie, since everyone knew (due to the newly released movie) that zombies were brain-dead and could not speak. Unfortunately, the only person nearby was a newly licensed 16-year-old boy driving nearly thirty iles-per-hour over the speed limit, so the shouts went unheard.

Before he had been buried, Nicholas D. Wolfwood had not lived a long life. He had, however, done lots of things in that life. He had been shot, stabbed, and maimed. He had done the shooting, stabbing, and maiming. He had been the torturer and the tortured. He had hated in all sorts of ways. Notably, he had also loved in all sorts of ways. His life, short as it had been in comparison to the current average lifespan on No Man’s Land (now over 80), had been much fuller of notable events than most. Despite this wealth of experiences underneath his belt, nothing could have possibly prepared him for what he saw when he finally broke his head free from his prison of soil.

Sure, Wolfwood had seen grass before—once or twice maybe on small plots of land. He’d never held clumps of it in his hand before. He definitely had not known what it tasted like. He spat it out, clawed the rest of his way out of the ground, and collapsed next to the newly dug hole, panting.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Lightning lit up the dark sky. Then, in accordance with the drama of the rest of the scene, it began to rain.

When Wolfwood’s mouth dropped open at the first drops against his face, rainwater found its way into his mouth. He sat up, wiping mud in terrible smears across his face. The rain picked up, drenching his clothes and his hair. He had never been this wet in his life outside of a shower or a bath.

“What the fuck?”

The orphanage did not provide enough shelter from the rain and the wind. He plastered himself against the most intact wall remaining, shivering. He had to be dead. He’d woken up in a very cold, wet, green hell. This was the only explanation for what was currently happening to him. He was pretty sure he’d never heard of there being any of the green, squishy stuff currently underneath his ass in hell, but it was not his place to question God’s mysterious plan. Or whatever.

His clothes were in tatters. They hung off him in pieces that thankfully still covered the important bits, but they provided no protection from the cold. He felt very alive. His stomach growled incessantly. Goosebumps made the hair on his arms rise. These were all rather unpleasant sensations though, so they did little to dissuade him from the idea that he was in hell.

He remained there for a while, before deciding that hunkering down in the abandoned orphanage was no better than what he would experience searching for some proper shelter. He pushed himself to his feet. The green, squishy stuff squelched beneath his toes. He wrinkled his nose. Then, struggling to see through the rain and the dark, he stumbled away from his empty grave.

When he found the road, he stood there for a few moments, gawking. He’d only ever seen roads like this deep inside cities, and here was one just hanging out in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. Across the road, there were trees. Lots of trees. Way too many trees to count. He squinted as a car pulled around the corner, headlights blinding him. He scrambled backwards as it slowed down next to him, reaching instinctively for a weapon he no longer had.

The window rolled down.

“Hey man!” A guy, maybe in his early thirties or late twenties, shoved his head out the window and into the rain. “You don’t look too hot! Need a ride?”

Wolfwood hesitated for a moment, weighing his options, before saying, “Fuck yes.”

The man gestured that he go around to the passenger’s side, before rolling the window back up. Wolfwood raced to the door, yanked it open, and hauled himself inside. He slammed it shut, then he wrapped his arms around himself, teeth chattering.

“Shit man,” said the man, laughing. “You look like an extra from that new horror movie.”

Wolfwood stared at him blankly. “The fuck is that?”

The man gave him an odd look. “Seriously? You haven’t heard of it? You live under a rock or something? My friends are obsessed. Personally, I don’t get it. Like seriously, zombies?”

As he spoke, reached forward and spun a dial at the console. Hot air began to blast through the vents. Wolfwood tried not to openly stare at where his hands had been. It looked like no radio he’d ever seen. Instead, it looked like someone had taken a computer screen from the communications room Vash had shown him from the SEEDS ship and installed it in this man’s car.

Wolfwood started to reevaluate his initial conclusions about his circumstances. 

Nothing the man said had answered any of his questions—mainly whatever the hell a “movie” was—but he decided that further prodding would point out the fact that Wolfwood was probably something really similar to those zombies he was talking about. Instead he just nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“So,” said the man, putting the car into drive. He adjusted a switch at the wheel and a clicking sound filled the car as he pulled back onto the road. “What happened to you?” He adjusted the switch again, and the clicking sound stopped. “A prank?”

“Yeah,” Wolfwood said faintly. “Something like that.”

“God damn. They got you good. You been out here long?”

“It depends,” said Wolfwood. “What year is it?”

The man laughed again. “You’re funny as fuck, dude. What’s your name?”

Wolfwood hesitated, before holding out a hand. “Call me Wolfwood. Nicholas D. Wolfwood”

The man whistled. “Full name? Bad ass. The name’s Benjamin, but I prefer Ben.”

He took a hand off the wheel and they shook.

Wolfwood learned as the drive went on that Ben was the best kind of person to end up in the car with when you did not want to answer any questions. Or say a single word, for that matter. Ben was the kind of guy to be perfectly content to hold an entire conversation with himself. He talked. And talked. And talked. Wolfwood learned that his favorite “movie” featured spaceships that blew each other up. Wolfwood learned that his car was only a few months old, which made him feel a little bad about dripping mud and water all over the upholstery. Wolfwood learned that his mom was a horrible cook. He also learned that his girlfriend dumped him four days prior.

“I mean,” said Ben, “I’m not too torn up about it. Saw it coming. Now I have the freedom to hit on good-looking strangers. Speaking of, can I get your number?”

Wolfwood opened his mouth to respond. Shut it. What the fuck.

“Aw shit. Wait. You don’t have to answer that. Kind of fucked up to ask when you’re trapped in my car. You are handsome though. Like in a rugged, mysterious way, y’know.”

Wolfwood didn’t have the time to feel embarrassed or flattered, because Ben just kept right on talking.

When Wolfwood told him he had no place to stay, Ben dropped him off in front of a cheap hotel and handed him a one hundred double-dollar bill. Wolfwood, who had been fighting off the urge to gawk at all of his surroundings (everything looked so different), now gawked instead at the bill.

Definitely not in hell. Very, very likely a zombie.

“Get yourself a room and a hot dinner,” Ben told him. “You don’t have to give me your number.”

“This is way too much,” Wolfwood told him. Less than a year back in Wolfwood’s memory, he and Vash had each gotten the very same for around $$20. “And I don’t… have one?”

Ben blinked at him. “You don’t have a phone? I’m starting to think that wasn’t a prank. You in some kinda trouble?”

Wolfwood felt his face start to get warm. He should’ve just said thank you and left.

“Hold on,” Ben said when Wolfwood didn’t respond. He grabbed a crumpled up napkin and scribbled a series of numbers on them with a pen he pulled from his pocket. Then he passed it to Wolfwood, who took it cautiously. “Keep the hundred,” he said. “You won’t get much with less. Gimme a call if you need help again. Or if you… well. Y’know.” He winked. 

Wolfwood thanked him. Ben wasn’t necessarily unattractive, and he’d been kind, but he knew he wouldn’t be giving him a call. Wolfwood watched as he pulled out of the parking lot, standing in the light of a streetlamp with $$100 clenched in his fist.

