[ at first there is nothing but blinding darkness, immeasurable heat, and the sharp, biting rush of night air. that's all that he can remember when he wakes upon the cold pavement, damp from an early morning rain. the gravel stings at his palms as he pushes himself up, scrapes at his knees and he's suddenly so very aware that his whole body aches.
groaning, he sits up from his place, wincing at the whip of a cool wind through the alley he's found himself in. he doesn't recognize any of the buildings and the streets have otherwise gone quiet for the night, homes shuttered and curtains pulled. he's naked, but that doesn't truly bother him. for a moment, he thinks it should but he can't put his finger on the why.
vash turns each way (ah yes, his name is vash), looking up and down the alley. ]
Hello?
[ small, uncertain. he pushes himself up to his feet and its then he realizes his head hurts, too. it spins, making his stomach flip sickly in his gut, his vision swirl. did he hit his head? a hand raised to his temple says that yes, he did, and is confirmed by the presence of blood on his fingertips in the guttering street light.
instinct pulls him, a gut feeling that draws him out of the alley and up the road, arms hugging his torso, back hunched. he doesn't recognize anything - the lights, the strange noises coming from within houses, and the roaring, scary things on the road make him yelp when they swerve past him in the road. ah. a road. he knows that. and another car whizzes past him, blaring its horn. that's enough to send him running, bare feet sore and scuffed, turning down any street that feels like it might lead somewhere.
he slips when he comes round a corner, skidding onto his already sore knees just outside an ornate, neatly-kept swathe of grass and a sign. ]
Anyone? Please, I...
[ the night goes quiet and his eyes raise to peer past the sign, the grass, the fine flowers - he recognizes the cross, if nothing else. ]
I'm lost.
[ maybe. is lost the word he should be using? is lost what he feels, really? he wants to ask where he is, why he's here, what the angry things blaring at him are called, and why he remembers only his name.
or a name.
vash.
it must be his, right? people have names and he should have one and if he can remember nothing else, he should at least be able to remember his name?
there's the scuff of something up the way, from the direction he'd come running and he startles, trying to scramble to his feet but crying out when his bloodied palms sting angrily against cement bringing him right back down in a little heap by the grass. ]
maybe if he thinks back he'll remember he did once, a long time ago - when he was young and stupid and still thought miracles happened if you tried hard enough to be a good person. but he was never really one of those, either, so maybe he's just fucked up all around. it doesn't seem to matter considering where he's ended up anyway.
like all things, it starts with the kids. of course it's the fucking kids that tug at his heartstrings - have him always acting like someone he isn't anymore. but he can't help it when he looks at their faces and the things they've been through in this crapshoot of a neighborhood and they need someone. somewhere safe, something to have hope for again. and maybe it's ironic that someone who's been hollowed a long time is the one trying to make other people feel it, even if they're too little to understand, but he's already an oxymoron on every day ending in y, so what's a few more contradictions tossed in. a priest that doesn't believe in god, a bad guy doing some good around the world. but it keeps on turning.
the names were familiar around here before the faces. the eye of michael, legato, knives. his mama used to tell him if he hung around with the sharks long enough soon he'd become one of them, swimming in their pond no matter how big or small, and he guesses she was right after all. feels more like treading water at this rate - keeping the church safe, keeping the kids off the streets and in the orphanage. getting them the donations they need to really help, to have a fighting chance out of this shithole and into something better. deep down if he had to pinpoint when he got in over his head he'd know - it was livio, the medicine, the treatments - but he'd never fucking admit it out loud even if they put a gun to his head.
and would he do it again?
yeah. yeah, he would.
so he's got nothing to complain about, really. he doesn't have to like it, but he's made his bed and he's gotta lie in it. a few bullets here, a smile and wave and a tiny body hugging him goodbye, the old ladies at the church chatting his ear off about his half-assed sermons, rinse, repeat. that's his life now. he's not stupid enough to think there aren't people who have it even worse - so it's why he gets up every day and keeps doing it. is it an illusion of choice? some days, maybe. but as long as there are kids that need someone looking out for them and people out there better than he'll ever be willing to help and do even more out there for others...he can not-really-grin and bear it.
