Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s a sharp yank to the back of Wolfwood’s skull as the hand fisted in his hair wrenches his head back. He has just enough time to think, huh, been a while since anyone’s done that before stars are dancing before his vision. Probably another punch to the face. There have been so many, he’s just about lost count at this point.

Record scratch. Freeze frame. How did Wolfwood end up in this situation? He’d very much like to know the answer to that question himself. Thinking is a little difficult in this position—the pressure on his hair is alleviated as he’s thrown to the ground and a knee is driven into his gut—but Wolfwood is pretty sure there’d been a bar involved. That he had ordered a soda, with the knowledge that tomorrow is meant to be an early morning, that Vash and and that big lady were already hammered and thus of everyone he needed to maintain a clear head. If only so the little one didn’t have to lug around her two much more sizable companions solo.

(Though if anyone could do it, surely Meryl Stryfe… Wolfwood is fortunate enough that that very embarrassing train of thought is disrupted by another knee, this time against his nose. Uncouth. The bones crunch, then, more painfully, immediately begin to mend themselves. Wolfwood spitefully hopes the blow hurt his attacker more than it did him; he knows that just like the rest of his body, his nose is no longer entirely flesh and cartilage.)

Soda. Something about—there’d been music. Dancing? The little lady called an early night and hauled her larger companion to her feet. Vash was—Vash smiled at him? Wolfwood doesn’t recall. There is less red in the latter half of his memories, so he thinks Vash must’ve gone to bed too. Perhaps Wolfwood hung back to finish his soda. Perhaps that’s why his thoughts are so scattered, bleary, like grains of sand slipping between his open fingers. It’s not an alien feeling in the slightest. The realisation makes Wolfwood feel like he’s going to hurl, and, seeing as he’s not in polite company, when he ends up on his stomach again, he goes ahead and does so.

“What the hell?!” Wolfwood can just barely make out the indignant cry from above him. “These are new shoes, you twat!”

Twat? Is the motherfucker beating him up British? No, nevermind. They’ll get Wolfwood’s blood all over their new loafers, but they draw the line at little stomach acid? Laughable. Wolfwood spits for extra measure, then feels his jaw crunch at the retaliation. It’s sickening how quickly his bones start to mend themselves again. A real freak of nature, Wolfwood is. He thinks blood has dripped into his eyes, or perhaps he wasn’t able to see very clearly in the first place. Because of the soda?

No, there was something between the soda and the kicking. That much Wolfwood is sure of. His drink did taste a little funny. It occurs to Wolfwood to check his pockets; perhaps he’s been robbed. Or maybe this is more personal than a simple robbery. He knows plenty of thieves and pickpockets who wouldn’t go so far as beating him down in a back alley. Or maybe Wolfwood flapped his mouth. He’s been known to do so once or twice.

This would, Wolfwood thinks, be an awful nice moment for Vash to come waltzing in with his bleeding heart. He does not. The next… however long, Wolfwood spends tasting even more concrete. It’s not his most dignified. But then what right does he have complaining? He can feel it in the clench of his fists, the way his muscles tense for every blow. A broken jaw, a crunched nose, some cracked ribs—those aren’t really anything, not to him. He could pull himself upright, shake it all off, and crush these men into sand.

He doesn’t, though. So no wishing for Vash to run out and save him. Wolfwood can hardly blame the cloudiness of his vision or the incomprehensible sequence of events from earlier in the evening. He knows these men would die, should he choose to retaliate; that they wouldn’t turn and leave him alone if he simply asked them to. If he fought back by breaking their wrists or ankles, he’d risk permanent damage. They’re not like him, a monster, an experiment. Normal humans break and oftentimes they don’t recover.

No reason for Wolfwood to allow this to continue, of course. He’s already chosen to live; he has betrayed the one good man he’s ever known for that precise reason. But since Gray, since a thousand shots that refused to hit home, Wolfwood hasn’t quite been able to pull the trigger in the same way as he used to. Even when his cheek scrapes painfully across the pavement, all he can really muster the energy to think is Mondays, huh? before heaving a sigh and spitting another wad of blood. He doesn’t even know if it’s a Monday. How far he’s sunk.