The receptionist looked about ready to kick him out as he trailed mud into the lobby, half-naked. A lady wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulder and stared at him distrustfully. Wolfwood huffed, marched up to the desk, and slammed down the bill.

“Room for the night and a meal, please,” he said with his most charming grin. 

The receptionist had demanded $$80 for a night and room service. If it hadn’t been for Ben’s comment about needing the entire bill to get just about anything, he would have called the place a scam and stormed out. As it were, he handed over the cash with the barest twitch of an eye. Apparently, he’d been dead long enough for No Man’s Land to grow grass and trees and rain, and for the value of money to plummet. 

She had given him some kind of card and called it a key. Instead of saying “How the fuck is this a key?” the way he wanted to, he thanked her and went in search of his room. He assumed he could figure it out when he got there.

Now he stood in front of the door. There was definitely some sort of mechanism above the doorknob. It was flat and square-shaped, like the card. He used about as much brain power as a toddler possessed and pressed the similar shapes together. It beeped, and the little red light turned green.

“Huh,” he said.

He tried the door. It opened.

“Neat,” he said, and let himself in.

The room was small, with a tiny desk in one corner and a single bed in the other. The carpet was old and worn. The curtains on the window were threadbare. But it looked clean and smelled fine, so it was better than at least half of the places Wolfwood had slept in before. 

He shut the door behind him, bare toes curling into the carpet. He really needed new clothes. That was a problem for later. He made his way into the bathroom and flicked on the light. His reflection stared back at him. 

For some reason, he’d been expecting himself to look different. Older maybe—worn from the drugs that had killed him and the years he’d spent buried. Instead, he looked the same as ever. His cheeks were a little gaunt, the way they got when he went too long without a proper meal, but other than that it was a face he was familiar with.

He heaved a relieved sigh. 

Wolfwood moved to the shower. It took a bit of fiddling for him to get the water to the ideal temperature. He stripped off the remainder of his clothes and stepped under the spray, groaning as the heat loosened his shoulders. 

There were bottles standing on the little ledge built into the corner of the shower. He grabbed the one labeled ‘shampoo’ and squirted it into his hand. It smelled good; clean and crisp. Scented soap had once been a luxury on No Man’s Land. Now it was so commonplace that cheap hotels were giving it out for free.

The absurdity of his situation hit him all at once. He should be dead. His body should have decayed long ago. Instead he was up and walking around, God knows how many centuries into the future.

Everyone he knew was likely dead.

The realization practically smacked him in the face. He hadn’t thought about it, even as he’d started to truly grasp his situation. If he was as far into the future as he suspected, there was no feasible way that anyone he knew was alive.

His knees wobbled. He braced himself against the wall, gasping for air. The shampoo he’d been massaging into his hair dripped down his forehead and into his eyes. He blinked rapidly against the sting and the tears that were forming there. He shook and shuddered apart, hitching and heaving breaths drowned out by the sound of the shower. 

After he’d finished his shower and his breakdown, Wolfwood patted himself dry with a towel and wrapped it around his hips. He’d been hoping to find a bathrobe in the towel closet, but no dice. As he made his way back into the bedroom, wet hair still dripping down his neck and collarbone, a knock sounded against the door.

“Room service!”

He looked down, ensuring briefly that everything was covered, before opening the door, revealing a young woman carrying a covered tray.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, face turning red as she looked away.

“Sorry,” he grunted, accepting the tray from her. “Don’t got any clothes. Speaking of, is there any way you could get me some? I’ve got $$20 with your name on it if ya can.”

“Um,” she snuck a look at him. He gave her his friendliest grin. The red on her face deepened. “We uh, we have some men’s clothes in the lost and found that we were going to donate. I can see if anything might fit?”

“I’d appreciate that, miss.”

“Okay!” she squeaked. “I’ll go look!”

Then she was gone. He huffed a laugh to himself, setting the tray on the desk. Lifting the cover revealed that even with time, a burger and fries will always look the same. He popped a fry into his mouth, moaning appreciatively. Apparently they taste the same too. 

By the time he heard another knock on the door, he’d wolfed—pun intended—the entire meal down and sprawled out on the bed, hand on his bare stomach. He got to his feet, retied the towel preserving his dignity, and opened the door to a bundle of clothes being shoved in his face.

“Here you go, sir!”

He laughed. “Thanks a ton.”

A few minutes later, he was squeezing into a pair of slacks, grimacing. She hadn’t found him underwear, which he probably wouldn’t have put on even if she had, so he was forced to go commando. The button down fit him just fine, and he shrugged on the suit jacket over it. It smelled faintly of cologne rather than body odor, which he was grateful for. She hadn’t brought socks and proper shoes, but she did find a pair of flip flops which looked absolutely ridiculous with the entire outfit. He snorted at himself in the mirror.

Perfect. Now he just needed a pair of sunglasses and a cigarette. 

For now, the bed was calling his name. He left his new get up in a pile on the desk and collapsed into it, burying his face in the pillow. The sheets smelled like the soap in the shower; clean and crisp. He drifted off almost immediately.

The next morning he woke to the phone beside the bed ringing. He mumbled a few swears into the pillow and fumbled for it, putting it to his ear.

“‘Ello?”

“Good morning Mr. Wolfwood! Just a reminder that our check out time is one hour from now! Please vacate your room before this time or we’ll have to charge you for another night’s stay!”

“Fuck off,” he grumbled into the receiver, before slamming it back down into the cradle. He rolled onto his back, rubbing sleep from his eyes, then forced himself out of bed.

He put his newly acquired clothes back on and wandered into the bathroom. A cursory search in the bathroom told him that they did not offer complimentary toothpaste. He settled for swishing water around his mouth, spitting it out, and mentally making a note to pick up a toothbrush and toothpaste at the convenience store. He felt a sudden surge of gratitude for the fact that the girl who had given him the clothes had refused whatever measly amount of money he had left.

Luckily, Wolfwood did not have to go far to find a convenience store. He ducked inside, trying not to stare at the packages of snacks and gum that lined the aisles (so much variety). He found what he was looking for, and, hiding the motion with the bulk of his body, tucked his bounty into the pocket sewed into the inside of his suit jacket. 

No need to spend money if he could avoid it. 

He then did a quick sweep for cigarettes. He couldn’t find any. There was plenty of booze though. He turned to the cash register and found them located behind the counter. Huh.

“Pack of your cheapest,” Wolfwood requested, drumming his fingers on the counter. The teen behind the counter grunted in acknowledgement. They grabbed a pack behind them and tossed it on the counter.

“ID please.”

Wolfwood blinked at them. “Huh?”

They snickered. “I’m fucking with you, old man. You’re clearly like, thirty. It’s $$6.78.”

Wolfwood was too baffled to appreciate the irony. Depending how you looked at it, he was either much, much older than thirty, or only somewhat younger. 

He dug for the cash he had remaining, passing it to the teen who rang him up. 

There were a few moments in each life that, in their impossibility, felt too much like fate for most individuals to completely discard the idea of it. For example, the fact that in this massive city that had only grown larger since Wolfwood had last seen it, the only man still alive that knew him decided to make a stop at this specific convenience store at this specific time.