(and when he's alone, when he gets a few winks of sleep - he tries not to think about how his hands gush red and his soul is probably already signed to an eternity of punishment.)
he's good about not letting them get dirty during the day though, when he shoves a bent cigarette in his mouth and ignites it with a one-handed flick of his lighter before shoving it and his hands back in his pockets and casually strolls back home. a shower is in order, and it's early enough that he can bullshit most of his homily for a few minutes before crashing into bed and finishing it in the morning. he's got leftovers that are a day past satisfying in the fridge he'll stuff into his mouth and suck up, and that's that.
or at least, that was the plan. he hears the hollering before he sees anything - not unusual in this neighborhood, and definitely not unusual at this time of night. he knows most of the tweakers and druggies that stumble around when it's dark and they got nowhere else to be, and it wouldn't be the first time he shoves a few bills their way and tells 'em where to find the right shelter that won't turn them away that night. fuck, if that were him he'd probably want to be out of his mind in their shoes too. some nights that seems better than the way he's going through the motions, but that's not the point now.
the screaming is too coherent to be any of his usuals. and as he rounds the corner where the church is, he sees the only person it belongs to miles away. mainly because - they're naked as they day they were presumably born, crumpled up into a pathetic pile next to the one piece of greenery he lets the ladies take care of (he doesn't have a green thumb, okay, not a crime) to look somewhat presentable. light in the darkness or whatever the hell people want to comfort themselves with. his first thought is trafficking - maybe someone run away from one of the houses up the street. they aren't all bad when they're willing, and people gotta make a living, but he knows there are some fucked up ones too.
so he's not surprised when the next thing he sees is the blood on this person's feet, the scars everywhere else.
fuck. somebody really worked this poor asshole over from the intricate lines that all twine together like gnarled roots of a tree. wolfwood stills, looking up and down the street and seeing no obvious cause for the culprit.]
Hey.
[it comes out gruff, annoyed even if it's really just the nicotine. there's a mop of blond hair, and wolfwood finally is able to suss out that this...person, is in fact a man. boy? he looks like a fucking newborn fawn, a tangle of pale limbs and big baby blues that look pained and even worse: scared.
ah fuck.
he's moving before he even realizes it, pulling off his well-worn leather jacket and kneeling down to cover him.]
Hey. [he repeats it lamely, eyes skimming to confirm there's nothing else to identify him by. no wallet, no clothes.]
You're gonna be okay. Can you stand?
[he bites down too hard on his cigarette, exhaling through his nose before tossing it away and jabbing his thumb towards the rickety doors behind them.]
This is a church. We should get you inside for now.
[ the most frightening thing is that he can remember nothing of how he ended up hurt, how he ended up in this place, and what this place even is. he recognizes some things - grass, trees, flowers, sky, water - and something about the cross atop the building behind him feels familiar and safe, like he was meant to arrive here.
it's the stranger that brings with it a new set of problems - the annoyed voice, and vash flinches physically. it makes him shift to try and stand again. ]
I - I'll go - I'm just lost, I don't know where I am...
[ he flinches again when the man moves closer, but when he opens his eyes he's met with fabric offered out. it looks warm, and when his eyes raise in the dim light, he's met with dark eyes behind dark lenses and a wisp of smoke. a cigarette - he knows that, somehow, like he's studied it before. particularly, the way this one is bent in the stranger's mouth.
he reaches for the coat without thinking, hugging it to his chest out of instinct. it's warm and smells of something musky and rich - safe something deep in his gut says - and he nearly forgets to listen to the man as he speaks again. ]
W-what? Sorry, I just - I can... I can stand. I just don't know how I got...
[ a hand motion and vash's eyes follow the gesture to the building the man has called a church. ah. a church. it feels like it should be familiar, like he's been there before, and the thought alone makes him feel sick. but the man with the kind eyes and good smell tells him to stand and so he does just that - forces himself up on bloodied palms and feet, pushing until he stands, hugging the jacket around him tightly. it's warm and he's so cold. ]
I'll bleed on the floor. [ and that's bad, right? a church feels important, and to bleed all over it feels like something he shouldn't do. ]
I shouldn't - I... jeez, my teeth won't stop chattering. Weird, huh? [ nerves, fear, confusion. ] I... I don't know what a church is. Is it good, mister? I... I don't want to ruin it. I'll ruin it.
[well, shit. he's already made a crappy impression - not meaning to sound gruff. most of the folks around here know he's got a hard exterior and tease that his insides are all soft. a load of shit, and they'd sooner turn their backs on him if they knew what he got up to on nights like this, but there's a part of him deep down that wishes maybe he could live up to that idea. wouldn't that be just swell. his eyes widen slightly at the idea of this kid trying to wander off or go anywhere else in this state. he'll be lucky if he doesn't get caught by whoever did it in the first place - and the sad thing is, it could be way worse. there are some even sicker fucks who would have no problem dragging him in for their own twisted entertainment. not an option. he holds up his hands in a motion meant to diffuse any rising anxiety.]