There is quiet, eventually. With it, the uncomfortable pressure and twist of his elbow beneath his side. That, Wolfwood is less fond of—but the quiet is nice, by comparison. Gives his head time to stop spinning. He was most definitely drugged. Even years out, Wolfwood could never forget the feeling. It is this more than anything else that makes his heart race with renewed terror, though Wolfwood can’t quite muster the energy to schlup himself upright. Nothing good has ever happened to him while inebriated. It’s an impressively long list, as a matter of fact, each item a little bit more grotesquely horrifying than the last. Of course, the state Wolfwood is in, he can’t quite muster the same righteous indignation to that as he usually does. But he’s not thrilled about the drugs.

He’s vulnerable like this too. And again about his arm. Uncomfortable. It may be twisted, or perhaps dislocated. Or is that the shoulder? Can they dislocate elbows? Has anyone tried? Wolfwood supposes anything is possible should you just put your mind to it. Vash would probably say something like that… actually… he’d probably get pretty grossed out if Wolfwood brought up the elbow conundrum, maybe he should save that one for a rainy day… so to speak… it doesn’t really rain here…

Wolfwood’s senses still work, for all the—discombobulation. (Funny word, that one. Millie Thompson likes it, so Wolfwood’s found himself liking it too, in the absence of a prior opinion.) He can hear the footsteps that approach him, can even recognise that they’re familiar by the click of sharp, small heels. So not a threat, because Wolfwood would know if it was someone from the Eye of Michael or any other villain he knew well enough to identify by their gait. He’s not thinking quite straight enough to piece together who it actually is though, at least not until their eyes are in front of his.

Tinted. A little fragmented. And then a hand reaches for him and Wolfwood realises why; those jackasses cracked a lens of his fucking sunglasses.

“‘S no dignity in preaching,” Wolfwood slurs, nonsensically. As if his cover has anything to do with this. “Don’t quit yer day job, lil miss.”

“What?” Meryl’s voice comes out harsher than he’s ever heard it. Wolfwood winces, which is hard with half of his entire face smushed against the ground. He’s sure the gesture is lost on Meryl, who—is grimacing? He thinks. He sees the squint of her eyes, and they certainly look—well—squinty. Grimacey. “Wolfwood, what happened to you?”

No good: she’s using his name. Usually Meryl calls him preacher or priest or something along those lines. Wolfwood is charmed by the tendency, though he’s sure she just does it to get back at him for referring to her by height exclusively. Worse because he actually does know her name. But to be fair, she is very small, and she’s also constantly standing next to the largest woman Wolfwood has ever seen in his life. Not to disparage Millie, whose every inch only makes her that much more beautiful, but—wait, Meryl’s mouth is moving again.

“Can you hear me?” She’s closer now. Must be kneeling. Wolfwood is captivated by the movement of her slim fingers as she folds Wolfwood’s glasses, wrapping them in a deep purple handkerchief and sliding them into her pocket. They must be covered in blood. Maybe that’s why she wraps them—or maybe to prevent pieces of fibreglass from getting lost. It’s a very meticulous movement regardless, and Wolfwood tracks it like a fly trapped in molasses. Or… something else… slow. Wolfwood’s receptors are a little fried for impressive analogy at the moment. “I think you might have a concussion.”

“‘S drugs,” Wolfwood interjects, “don’t concuss.”

Meryl raises an eyebrow. “You don’t concuss.”

“Mhm. Father’s Heavenly,” Wolfwood gestures vaguely with an arm and watches his hand flop upwards. This is also rather painful, but the motion is so funny he starts to laugh. “Uh, his Hea—what was I—?”

“Wolfwood,” Meryl is wincing and Wolfwood can hear it from her voice, beneath his deranged giggling, “put your arm down.”

Finally, some direct guidance around here! Wolfwood does so, happy to obey Meryl’s every command and beyond that if she’ll shut off the incessant buzzing in his skull. In fact, there’s something she could do for him, but Wolfwood struggles to bring it to mind. She asked him a question, though, so perhaps he could try and answer that first? What was it, what was it…

“Ah,” Wolfwood starts. “Mm. Check m’pockets?”

Meryl’s jaw shuts with a click loud enough for Wolfwood to hear. Perhaps she’d had another directive, or had been gearing up to ask more questions. Either would have been acceptable given the circumstances, but Meryl instead does as Wolfwood asked, fingers sliding delicately through his front pockets, then his pant pockets, then beneath the flaps of his blazer.