The bell on the door chimed cheerfully. 

“Welcome in,” said the teen, pouring Wolfwood’s change into his hand. Wolfwood looked up and towards the door. Dark eyes met light ones. There was a brief moment of charged silence as they gaped at each other.

His face was as ageless as ever. His hair, now dark and long, was pulled into a knot on the back of his head. A few strands hung free, framing his blue eyes, brushing against elegant cheekbones. His lips were parted in shock. Wolfwood had pressed kisses to them, once. The last time, he’d cradled his face in a gentle apology. Wolfwood was the only one who had known that it was a goodbye. 

“Nope,” said Vash the Stampede, now only a few centuries older, violently shaking his head. “Nope,” he said again, backing out the door the way he came. 

The bell on the door chimed again.

“Alrighhhht,” said the teen. “That was odd.”

Wolfwood stood, frozen, staring at the empty spot where Vash had been moments prior.

“Fuck,” he hissed, swiping his pack of cigarettes off the counter. “Vash! Wait!” He raced after him, flip flops smacking against his heels.

Chapter Text

Strange things had always happened around Vash the Stampede—it was a consequence of being a strange thing—but waking up covered with dirt and feathers that clearly were not his was a first.

He sat up, pinching a black feather between his thumb and index finger, and sent a general ??? to December’s hive mind of local plants.

Some things had grown easier, with time, and one of those things was communicating with his sisters. Thoughts and feelings came through much more vibrantly when they were close enough to touch, but it had never been necessary. Their consciousnesses brushed against his own, bright sparks of excitement like lightning bolts in his mind.

They were all doing the plant equivalent of… giggling?

“You all are not helping,” he said out loud, informing them of this with a projected stream of confused-exasperated-please-explain-thank-you.

They brought forward one of his old memories—not faded, his eidetic memory never did him the favor of letting memories fade—of him and Wolfwood curled up together underneath white sheets, naked.

His face heated. He hadn’t thought about that particular memory in some time. It was no longer a raw and open wound, but it ached like his stump in a thunderstorm when they prodded at it like this.

Enough, he thought, and they mentally backed away, still giggling. 

He had been with people since then; brief flings that only made what he could’ve had with Wolfwood hurt more. He knew himself well enough to recognize that he was tired and lonely. A lot of days he wondered why he still stuck around, but the progress of humanity mesmerized him, and their kindness kept him going. Yesterday, a nice old lady at the donut shop had given him an extra for free, and he could stretch the high he got from that to last him a few weeks at least.

Okay. So he was a little pathetic.

He gathered the feathers off his bed and tossed them in the trash. Then he stripped off the sheets and tossed them in the wash. He put his hands on his lower back and stretched, grunting as his spine popped satisfyingly. 

Dirt, black feathers, and Wolfwood.

He knew he was in December, the closest he’d been to Wolfwood’s gravesite in over a year. His apartment had been covered in a layer of dust when he arrived yesterday morning. He never could bring himself to remain long in the city, but he couldn’t bring himself to sell the apartment either. He remained plagued by thoughts of Wolfwood every time he visited. He’d never been the best at moving on. The memory of sharing a bed brought back more with it. He could picture the exact way the skin around Wolfwood’s eyes crinkled whenever he laughed. It ached.

Vash heaved a sigh. He felt a little irritated at his sisters for bringing up his grief like that. He didn’t know what dirt and black feathers in his bed had to do with Wolfwood in his bed, but whatever they were trying to say could not possibly be worth reminding him of a man he was trying so hard to forget.

He ducked into the bathroom, trying to rub the stinging feeling from his eyes. It felt foolish, to still be lingering, but he had nothing left but memories of ghosts. His sisters brushed soothingly against his mind, in a way that reminded him of Rem’s hand running through his hair, murmuring apologies. He could tell they wanted to explain more, but his reaction had left them reluctant.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll figure out what you meant. Just not right now, okay?”

He tugged his shirt off over his head and stepped out of his sweats and underwear. He showered, scrubbing all over, remembering the feeling of Wolfwood’s hands against his skin.

“Shit,” he breathed, water running down his face, dripping off his lips. This was why he could never stay in December long. 

He buried his face into a clean, fluffy towel once he finished rinsing off, breath shuddering on his next inhale. His toes curled into the bathmat underneath his feet, catching the water running off his body. He tried to ground himself in these sensations—the towel, the bathmat, the humid air of the bathroom.

When he felt a little more steady, he dried off and got dressed; black ripped jeans, a black t-shirt, and a bloodred hoodie. 

(He still had his old coat, worn with bullet holes punched through the fabric. It hung in the closet in another one of his apartments in November. He avoided wearing it for a similar reason he avoided December; too many memories. Also, if it had been a peculiar fashion choice 250 years ago, it was more so now.)

Vash looked as tired as he felt in the mirror. He was fairly certain he had some concealer in one of the drawers. He pressed his fingers against the dark circles under his eyes, wondering if the extra effort was worth it before deciding it was not. He dug for some deodorant, groaning when he couldn’t find any. The one he’d been using had crumbled into unusable pieces the day prior. He toweled off his hair, then pulled it back and away from his face. He knew it’d dry funny like this, but today the feeling of it against his neck bothered him more than the creases it’d end up with.

He dug through his duffle bag for a clean pair of socks and shoved his boots on his feet. He stuck his phone in his back pocket (no new messages) and grabbed his keys off the counter. Luckily, the nearest convenience store was just around the corner. It was a cool day today, unusually so for being so deep into spring, but Vash felt particularly grateful for it given his lack of deodorant. He tucked his wallet in a different pocket and headed out, locking the door behind him.

Then he ran into a ghost.

“Vash! Wait!”

Vash didn’t get very far before a hand closed around his wrist, forcing him to stop. He jerked away, instinctively reaching for the revolver he’d left behind in his duffle bag. 

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped.

“Okay,” said the man who could not possibly be Wolfwood, taking a few steps back, hands raised in surrender. Despite himself, Vash couldn’t help but drink in the sight of him greedily; dark hair, dark eyes, scruff a few days old, the same as always.

“Who are you?” Vash asked, and he was out of practice in making his voice as cold as he wanted to. The last few decades had been soft and easy. When Wolfwood’s face stared back at him, he couldn’t stop it when his tone wavered.

“Who do you think?” Wolfwood asked, all snark.

Vash bristled. “Don’t,” he said, warningly.

Wolfwood’s expression softened. “Vash,” he said, impossibly gently, “you know me.”

Vash rocked back as though he’d been smacked, shaking his head. “No,” he said. “It’s not possible.”

Wolfwood took a step closer. “I don’t get it either, but yesterday I woke up in a goddamn coffin.”

Vash shook his head again. “You’re not real. You’re in my head.”

“Spikey,” said Wolfwood with an uncharacteristic amount of patience, “would you really hallucinate me wearing these dumb fucking shoes?”

Vash looked down. A startled laugh came out of him. Wolfwood wore bright green flip flops, completely out of place with everything else he had going on. They were a tad too small, and his toes hung over the edge. 

“Holy shit,” Vash said. “I’m losing it.”

“You’re not,” Wolfwood insisted, and suddenly he was right there, and his hand was moving towards his face. Vash shuddered as he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Always liked the long hair on ya,” he said, and his hands were cupping Vash’s face to bring him into a kiss. 

It was gentle, so gentle, like Vash could break apart at the smallest touch. Vash could have pulled away, could have stopped it before it even started, Wolfwood had made sure of that with the light touch, but he couldn’t have, because Wolfwood’s lips were the same as he remembered; chapped and dry and a little hesitant, like something in him was convinced he didn’t deserve this. His hands were calloused exactly the same, thumbs rubbing soothingly at Vash’s cheeks. By the time he moved away, Vash was crying, little hitching breaths that had Wolfwood pulling him close, tucking his head under his chin. 

“Jesus, Vash,” Wolfwood said, chest rumbling comfortingly against his cheek. “How long has it been?”

Vash buried his face into his chest. He smelled like hotel soap and a strange cologne, but Vash didn’t care.

“Too long.”

Wolfwood squeezed him tighter. “‘M sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

They stood there for a while. Wolfwood started rocking him side-to-side, humming a melody Vash hadn’t heard in over a century. Vash closed his eyes. He felt like if he opened them he’d wake up from whatever dream he was having and that would be it—he’d be done. This had to be real because if it wasn’t Vash didn’t know how he could ever come back from this. 

Vash forced himself to pull away, wiping at his face. Wolfwood let him go, dropping his hands to his sides. Vash saw that his eyes were a little red too, which made him feel better about sobbing all over his shirt.

“You okay?” Wolfwood asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe? Ask me in an hour.”

Wolfwood grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Sure thing, Spikey.”

“God,” said Vash. “I just came out here for a stick of deodorant.”

Wolfwood gaped at him. “They make that shit into sticks now?”

Vash burst out laughing. “C’mon,” he said, tugging on Wolfwood’s hand, “let me show you how things have changed.”

Vash bought them both sticks of deodorant. He also grabbed a bag of sour candies, because he had a very vivid memory of Wolfwood claiming to like sour even though it made his face pucker up hilariously. 

“You need anything else?” Vash asked as they checked out. “Like a toothbrush?” The teen at the cash register gave them a funny look. Wolfwood carefully avoided their gaze. 

“Nope,” Wolfwood said.

“I saw you making out through the window,” the teen told them, handing Vash his bag.

“Oh!” Vash exclaimed. He could feel his face turning red. A quick glance to the side told him that Wolfwood wasn’t faring any better. His darker skin helped hide it, but Vash knew what he looked like when he was blushing.

“Sorry,” they both said, in unison. They looked at each other. Vash started to laugh.

“Ugh,” said the teen. “Gross.”

“Sorry!” Vash said again. “Thanks for your help!” 

Vash led Wolfwood to his apartment. He kept his fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist. The idea of letting go terrified him, but Wolfwood didn’t seem to mind.

“The hell did you pay with?” Wolfwood asked as they climbed the stairs. “Those things are money and keys?”

Vash, pulling his very normal set of keys from his pocket said, “What?”

“The card thingy,” Wolfwood said. He stared at the keys in Vash’s hand, looking even more baffled. “It was a key at the hotel I stayed in last night.”

“Oh,” said Vash. “The cards just have chips in them that react to sensors. Most people still have normal keys for their houses, but it’s more convenient for hotels to have keycards because they can just deactivate them if they go missing.” 

He unlocked the door, gesturing for Wolfwood to go inside.

“Huh,” said Wolfwood contemplatively. He stepped past the threshold, head turning as his gaze swept across the room. Vash felt suddenly grateful that he’d had the energy to dust everything yesterday. 

“Nice place,” said Wolfwood. “Doesn't look like you spend a whole lotta time here.” 

The apartment was a small studio, with warm wood floors and a leather couch he’s barely sat in despite owning it for a good fifty years. His bed was still bare from putting the bedding to wash earlier. In the kitchen, the fridge and cupboards were empty. He did have some plates and silverware, but most had never been used. A half-eaten pack of donuts sat on the counter. The first half had been his dinner last night.

“I don’t,” Vash admitted. “I never stay in December long.”

Wolfwood didn’t ask why, but Vash had a feeling he knew. “Why do you have a place here then?” he asked instead. He kicked his ridiculous flip flops off by the door and sank into the couch with a groan.

“I have a place in every city,” Vash said, because it was true. Even though Vash’s name had faded into mere legend and history lessons, it felt wrong to stay in one place so long. He moved constantly. His apartment in November was the most lived in, and his oldest. 

Vash opened the laundry closet and began transferring the damp bedding to the dryer. He felt Wolfwood’s eyes watching him with mild intrigue.

“Does the washing for you,” said Vash, knocking his knuckles against the washing machine. “The other one dries.” 

“Handy,” said Wolfwood, sounding a little faint. 

“They’re not new,” Vash told him. “If we’d spent more time on the SEEDS ship I could’ve shown you.” 

“I’m guessing whatever this is isn’t new either,” said Wolfwood, pointing to the TV. 

Vash snorted. “It’s not actually.”

“Jesus,” said Wolfwood. He looked overwhelmed, Vash realized. He was trying to be nonchalant, but Vash could see it in his face. He’d been stumbling around in a world where everything he knew had been flipped upside down. Over two centuries ago for Vash was yesterday for him.

“Hey,” said Vash. He sat next to Wolfwood. “I’m freaking out too. You saw me freak out.”

Wolfwood turned to face him. His eyes were a little wild. “Look at me. How is this even possible? Shouldn’t I just be bones, by now?”

Vash swallowed. He reached forward and took one of his hands in both of his own, thumb running across his knuckles. “I don’t know,” Vash said. He thought about the image his sisters had brought to his mind earlier, and the feathers and dirt in his bed. “But something odd happened this morning.”

Wolfwood gave him a questioning look. Vash explained as best he could.

“Hold on,” said Wolfwood. “You can communicate with the plants here in a local hive mind?”

“Ah,” said Vash. “It’s not that… okay it’s a little weird. But that’s normal for me.”

“Right,” Wolfwood said drily, “but feathers and dirt are completely unusual. You have feathers.”

“Wolfwood,” said Vash, shaking his head “my feathers are white.” He got up and rifled through the trash. “Look,” he said, and dropped a feather into Wolfwood’s hand.

“This is black,” said Wolfwood. He turned it over, dragging a fingertip across the spine. “You sure yours didn’t turn black with the rest of ya?” he asked, waving a hand at Vash’s hair.

“Yes,” said Vash, rolling his eyes.

“Then whose feather is this?” Wolfwood asked.

“That’s the thing,” said Vash. “It looks like a feather from, well, a plant. Except I’ve never seen one black like this.”

“Okay yeah,” Wolfwood acquiesced. “That’s pretty weird.”

“It’s fuckin’ weird that it’s cold outside in broad daylight,” said Wolfwood, arms laden with a bunch of empty, reusable bags. He’d raided Vash’s closet, and now he wore dark blue jeans, a gray t-shirt, and a beat up leather jacket. He’d even found a pair of boots Vash had accidentally bought a size too small that fit him nicely. “Also,” he said, pulling at the crotch of his pants, “why do you wear your pants so damn tight?”