“Your guns are still here,” Meryl lists off, “and your wallet, and,” she halts tellingly, and Wolfwood shuts his eyes.

“Just some holy water. Means they didn’t rob me though… unless…” Wolfwood wracks his memory, which does sort of hurt, concussion or no. Did they really take out his wallet, rummage through it, and then put it back? That seems overcautious for a group of men who were much more interested in kicking the shit out of Wolfwood. Then again, why drug someone if you can pickpocket them? Maybe he was targeted. Wolfwood would assume it was something he did at the bar, except he’s sure they slipped whatever it was into his drink fairly early in the night. Perhaps they just didn’t like the look of him. Or hate holy men.

Or recognised him from somewhere. Had they said something about it? Wolfwood certainly didn’t have any desire to fight back, and if they mentioned knowing someone Wolfwood put a bullet through the skull of—well, that will do it. Look at him go, self-examining like a detective, as if he hadn’t been present for all of the events that transpired tonight. He should focus on Meryl, who is still hovering over him with her face all screwed like a prune. Or like she drank straight from a lemon. Analogy situation is a little less bleak. Wolfwood would pat himself on the back if not for the disconnected floppy wrist situation. And that it would maybe freak out Meryl.

Hmmm. She is holding his things. Wolfwood squints his eyes.

“Actually it’s not holy water,” Wolfwood blurts. “Break the top off one of them—those—” He struggles for the word. Tubes? That isn’t it. Something sciencey. He’s sure Meryl would know the word.

“Vials,” Meryl supplies. Yes! Wolfwood nods, then regrets it, because of the aforementioned face on concrete and also general pain. Which the vials will fix. She is brilliant, that Meryl Stryfe. Has Wolfwood ever told her that? She ought to hear it. Maybe Vash had better say it to her instead though; Wolfwood might get too embarrassed to say it out loud.

There’s the sound of crackling glass. Apparently Meryl did as instructed without demanding an explanation, which isn’t like her. She seems the sort to prefer to have all the facts before taking action. Nonetheless, she makes some sort of inquiring sound over him, which makes Wolfwood think she’s done. So he opens his mouth and gestures towards it with his shoulder, unsure how else he’s supposed to communicate the information.

The chemical taste of the serum is never pleasant. Wolfwood also becomes aware of the presence of cuts on the inside of his mouth, because they sting as he swallows down the fluid, groaning at the feeling of his bones beginning to rearrange themselves. Courtesy of the various surgeries Wolfwood underwent, he heals pretty fast by nature, but the serum expedites the process in a big way. He’s certain it also ages him several years, just lying here in front of Meryl Stryfe, but that is a lower level concern at the moment. Wolfwood rolls onto his back and attempts to gather his thoughts. They continue to flutter right out of his reach, just beyond his fingertips, and Wolfwood remembers the most inconvenient thing about this particular concoction.

Namely, that it doesn’t do anything for other drugs. Status effects. Wolfwood has gotten drunk before while on the serum. He has also been—well. He’s sure the cocktail he received in his coke was no different from what’s been used on him before. Fogged his mind all the same. Perhaps a little less dignified, considering it was given to him by run of the mill thugs rather than religious zealots, but in the long run, there’s not much of a difference. Wolfwood lost his shit. Got his shit rocked. The classic.

At least he can move his hand without it flopping around though. Wolfwood finds Meryl again, all pouty and concerned, that vial still held in her hand. She’s all but vibrating, her jaw ticked with how hard she’s shut it. It’s very cute, which Wolfwood resolves to add to the list of things to tell Vash to call her later, when they’re no longer in an alleyway and also Vash is here.

“You can ask,” Wolfwood tells her.

“No, it’s clearly personal,” Meryl bursts out in a big puff of breath. “I shouldn’t—I mean, I wouldn’t want to—”

“Stryfe,” Wolfwood interrupts, and shuts his eyes. His head still hurts. How unfair that his head should still hurt after taking his freak juice, the only benefit of which is that it supposedly cures his pain. “Just ask. Don’t want it hanging over my head.”

Silence. In the absence of visual stimuli, Wolfwood can only imagine what sort of face Meryl is making. The freak she must be realising that he is. She has the right of it. He strains his ears listening for her movements, for the sound of her getting to her feet and rushing off, but there is nothing. Only the sound of her breathing, and, beneath that, her slightly accelerated heart beat. Wolfwood prefers not to listen to that though, finds it a bit invasive if not creepy that he has the ability at all, so he tries to focus on other things. Like how badly his head hurts. Did he mention that it hurts?