Vash swatted at his hand. “Stop that. It’s stylish.”

Even with his fidgeting, seeing Wolfwood in his clothes made something warm coil in Vash’s gut. 

They were on their way to the supermarket due to the fact that the only thing currently in Vash’s kitchen was a half-eaten box of donuts. Vash could go a long time without a proper meal, but Wolfwood’s enhanced metabolism burned through calories so quickly that even just skipping breakfast left him feeling ravenous. He’d never said anything, but Wolfwood had always been the first of the two to seek out a meal, and he’d had no problem acting as a garbage disposal for all of Vash’s leftovers. Food never went to waste with him around. Vash was pretty sure he’d never seen Wolfwood eat until full. Meals were much harder to come by all those centuries ago.    

Vash was excited to show him the supermarket.

They turned the corner. Glass doors slid open in front of them. Wolfwood was already gawking, but his jaw dropped impossibly further as they stepped inside. Aisles and aisles and aisles of food, with displays full of refrigerated produce and prepackaged meats. A bakery section full of breads and pastries. Shoppers meandered through the aisles, pushing along carts and examining goods. Vash grabbed a cart while Wolfwood stood there in a shocked silence. He reached forward and gently shut his jaw with a finger.

“You can put the bags in the cart,” Vash told him. Wordlessly, Wolfwood complied. Vash started forward, and Wolfwood trailed after him, doing a very good imitation of an owl as he turned his head around. He poked at everything as they passed, eyes wide with childlike wonder. He looked younger than Vash had ever seen him. For a single, dizzying moment, Vash felt very old. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that kind of curiosity.

“What’s this?” Wolfwood asked, holding up an avocado.

“An avocado,” said Vash. “It’s technically a fruit, I think, but it’s more creamy than sweet.”

“Huh,” said Wolfwood, turning it over in his hands.

“You can tell if they’re ripe if they’re soft,” Vash told him, reaching forward to pluck it out of his hands and give it a squeeze. Too solid. He put it back and grabbed another one. Softer, but not so soft that it’d go bad too fast if they left it for a day or two. He plopped it into Wolfwood’s hand, who tightened his fingers around it experimentally. 

“They’re good with some salt,” said Vash. “You wanna try?”

“Sure,” said Wolfwood, but his eyes were focused on Vash’s face rather than the fruit in his hand. 

Vash motioned for him to put it in the cart, face heating. 

They continued through the store, Vash explaining everything Wolfwood asked about and then adding whatever it was to the cart. They ended up overfilling all of the bags they had brought. If they were anyone else, they’d be straining under the weight during the walk back, but Vash was not human, and the man walking next to him had once carried around at least 200 pounds worth of weaponry effortlessly. 

When they got back, Vash made them both sandwiches. Wolfwood leaned over his shoulder, watching. Vash learned that he preferred mayonnaise over mustard, and ideally wanted more meat and cheese than bread. He groaned happily at the first bite. Vash felt his lips twitching as he took a bite of his own. Wolfwood practically inhaled it, tongue swiping over his lips to catch the bit of mayonnaise that lingered at the corner of his mouth.

Vash rummaged in one of the bags for the avocado. Wolfwood watched with naked intrigue as Vash used a knife to make a clean slice all the way around. He pulled the two halves apart.

“These are good on sandwiches too,” Vash said, the remaining half of his sandwich completely forgotten. “But it’s better to try first by itself, I think.” 

He cut slices into the flesh, then used a spoon to scoop them out of the peel and into a bowl. He added some salt and, after a moment of hesitation, drizzled some olive oil over the top as well.

“Fancy,” Wolfwood drawled as Vash pushed the bowl towards him. He accepted the spoon from Vash’s outstretched hand, grinning eagerly as he took the first bite. His eyebrows shot up, eyes widening.

“You like?” Vash asked, leaning against the counter, content to watch Wolfwood’s face light up, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“It’s weird,” said Wolfwood. “Creamy, like you said.” He went in for another bite, then offered the next spoonful to Vash. Vash leaned forward to let him feed him. His teeth clacked against the spoon as he closed his mouth around it. When he pulled away he met Wolfwood’s gaze. He watched Vash intently, pupils dilated. Heat stirred in Vash’s gut.

“Are you just gonna keep staring?” Vash asked. “Or are you planning on doing something about it?”

Wolfwood carefully placed the bowl down, never one to waste food. Then he was surging forward into Vash’s space, crowding him against the counter, caging him in, kissing him.

Vash melted into it, hands fisting into the front of his shirt, mouth falling open. This was the first time Vash had kissed him like this where he couldn’t taste smoke lingering behind. Cigarettes and whiskey were what he’d learned to associate with Wolfwood. He tasted of avocado now, and faintly of the toothpaste he’d stolen from the convenience store. Vash had chewed him out for it. The cigarettes he’d bought before Vash had found him remained untouched, lost somewhere on the counter amongst the bags of groceries. 

The kiss quickly turned heated. Wolfwood cupped the back of his neck, fingers threading into the dark hair at his nape. Vash trembled. Wolfwood pressed a thigh between Vash’s legs. Vash groaned, gripping Wolfwood’s shoulders as he gasped out a plea to wait against his lips.

Wolfwood pulled away, brows furrowing in concern. He brushed his thumb against Vash’s swollen lip. “You okay?”

Vash nodded. Mortifyingly, his eyes started to burn as tears welled up again. “Sorry,” he apologized wetly. “It’s just… it’s been a while.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” Wolfwood told him, all gentle and understanding, which soothed some of Vash’s urge to flee but somehow made the tears worse. Wolfwood cupped his face in his hands and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. “We can fuckin’ cuddle or something instead,” he suggested. Vash laughed a little.

“We should probably put away the groceries,” Vash said, sniffing. “The ice cream is melting.”

“Oh,” said Wolfwood. “Shit. I wanted to try that.”

They ended up on the balcony, elbows propped up on the railing as Wolfwood smoked his first cigarette in centuries. Vash leaned against him, tucking his face into Wolfwood’s neck. Wolfwood was quiet—content to smoke without speaking. Vash figured this was as good a time as any to ask. He sent his mind outwards, tuning into the voices of his sisters once again. He wasn’t prepared for the waves of excitement and joy that hit him. They were practically cheering. One thrust an image of rings on fingers at him. He felt his face start to burn.

“They’re teasing me,” Vash whined. He felt Wolfwood go still. Vash had always been careful to keep the most inhuman parts of himself hidden away. He’d seen the apprehension Wolfwood looked at him with sometimes, the fear of something greater that all humans had when they truly saw him. Even now, Wolfwood’s shoulders tightened at the reminder that whatever he’d pushed up against the counter and made out with a few minutes ago was not human. Vash was something ancient and much more powerful than him, and Wolfwood had the fear of anything other ingrained into his instincts like any human did.

Then Wolfwood’s shoulders forcibly relaxed. He took another drag from his cigarette, breathing out smoke into the chilly spring air. “Your sisters?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Vash, warm relief blooming in his chest. He didn’t want to pretend. He didn’t want Wolfwood to make him.