“Who did this to you?” comes Meryl’s question, finally. She says it in another sharp exhalation, practically with no pauses in between, so it takes a moment for Wolfwood to even understand her. Knowing what she said clarifies nothing. Wolfwood opens his eyes and finds Meryl staring at him, a deep crease between her brows, both her gloved hands wrapped tight around the cracked vial she holds.

“What?”

“I said—” Meryl takes in a breath. “Sorry. It’s all right if you didn’t know. But if you could tell me anything about what they looked like—anything they could have said to you—actually, let me ask the bartender. They might’ve seen you exit with them, or at the very least—”

“Stryfe,” Wolfwood cuts in again, only because she’s starting to stand up and his head is still spinning too badly to process her concerns. “You’re—you want to—?”

Meryl’s head whips back in his direction. Her lips press into a thin, pale line. “Obviously, I can’t let them get away with it. They’re clearly dangerous if they could do such a number on you. They could hurt someone else… and even if they don’t, they need to suffer the consequences of hurting a friend of mine so badly.” Meryl tosses the vial aside and pats the pocket of her cape, where Wolfwood knows she keeps one of her derringers. “It’s that simple.”

So much to process. Wolfwood has never felt quite so slow and simple, mind struggling to compute even Meryl’s use of the word friend, though if pressed, he might’ve applied the same term to her. He feels slightly nauseous again, and it hits him too late that it’s more than just a background urge. Unfortunately throwing up this time means losing the serum, so Wolfwood turns onto his side and clamps his hands over his mouth, breathing evenly through his nose until the urge abates.

Meryl makes a sound of distress at his back. She also lowers to her knees again, or so Wolfwood assumes, one of her hands—hovering. He can feel it close without feeling her decide to place it. How considerate she always is, not to touch him, though Wolfwood’s shoulder aches with the implication of the touch. All the more reason why he shouldn’t allow it, how greedy he is to wish for more from her after she already all but saved his life—and yet here he is.

The words tumble out of Wolfwood once the threat of throwing up has mostly passed. “You don’t—that serum—”

“I—oh.” Meryl’s jaw clicks again. “That’s… Can I be honest with you, Wolfwood?”

Wolfwood would really hope that she is. He gives a slight nod.

“Back at… Vash’s home. Millie and I took you to the hospital wing. Your body was already starting to heal itself.” Meryl’s voice is low, almost conspiratorial, as if she is telling Wolfwood something he ought not realise about himself. As if she should be ashamed, for noticing this freakish fact about his current body. “Millie suggested that was a priest thing… I mean, I guess I haven’t known a ton of priests. But… if you want to tell me the deal with your vial pack, you can. Otherwise, it’s nothing I wouldn’t have… I mean, I just wasn’t surprised. That’s all.”

She sounds remarkably wrongfooted, Meryl Stryfe. And what a feat it is to render her that way. Wolfwood turns over onto his other side so he can look up at her. Meryl’s hands have curled into fists at her thighs, a deep crease in her brow that only deepens when their eyes meet.

“Regardless, that isn’t what’s important right now,” Meryl insists. “If you can give me descriptions—”

“Can’t,” Wolfwood manages, “and don’t want to. Lord preaches mercy.” Actually, Wolfwood is sure he’ll be spitting mad tomorrow, but that’s a tomorrow issue. Beyond that, “Don’t want you fighting my battles, little miss. Would appreciate you somewhere else right now.”

Meryl’s mouth does that open and shut thing again. She swallows audibly and asks, “And where’s that?”

“Helpin’ me?” Wolfwood feels bad for even asking, but he’s sure he’s not making it back to the hotel room in this state. Also: “Don’t wanna deal with Tongari while I’m all…”

“Ah,” Meryl says, and gives a firm nod. “Got it. Let me help you up.”

They’re both talking around a very obvious truth, which is that Vash likely wouldn’t be annoying about it at all. Guilty perhaps, which in itself is annoying, but not in the way that Wolfwood had implied. The support will help nonetheless. Wolfwood thinks he would feel equally ashamed to waltz up to Millie Thompson in such a state, his shirt bloodstained, rips at the knees of his pants, but it feels different with Meryl in a way he’s not interested in reading into. Couldn’t even if he was. She’s just—more straightforward, maybe, than either of their more sunny counterparts. Makes it easier to feel weak in her presence.

Wolfwood oughtn’t put much thought into that one either. Meryl shuffles in close and Wolfwood allows her to hoist him upright in much the same way as she did to Millie earlier in the evening. His head does spin, on account of the drugs, but there is otherwise no pain, courtesy of the better (?) drugs. Meryl is stronger than Wolfwood expects her to be, for lugging a man twice her size and easily three times her weight. She doesn’t even grunt with exertion, beginning to guide him around the corner, and Wolfwood allows his head to loll atop hers. His eyes flutter.

The lighting changes when they’re inside the hotel; that’s how Wolfwood realises their location. He clocks their proximity to Vash by the smell outside the door. That man uses very strong-smelling hair product. It also just smells a whole lot more like a hotel now, and the sound of Meryl’s knuckles rapping against wood certainly helps as well. Wolfwood listens to the sound of shuffling inside, a grumbling voice, then through squinted eyes sees a blue eye peeking through the crack in the door.

It opens abruptly. All traces of complaint (and drunkenness) have dropped from Vash’s expression. It occurs to Wolfwood to feel guilty; he’s dressed for sleep in a tank top and sweats, hair washed and tied out of his face, no traces of his gun or his characteristic red coat. More trouble for him, and for Meryl as well, all on a night when they’re supposed to be up early. To think Wolfwood was being judgemental about all the drinking earlier.

“Superficial,” Wolfwood blurts before Vash can fuss. “Blood’s just for show. Promise.”

“His drink got spiked,” Meryl clarifies from under his arm. “He took a hell of a beating by the time I found him. But he’s not lying that he isn’t injured anymore.”

If Vash finds this suspicious, or too simple, he doesn’t verbalise it, nor does it show on his face. He merely steps forward and loops an arm around Wolfwood’s back; he is very strong, not that that is one of this evening’s shocks. “Let’s get some water in you.”

Wolfwood allows himself to be pulled along. The door shuts, and a glance over his shoulder confirms, that Meryl has not left. Instead, she kicks off her boots at the door and disappears into the bathroom while Vash has him sat down in a chair, dropping into a crouch at his front. The lights in here are dimmed enough that it’s not entirely painful, though still not too pleasant. Wolfwood is more captivated by how blue Vash’s eyes are, like two pools of water, the likes of which Wolfwood has only seen in Plant tanks. Which is apt. He tells Vash as much, and it coaxes a smile out of the man.

“You really are out of it,” Vash murmurs. “What happened? Were you targeted?”

“Must’ve been,” Wolfwood replies. He shuts his eyes, too bad as it is to miss out on the colour of Vash’s eyes. “Not the first time.”

“Mm.” Vash’s fingers have moved to Wolfwood’s cheek, where they briefly skim the bone before dropping to his shirt collar. “And that’ll be the reason why you didn’t fend them off?”

Wolfwood does not answer, because he doesn’t need to. Not to Vash. They both know his reasoning, whether or not either of them is brave enough to say it aloud. There is pain in Vash’s expression when Wolfwood opens his eyes again, and that won’t do, so Wolfwood hooks his legs around the man’s back and yanks him closer. Vash doesn’t bother with a performative squeak or huff, merely folding inwards as his hands pop the buttons on Wolfwood’s shirt and blazer. He slides both off his shoulders, where they fall onto the chair, and Wolfwood nudges him a second time.

“Don’t get a big head about it.”

“Trust me, that’s not what I’m doing,” Vash says in a low voice. He’s saved from Wolfwood smacking him by Meryl, who emerges from the bathroom with a water glass and a stack of moistened towels. Seeing the two of them, Meryl glances over Wolfwood’s luggage, where it’s leaned up against the wall by his cross.

“You don’t sleep in a suit, do you, priest?”

“I’ll get his sleep clothes,” Vash laughs quietly. “Trade?”

Meryl gives a curt nod as the two swap places. Unlike Vash, she does not have to kneel to be face to face with Wolfwood, short enough that she’s only about a head taller than Wolfwood from this position. This, Wolfwood also points out to Meryl, earning himself a little pout, the cutest wrinkle between Meryl’s eyebrows.