“What else are they saying?” Wolfwood asked.

“They don’t really talk like us,” Vash told him. “It’s mostly feelings, memories, pictures. Not really words.”

Vash turned his attention back to the stream of information flashing through his mind. One image caught his attention; boxes wrapped in colorful paper under a brightly decorated tree. An old Earth tradition that Vash would have no knowledge of without his time spent with Rem. They hadn’t had a tree, or presents, but they’d watched movies together, Knives and Vash each tucked under one of her arms. He felt a familiar pang of grief before he let Wolfwood’s warmth chase it away.

A gift.

“It was them,” Vash said, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. “Of course it was.”

One of Vash’s memories came next, from over a century ago. A lover from the past who had a skill for making pottery. Vash sat at the wheel, hands against clay, their hands over his as they shaped it together. They hadn’t lasted long, but they had been kind to him when he had needed it. Vash had grieved for them too. 

Another of Vash’s memories. Wolfwood, naked underneath him. Vash, tracing his hands all over his skin, learning exactly what made him gasp with pleasure, memorizing the shape of him.

You helped. You knew him.

“I think I… helped?”

Wolfwood jolted against him, startled. Vash kept explaining before he could ask.

“I knew you,” he said. “They needed my memories to know what to do. I guess I dreamed about you last night.”

“Holy hell,” said Wolfwood. “Is that even possible?”

“Plants haven’t been needed much lately,” Vash told him. “Mostly just for producing water during dry spells, and sometimes power when there’s not enough sun. They have energy to spare, now.”

An image of Wolfwood pacing back and forth, trapped in a shitty motel room as a windstorm raged outside.

“They were bored,” Vash informed him.

A bubbly sound of laughter, Vash’s laughter, that Wolfwood had drawn from him.

Vash was getting tired of crying. “They want me to be happy,” he said, pulling away to press the heels of his hands against his eyes. Wolfwood’s hand landed against his back, rubbing in comforting circles between his shoulder blades.

“I’m sorry,” said Vash, apologizing again. “I’m sure you’re freaking out.”

“Eh,” said Wolfwood around another mouthful of smoke. “I’m sure I will later. It’s easier to not freak out when yer doin’ it for me.” Wolfwood wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him close enough to press a kiss to his temple. “I agree with ‘em, by the way. You should be happy.”

“That’s not your job,” said Vash, scrubbing the tears from his face. “It shouldn’t be.”

“Nope,” said Wolfwood, resting his cheek on top of Vash’s head. “Just a hobby.”

God, Vash loved him. He loved him like he’d never left, like it hadn’t been centuries since they’d had this, the chance to wrap themselves up in each other like a fuzzy blanket after a long nightmare. 

His throat closed up before he could say it.

They remained there until Wolfwood finished his cigarette, putting it out against the little dish Vash had brought out from inside.

“Hey Vash?” Wolfwood asked, breaking the silence.

“Hm?”

“What the hell is a movie?”

They sat on the couch, Vash clicking through the movie selections on a streaming service he subscribed to while Wolfwood gawked. 

“You’ve seen a play before, right?” Vash asked.

“Once,” said Wolfwood, “when I was young, and only ‘cause they let a bunch of us orphans in for free.”

“It’s kind of like that,” Vash said. “Actors play roles to tell a story, but they can do a lot more with a movie.”

“The guy who picked me up on the side of the road was talkin’ about this one with zombies,” Wolfwood said.

“You got picked up on the side of the road?” Vash asked, turning to stare at him.

“How do you think I got into the city?” Wolfwood asked. “He gave me his number. Do people just carry around phones these days?”

“Actually,” said Vash, “yeah.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dropped it into Wolfwood’s hands. Wolfwood stared at it, turning it over in his hands.

“This is a phone?”

“Yup.”

“It’s so smooth.”

Vash snorted. “I know about that movie but I’m not a fan of horror,” he admitted. “Like, why purposefully make yourself feel bad? I don’t get it. Action is fun, but my favorites are all romcoms.” 

“Romcoms?” Wolfwood asked, not looking up from the phone.

“Romantic comedy,” Vash explained. “A story about romance, but they tell it in a funny way. Press the button on the side.” 

Wolfwood obeyed, eyes widening as the screen lit up. “Is all technology now just flat screens?”

Vash thought about it for a moment. “Pretty much, yeah.”

He reached forward and swiped up on the phone, typing in his passcode. Wolfwood gaped as it unlocked. He clumsily swiped through the apps on his own. Eventually, he passed it back to Vash, who left it on the coffee table.

“Show me a romcom?” Wolfwood asked.

Vash grinned.

Vash made himself comfortable sprawled on top of Wolfwood as the movie played, head resting on his chest. Wolfwood had pulled Vash’s hair free from where he’d tied it up earlier that morning and mussed it up, fingers weaving through dark locks as he scratched his nails gently against Vash’s scalp. Vash could hear his heart beating steadily beneath his ear, feel the warmth of his body heat through their clothes. He’d wanted to pay attention to the movie, to see Wolfwood’s reactions to everything, but his eyes started to droop, lulled by the gentle fingers in his hair and the occasional laugh that rumbled through Wolfwood’s chest. He drifted off like that—warm, held, and safe.

Chapter Text

Wolfwood woke up hot. He’d always run warmer than Vash—the first to need space after being pressed up against each other for a while because he’d started to sweat. Vash was still on top of him, long lashes closed against his cheeks, mouth open as he drooled on Wolfwood’s shirt. Affection swept through him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to cool him down.

The apartment was dark. The TV must have shut off on its own while they slept. His stomach growled insistently. He put a gentle hand on Vash’s shoulder and shook him.

“Needles,” he said quietly. When Vash didn’t stir, Wolfwood shook him a little harder. “Vash.”

Vash’s eyes fluttered open, glassy with sleep. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled, turning his face into Wolfwood’s chest. 

“Nuh uh,” said Wolfwood, jostling him again. “Let me up.”

Vash whined, but he pushed himself up, blinking fully awake. His eyes found the spot of drool he’d left on Wolfwood’s shirt. Wolfwood watched him turn an adorable shade of pink.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, sitting up fully to rub sleep out of his eyes. Wolfwood wriggled out from under him, stretching his arms over his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, smiling as he took in the mess that was Vash’s hair, fluffed up and frizzy around his face.

“I’m starvin’,” Wolfwood said as his stomach gave another grumble. 

“I can make dinner,” said Vash. “Just give me a few minutes.” He got to his feet, flicking on the light as he went, disappearing into the bathroom. Wolfwood heaved a sigh, wandering into the kitchen as he examined what they’d ended up buying. He found a package of pasta, a jar of sauce, and a package of ground meat in the fridge. This was something he was familiar with.

Vash emerged from the bathroom as Wolfwood was setting a pot of water to boil on the stove. Vash opened his mouth to protest, but Wolfwood waved him off. “I got it,” he said. “You’re not even hungry, are ya?”

Vash gave him a sheepish grin. “Not really,” he admitted, hopping onto one of the barstools at the counter. “Don’t burn the place down.”