“If you weren’t injured…” Meryl warns, setting the water glass down on the desk beside them.

“‘M not injured,” Wolfwood reminds her. “Wanna get your licks in while I’m weak?” It’s meant as a joke, but Meryl makes a face at him, so Wolfwood assumes it came out sort of—well. Morbid. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that.”

Meryl only shakes her head. She doesn’t rescue Wolfwood with a joke of her own, though, merely beginning to clean the blood off his shoulders, his chest, his face. She’s gentle, but procedural, movements practiced. And they must be, for Meryl to have lived for so long on this planet. There is nobody who hasn’t seen their fair share of loss, of injury. Meryl has scars too, Wolfwood knows. Has lost friends, loved ones. Has cleaned the blood off of Millie Thompson, loose cannon that she is. Found Wolfwood in a pool of his own, in the aftermath of his fight with Gray.

That was the first time they ever properly spoke to each other. Wolfwood had felt indebted to her then, as he does now. He leans into Meryl’s hand where it lingers by his cheek, and Meryl visibly falters, her mouth falling open.

Rather than shut it again immediately, this time Meryl says “I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner.”

“Why?” Wolfwood shakes his head as minutely as he can manage without dislodging Meryl’s palm. “So you could get hurt in my name? Never took ya for the noble type.”

“Think again,” Vash chimes in, Wolfwood’s pyjamas draped over his arm. “Insurance girl’s as noble as they come.”

“I’m ignoring you,” Meryl snips, eyes narrowed. They soften visibly as they fall back on Wolfwood. “You know why I would’ve wanted to be there. I don’t like seeing you hurt. Even…” She trails off, then sighs. It seems she’s choosing not to mention it in front of Vash. “Regardless of how thick your skin is, Wolfwood.”

She did say they were friends earlier. Wolfwood doesn’t have the strength to argue about it, particularly not like this, though he would very much like to remind Meryl that there are people in the world who do deserve it. Smart lady like her, she ought to understand that. But Vash is right, that she’s a lot like him too—noble, dumb in ways—so she probably wouldn’t agree. For whatever reason, Meryl and Millie and the whole lot of them have decided there’s something worth caring about in Wolfwood. Maybe the same something that had Melanie always badgering him to accept help from others. Fat lot of good it would have done him back then.

It hurts to be scornful towards Melanie, even just by proxy, by thinking badly of something she said to him. Wolfwood’s got tougher skin than that, and he never cries. He makes a point not to cry. But he hasn’t been drugged in a long while, and while having his nose broken twice over is hardly the worst he’s taken while under the influence, it’s hard to keep his mind from straying. If he asked Meryl to release him, she would. If he asked that Vash turn away and give him some privacy while changing, he would. Wolfwood could clamber to his feet and do a round of jumping jacks and nobody would stop him; he’s not tied or pinned down, not being altered or taken from, and yet the precision with which Wolfwood usually takes to avoid thinking about those times feels borderline impossible right now.

Wolfwood is going to cry. He knows before it happens, can only pull his face back from Meryl’s gentle touch, as much as he’d like to keep it. His chest feels like it’s caving in, and it’s horrible; Wolfwood’s throat hurts too badly to swallow, and he knows if he speaks it’s going to sound strangled and disgusting, childish and hiccupy, and Meryl and Vash are still standing right there and they can see him. It’s not the worst beating Wolfwood has ever taken. It isn’t even the drugs. It just hurts so badly that they care about him, and Wolfwood’s never once done anything to deserve it.

“I—” Wolfwood stops trying to speak at once. His voice comes out too squeaky. He fists his hands in his pants and wishes that he could disappear at will, if only for a moment so he could vanish the tears from his cheeks. Though permanently wouldn’t be the worst punishment either. His breath keeps trying to hitch. The threat of vomiting, it seems, has not entirely passed.

“Be right back,” Meryl’s voice says. Retreating footsteps, and then the return of Vash’s blue eyes, very close to him. Vash does not touch him, though he returns to that earlier crouch. Wolfwood has half a mind to think that it must be on account of him, that Vash doesn’t close the distance—that Vash, in all of his experience and startling observational skills, can see about Wolfwood what his cover is meant to disguise. The rotten, infected core of him. Where there was once something good—something or someone with the right to place judgement on others, to hold his head high—and now sits the hollow, carved out shell of a broken bird carving.

His analogies are definitely improving. Wolfwood would laugh if he wasn’t so busy trying not to cry. He thinks that Vash says something to him, but for the life of him, Wolfwood cannot make it out. How useless he is, that he is unable to absorb Vash’s concern, that it is not enough to stop the tears from flowing—yet here he is. As with every other aspect of his life, Wolfwood cannot change this. He can’t fix anything. He couldn’t even stop himself from getting his stomach kicked in by a bunch of pathetic jackasses, people who Chapel would have had him kill as a warmup before his real mission. Stupid. Pathetic. Land on one side or the other; don’t just flop halfway.

The door reopens. The proceeding footsteps are heavier than Meryl’s, and softened, socked feet on carpet. Vash’s eyes disappear from view. Wolfwood smells sweetness, a tinge of drink, and the shudder that runs through him is entirely involuntary. Millie Thompson only looks at him for a short moment before her arms are around him, a knee planted beside his thigh, his head cradled against her shoulder. Wolfwood has never been strong, but is weaker now than he has been in years, and can do nothing but collapse into her embrace.

In retrospect, it will be embarrassing that Meryl had to drag Millie out of bed, drunk and hazy, to comfort him. It will also be a little charming, that neither Vash nor Meryl, for all of their strategic prowess, could figure out how to navigate the issue of a crying Wolfwood without calling on Millie for backup. To be entirely fair to them, though, Wolfwood is sure that embracing the two of them would not feel quite like this. Millie smells very good. Also, she seems to know exactly what Wolfwood needs, her fingers gliding through his hair, her voice coming out a low murmur. He can’t even figure out what she’s saying, just that she’s sweet, and with Millie, it—

Well, sometimes Wolfwood likens Meryl to himself, and sometimes he wonders if Vash might be some kind of monster. Both comparisons are inherently a little unfair to them. But with Millie there was never any questioning whether or not Wolfwood might not deserve her companionship. He never once has. It eliminates the conundrum of it all, leaves Wolfwood with only the absolute: Millie is too astute to fall for the priestly shtick. Millie chooses to be here because she wants to be.

Wolfwood is so fucking out of it it’s absurd. But it feels nice to cry and to be held, and Millie stays rooted firmly in place until Wolfwood’s throat is very very dry. She seems to sense that this is the case as well, because she draws back for the glass Meryl filled, takes a sip of it herself, and then offers it.

The giggle that escapes Wolfwood is absolutely deranged. “Thirsty, big girl?”

“Well, a little,” Millie says bashfully. “Hello, by the way, Mr. Priest. Um. Sorry. Might still be a little tipsy.”

Wolfwood hums. His voice is a little congested. He hopes that will have cleared up by morning. “Nowhere near the mess I am right now, Miss Thompson.”

“Eh.” Millie shrugs. She takes the glass from Wolfwood once he’s drained it and sits in his lap, legs hung over the arm of the chair, a warm, comforting weight. Wolfwood all but folds over onto her, and Millie lets out the sweetest little hum, her hand moving to cradle his forehead. “You were much worse after that one fight… Oh! And did I ever tell you about the time Mr. Vash faced off against the Bad Lads gang? Truly awful. You don’t hold a candle to how bad he looked back there. His hair even got singed.”

“Millie,” comes Vash’s complaint, followed by a squeaky yelp. “Are you twelve?! Why are you stepping on my toes?”

“Just finding it interesting that you do know one of our names!” Meryl’s voice huffs. Wolfwood finds himself laughing into Millie’s sleep shirt, a bit too hard to make the crack that he wants to, which is the toes are all she can reach, Needle-Noggin. For the better. It might be a little unkind to make jabs at Meryl while she’d be feeling too guilty to retaliate.

Having said that, she and Vash are much too far away for Wolfwood’s liking. It’s unreasonable for him to ask for more with Millie quite literally draped across his lap, but Wolfwood still reaches out, making some—well, he doesn’t even know what he does with his hand. They’re gestures. He’s yearning. Fingers wind around his own almost instantly, cool and slender, so obviously Meryl’s. He knows Vash has joined her though, can feel the man’s presence where he comes to settle at Wolfwood’s back.

After a pause, a hand falls to Wolfwood’s shoulder, too, and squeezes.

“You’re feelin’ guilty,” Wolfwood surmises without opening his eyes.