Wolfwood gave him an unimpressed look, pointing a wooden spoon at him. “Who was the better cook two hundred somethin’ years ago?”

“You,” Vash said, propping his chin up on a hand to watch. They hadn’t had the chance to cook much, but Wolfwood had gotten permission to use other people's kitchens a few times. “I remember your pancakes.” Wolfwood made pancakes more times in his life than just about anything else. A memory resurfaced of him in his early teens, flipping pancakes for the younger kids at the orphanage. 

Wolfwood browned the meat in a pan, reveling in that same content feeling he’d felt then. He’d always enjoyed cooking for others. Acts of service had always been the easiest way for him to express affection. By the time he finished, he had two steaming plates of spaghetti with meat sauce. He placed a plate in front of Vash.

“Eat,” he instructed him, “I’ll finish whatever you can’t.”

Vash obeyed. He ended up finishing his plate. Vash helped Wolfwood clean up after, teaching him how to use the dishwasher and spooning leftovers into plastic containers. 

They got ready for bed. Vash tossed him a pair of sweats and a clean shirt, laughing as the clothes smacked him right in the face. In retaliation, Wolfwood stripped off his shirt and threw it at him. Vash snatched it out of the air before it could make contact. Wolfwood huffed in annoyance.

“Show off,” he grumbled, turning around to pick up the clothes he’d let drop to the floor. A cool hand against his back made him shiver, fingers tracing across muscles that rippled with the movement. A much warmer hand against his jaw turned his head into a kiss. Wolfwood liked when Vash touched him like this, opposing hands against bare skin, making him undeniably aware that it was Vash that he was kissing. They pulled apart. Vash’s eyes were a dark, dark greenish blue, luring him in. 

“You gotta let me brush my teeth first,” Wolfwood rasped. Vash laughed, releasing him. He pushed him towards the bathroom.

“Go, then,” said Vash. 

Wolfwood went. He stripped from his jeans into the sweatpants, tossing them into the hamper. He left the shirt off, folded neatly next to the sink. Vash joined him, shoulder nudging his as they both brushed their teeth. They took turns rinsing out their mouths. Then Vash was pressing him against the wall next to the towel rack, hand a little damp on his chest.

“You sure?” Wolfwood asked, remembering how Vash had hesitated earlier. “There’s no rush, Blondie.”

The old name slipped out before he could stop it. They both laughed at the irony. He twirled a strand of Vash’s hair around a finger. “None of my nicknames work for ya anymore.”

“Don’t care,” said Vash. “I’ll dye it.” Then he was kissing him, and Wolfwood—as he always did when Vash kissed him—felt a little like he was dying. Vash’s hands were all over the place, sliding over his pecs, brushing over his nipples. Vash swallowed the groan he made at that and deepened the kiss. His hands dipped lower, tracing over the planes of his stomach, trailing over the swell of his hips, slipping just underneath the waistband of his pants. Wolfwood sagged against the wall, head spinning, senses full of Vash, Vash, Vash.

Vash kissed along the curve of his jaw, teeth nipping just below at his neck. Wolfwood shuddered, back arching, mouth falling open. His prosthetic hand wandered up his back, tangling into his hair and tugging his head to the side. Wolfwood let him, baring his neck, body pliant to his touch, surrendering completely as Vash dug his teeth back into Wolfwood’s skin. It was so, so easy to give himself over to Vash like this. To let him take him apart and put him back together with his gentle hands. He wanted—

“Touch me,” Vash whispered, breath hot against Wolfwood’s ear.

“Fuck,” he groaned and slid his hands underneath Vash’s shirt. “Off?” he asked. 

Vash nodded, raising his arms to help Wolfwood pull it up over his head. Wolfwood started, eyes widening. The past few centuries had been much kinder to him. The scars had faded, skin healing over old wounds. Wolfwood traced a fingertip along surgery scars where the metal grate had been the last time they had done this.

“You look different,” Wolfwood murmured, pressing a kiss right over his heart.

“Better, right?” Vash huffed, avoiding his gaze.

“No,” said Wolfwood, cupping a hand to his face to guide his eyes back to him. “Not better or worse. Different.” He brushed his lips against the apple of his cheek. “Always been gorgeous.”

“If you keep saying stuff like that I will cry again,” Vash said, voice wobbling.

“That’s alright,” Wolfwood told him. “I don’t mind.”

“Well I do,” Vash said petulantly. He looped his arms around Wolfwood’s neck, fluttering his eyelashes playfully at him. “Take me to bed, Nick.”

Wolfwood laughed, hoisting him up. Vash yelped, clinging to him as he carried him from the bathroom. Wolfwood tossed him onto the bed. Vash squawked indignantly. Before he could say anything Wolfwood was clambering on after him, hands bracing himself over him, grinning down at him. Wolfwood got the pleasure of watching Vash’s expression turn all soft and gooey. His hair spread out around his head like a dark halo, positively angelic. Wolfwood couldn’t help but kiss him. Vash leaned up to meet him in the middle.

“I liked that,” he said against Vash’s lips.

“What?” asked Vash. “Me saying your name?”

“Yeah,” said Wolfwood, feeling his face burn at his honesty.

“Nick,” Vash said again, grinning up at him. “Nico. Nicholas.”

Wolfwood kissed him again to shut him up. Vash laughed into it. He pulled away and Vash still had that wonderful, dopey smile on his face.

“How do you want this?” Wolfwood asked. 

Vash reached upwards, cupping Wolfwood’s cheek. He leaned into the touch. He couldn’t do anything else. 

“This is good,” Vash told him, voice soft.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me about them,” Wolfwood said, sated and sweaty and naked, curled up against Vash. He was playing with Vash’s flesh hand, tracing along the curves of his life lines. Vash’s head lolled against the pillow to look at him, still breathing a little more heavily than normal. 

“Who?” Vash asked, shivering as Wolfwood’s fingers brushed against a ticklish spot.

“Our friends,” Wolfwood said, swallowing around the lump building in his throat. “The girls… Livio.”

“Oh,” said Vash. His fingers curled around Wolfwood’s, squeezing.  “They lived good, long lives. Livio had kids, y’know. Called me Uncle Vash and everything.”

Wolfwood’s eyes burned. He quickly wiped the tears away. “You guys were friends?”

“Yeah,” said Vash. He smiled sadly. “We used to visit your grave together.”

A wave of sorrow rolled through him, so thorough and aching that Wolfwood didn’t know what to do with it. His face crumpled.

“Oh, Wolfwood,” Vash breathed. He pulled him close, cradling him against his chest. Wolfwood made a noise horrifyingly close to a sob. 

“Shhh,” Vash soothed him, rubbing his back. “Want me to keep going?” Wolfwood nodded.

So Vash talked, and talked, and talked. He had over two centuries worth of stories to share. He told Wolfwood about living with Meryl and Milly for a few years, how their kindness pulled him through his grief after Wolfwood’s death. He talked about Livio, and his children, and his children’s children. He talked about growth, the progress in technology and in society. He even mentioned a few past lovers. There was no bitterness in his voice as he recounted all of this, just that bright, beautiful hope for humanity that had drawn Wolfwood to him like a moth to a flame. All the while Wolfwood sobbed into his chest, grieving the time he’d lost, until he finally quieted, wrung out and so, so tired.