“Which one of them?” Millie prompts. Wolfwood gives a vague shrug, and hears matching sighs on either side of him. It is, despite the context, a little bit charming.

“I was sober,” Meryl grumbles, as if held at gunpoint. “I should have been paying more attention.”

A conspicuous silence from Vash tells Wolfwood that he is more or less feeling the same way, maybe without the sober part. Wolfwood rocks his head forward against Millie, then slams it hard into Vash’s chest. Earns himself an exaggerated oof for his efforts, and now a hand on either of his shoulders.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Vash whines.

“Nothin’,” Wolfwood responds, “but that one was for Stryfe too. ‘cept I’d never headbutt a lady, so you gotta take one for the team.”

“I guess I appreciate it,” Meryl says reluctantly.

Wolfwood hums. He doesn’t have the energy for much else right now, much as he’d like to shake them both around by the collars. This is why he hates crying in front of people, among other reasons. So much misplaced guilt. If Wolfwood could physically wring the damn emotion from them both, he’d do so. Figures the majority of people he’s fallen for over the course of the last several months would have a goddamned guilt complex. At least Millie Thompson remains normal.

Well. Normal to a certain degree. He wouldn’t put it past Millie to feel guilty too for something as ridiculous as not being there.

“Miss Thompson, hate to see you off my lap, but I gotta change outta these damn pants,” Wolfwood sighs. Millie makes a sound of acknowledgement and slides onto the floor. Wolfwood finally opens his eyes. “But don’t go running off, would you?”

It’s the most he can say to that end, his eyes darting from Millie to Meryl, who still has Wolfwood’s shattered sunglasses tucked into her inside pocket. He doesn’t want her to leave, however guilty she may be feeling. He doesn’t want her to track down some no-good thugs and get revenge in his name. Truthfully, he just wants to keep looking at her until the drugs have left his system and he can finally sleep without remembering every bad thing that’s ever happened to him. He’s not sure he’d be able to relax if Meryl just up and left.

Some of it must come through in his tone or through his gaze. Or maybe Meryl really is just like him; she gives the smallest of smiles, ducking her head and waving a hand. “I don’t have anywhere to be for the next several hours. Go get changed, preacher.”

Vash’s hand falls to his lower back. It’s an unspoken question, the reminder that he won’t ask, won’t infantilise Wolfwood by assuming he’s helpless—but the offer is always there.

Wolfwood will put his own damn pants on. But he leans heavily into Vash nonetheless, to let him know where he wants him, too. This man has no business feeling guilty about any damn thing that’s ever happened in Wolfwood’s life, but if he wants to stick around, Wolfwood will allow himself the briefest of moments to indulge in his presence.

“I’ll run back to our room and grab blankets and pillows,” suggests Millie, utter beacon of sunlight that she is. “We’ll have a slumber party!”

“I’d better book us for a new sand steamer,” Meryl murmurs, a distinct crease in her brow.

“Maybe a good idea,” Vash agrees, angling himself and Wolfwood towards the bathroom. The pyjamas are back on his arm. He’s efficient. “Be back in a jiffy, alright?”

“Same to you,” Millie singsongs, but her eyes meet Wolfwood’s with an abundance of softness, and he knows the levity in her voice is more for show than anything. A Millie Thompson classic. Wolfwood really has a fucking type.

He breathes out, long and slow, until the remaining tension has left his joints. He will not be asleep for a few more hours yet, easy as it would be to sleep off the drugs in his system. A slumber party—Wolfwood’s first since the orphanage—will be nice, but it’ll be even nicer once the rest of the blood’s off his skin and he’s changed into his pyjamas. Once in the bathroom, Wolfwood leans over the sink and braces himself with his forearms, allowing Vash to rinse the grit and blood from his hair.

His touch lingers. Wolfwood can feel the apology in every brush of Vash’s fingers over his scalp, the nape of his neck. He will have stern words for this in the morning, as Vash’s dumb ass, like Meryl’s, has nothing to apologise for. In the moment, he leans his side into Vash’s and trusts he won’t be allowed to fall. Soon, he’ll be pillowed and blanketed by this man and their two closest companions.

Right now, Wolfwood allows himself to bask in the concern. Another selfish move from a selfish man—but if he was doomed from the start, he can hardly find the motivation now to deny himself the pleasure.