Vash buried his face in Wolfwood’s hair. “I prayed for you, you know,” Vash told him. “I begged God for your life.”

“Fuck,” said Wolfwood, with a strangled laugh, tears drying on his cheeks. “I guess you got it.”

“I’m sorry,” Vash said, sounding so distressed. 

Wolfwood shook his head. “This is more than I ever thought I’d get.” He took a deep breath, squeezing Vash’s hand. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank your sisters for me too.”

“Okay,” Vash whispered, holding him close. Wolfwood breathed out a shuddering sigh.

“I guess I finally freaked,” Wolfwood said.

Vash laughed, startled. Wolfwood slung a leg over Vash’s, pressing in impossibly closer. Vash nosed at his hair, breath ruffling dark curls. “At least you did it after the sex,” Vash pointed out.

Wolfwood snorted. The hurt was fading a bit, eased by the comfort of skin-to-skin contact, of Vash’s arms around him. They fell silent for a little while. Wolfwood drifted, settling into a not quite doze. Vash started fidgeting with Wolfwood’s hand this time, eyelids drooping as he laced their fingers together over and over.

“What about you?” Wolfwood asked finally, half-asleep and brave enough to ask questions again.

“What about me?” Vash asked.

“Kids. You got any?”

“Oh,” said Vash, a peculiar lilt to his voice that had Wolfwood raising his head to look at him. Wolfwood could feel his beat of hesitation before he said, “Can’t.”

Wolfwood blinked. “Really?”

Vash shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Huh,” said Wolfwood, eyebrows raised. He started to grin. “Yer tellin’ me you’ve got all of those parts and you can’t-”

Vash clamped a hand over Wolfwood’s mouth, embarrassment turning his ears a bright red. “You’re terrible,” he complained. Wolfwood barked a laugh, muffled by Vash’s hand. Then he licked a long wet stripe along Vash’s palm. Vash yelped, jerking away. 

“Gross,” he said, wiping off the wetness on Wolfwood’s cheek.

“Hey!” Wolfwood complained, pushing his hand away.

“It’s your spit.”

“I’ll show you my spit,” Wolfwood growled, and cuddling quickly turned into wrestling, which somehow devolved further into more making out, which was then followed by more sex.

They showered together, afterwards, somehow managing to keep their hands mostly to themselves. They washed each other’s hair. The gentle intimacy made Wolfwood feel raw and fragile, like he could burst into tears again at the feeling of Vash’s fingers against his scalp, his chest pressing up against his back.

“Vash,” he said over the sound of the water, head tipping back as Vash massaged shampoo into the top of his head, practically boneless.

“Hm?”

“You ever want kids?”

Vash paused for a beat, before his hands resumed their motions. “It’s harder for me, I think,” Vash admitted. “Because I know I’ll outlive them.”

He might as well have just wrenched Wolfwood’s heart from his chest and crushed it. All he could think about was how terribly brave Vash must be to have this kind of vulnerability with someone, all these years down the line.

“Adopting would be nice though,” Vash continued before Wolfwood could say anything. “With a partner.”

“Yeah,” Wolfwood rasped. “It would be.”

Vash pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Time to rinse.”

They toweled off afterwards. Vash pulled on a pair of boxers and the pants Wolfwood had abandoned in his mission to get Vash out of his. Vash tossed another pair of underwear at him.

“At least put these on,” he told him.

Wolfwood raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t have a problem with my bare ass before.”

Vash rolled his eyes. “Your bare ass is gonna have a problem sitting on the stool at the counter if you want some ice cream. It’s cold.”

Wolfwood rolled his eyes back at him, but he listened anyway. He trailed behind Vash into the kitchen and sat, wincing at the cool, polished wood against his thighs. Maybe Vash had a point. He carefully schooled his expression into nonchalance as Vash turned to face him, tub of ice cream and bowls in his hand. 

“I had ice cream once,” Wolfwood told him. “Long time ago. This guy came by the orphanage with this big refrigerated truck.”

The clock on the stove said it was late—just barely past midnight. Vash pushed a bowl full of ice cream in his direction. It was white, with swirls of what looked like caramel. Vash’s favorite flavor: dulce de leche. Wolfwood dipped his spoon into it, groaning appreciatively at the first taste.

It was definitely something Vash would like; cloyingly sweet and almost obnoxiously delicious, soft and cold and perfect against his tongue. Across the counter, Vash made a happy noise at his first bite.

“Good?” Vash asked him.

“‘Course it is,” Wolfwood grunted. They finished off their bowls, licking their spoons clean. Vash laughed at him as Wolfwood shivered, goosebumps raising the hair along his arms.

“Told you it’s cold,” said Vash, reaching for his bowl to rinse it off and put it in the dishwasher.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Wolfwood, wrapping his arms around himself. He watched as Vash dried his hands, then he walked around the counter and hugged him from behind. Wolfwood leaned against him, head tipping back to look at him.

“You warmin’ me up?” he asked.

“Mhm,” Vash hummed, resting his chin on top of his head. “Is it working?”

Wolfwood yawned before he could answer, jaw cracking with the force of it. Vash laughed again. Wolfwood could listen to that forever—the sound of Vash laughing at him.

“Tired?” Vash asked, a smile on his face as real as Wolfwood had ever seen it.

“Obviously, dumbass,” said, dropping his head back against Vash with a gentle thud. “It’s been a long day. Longest damn day of my life.”

Vash was silent for a moment, long enough for Wolfwood to pick up on his sudden tension.

“What’s the matter?” Wolfwood asked. 

“I’m a little scared to go to bed,” Vash said with a nervous laugh. “I know it’s stupid but this doesn’t feel real.” 

“You fell asleep on the couch earlier,” Wolfwood pointed out. “I’m still here.”

“I know,” said Vash. “It’s stupid,” he repeated.

Wolfwood stood suddenly, turning to face Vash, forcing him to meet his eyes. “I’ll be here tomorrow.”

Vash’s lips trembled. “Promise?”

Wolfwood shouldn’t, because he couldn’t. This body of his was a gift from forces he didn’t understand. He didn’t know how he was still walking and talking and breathing. He couldn’t know, because he was one measly human that had been blessed by a chorus of angels.

“I promise.”

When Vash woke, the bed was empty of anyone other than him. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting light against the pillow that Wolfwood had slept on. He reached out, hesitantly. It was warm to the touch from body heat rather than the sun.

He registered the sound of movement in the kitchen. Wolfwood sang softly as he worked, voice a familiar rasp that made Vash sink back into the bed, exhaling a content sigh. His nose twitched as the familiar scent of pancakes and bacon filled the air. His stomach gave an appreciative grumble.

“Oi!” Wolfwood called from the kitchen. “I can hear ya wrigglin’ around! Get yer lazy ass up and help with the eggs!”

Vash grinned. He stretched languidly, joints cracking. Birds sang outside the window. Vash took a moment to revel in feeling alive. Then he got to his feet, pulled helplessly—as he always was—towards the beautiful man standing barefoot in his kitchen.