Whoa - jesus, that's not what I was saying.
[he crouches down, hands still up to get a closer look into his eyes. is he on anything? pupils dilated? they look normal enough, but there's still a dazed quality about him, mixed with the stuttering and hesitation that has him wondering if it's just good old trauma. he's glad to see him wrap up in his jacket, pushing upright as wolfwood holds out his hands again nearby in case he's unsteady on his feet and needs to catch him right away.
it's when he starts babbling on about ruining the church somehow, like it hasn't seen worse when he's come in to patch himself up on dark nights like this and wolfwood can't help but snort in amusement that's self-deprecating.
not knowing what a church is though - that's the more concerning thing. an atheist is one thing, but...not at all?]
Hey, don't worry about that right now. The important thing is we get you in somewhere warm.
[he swallows, wanting to approach this gently and fearing he'll spook like a startled, cornered animal if it comes out wrong.]
Look, I've got a first aid kid and some clothes in there. I'm - the priest here. [as if he's ever donned a collar in his life. he knows he sure as fuck doesn't look it.] I can help you get cleaned up - if it's okay with you. I'd call the cops, but they're not coming down here this late.
[they're also just as corrupt as the criminals running around here, but he's worried saying as much might scare the shit outta this poor kid even further.]
Might be better if you let me carry you in, actually. Don't want you gettin' dizzy on me.
[there's nothing stupid like you can trust me, or no funny business, because that's exactly the kind of bullshit someone would say even if they did have the worst of intentions. he's had his fair share of dealing with skittish kids, he can handle this.]
[ if only he could remember where he was going, who he was with, anything - he might be able to make a little bit more sense. but everything is a jumble, everything looks new and frightening except for this man. the jacket is warm against his skin and something about the smell of it - musky and something else - makes it a little easier to breathe.
so when the man speaks he just nods dumbly, agreeing to anything and everything he says because something in his gut tells him this guy is safe. ]
Warm... would be nice.
[ he tries for a little smile at the thought of being warm, of being away from the street and the cars (right, they're cars). but the man says he's a priest and that's a church behind him and it's everything in vash to hold still and listen and not run for the first sign of safety. how long has he been outside? he can't remember.
he can't remember anything. ]
Oh. A priest. Okay. [ he knows the word, it feels familiar, and he knows it belongs in a church but all he can focus on is the warmth of the jacket and the smell of it, the way the other man holds his hands up, and how kind he's being when vash knows that he must look as terrible as he feels.
he doesn't know what the man's hands up mean, but he reaches for them out of some instinct, nodding his head. ]
Sorry, I - I have been walking a long time I think, and ah - well I think everything hurts but I'm too heavy to carry. I - I can walk, maybe. I can try.
[ but he sways when he turns to look behind him at the distance between them and the church, the movement enough to make his vision swim and his hands grip a little tighter to the other man's. ]
Maybe not - [ a little laugh again, his teeth chattering against the cool night air. he jumps when a car in the distance roars down the street, muffler loud. ]
Vash. That's - I - I don't remember anything else. I'm... I'm sorry. I just - it's cold, and I don't want to get blood on you or - it's probably on your jacket, I'm really sorry, mister. I'm - I didn't -
[ a little sigh as he tries to catch his breath. ]
C'mere - it's fine. You don't have to keep apologizing to me - promise.
[seems like a habit, and it's the exact kind of placating shit someone who's been through it would be conditioned to do to make themselves small and try to avoid confrontation. though by the looks of it, it wasn't enough in his case - the stranger - vash. but there's one thing he's gotta snort at, and that's the laughable idea that this long tangle of limbs is gonna be too heavy for him to carry. not like vash sees the guns he slings around on the regular, or the kind of lifting he's doing when it's time for spring cleaning or the christmas donations come in generous. it's a little endearing and overly thoughtful, if he's honest, but then again he's used to people underestimating his whole un-assuming guy thing.
but between the way vash is swaying like a barely bloomed bud in the middle of a thunderstorm and the way he startles at some asshole either too broke or with too small a dick to drive right, he's not changing any other accidents with this.]
Relax, I'm stronger than I look. I got you.
[he takes a long inhale of his barely touched smoke, breathing it in deep before flicking it out onto the cement in the street and watching the sparks fade. all that before he dips down, positioning his arms to heft blondie up into his arms.]
Put your arms around my shoulders. 'Atta boy.
[he carefully starts walking towards the doors, weather-worn with chipped paint on the handles. the cross looks well kept at least, and he pushes the heavy bottom with one of his shoes to kick it open and nudge them both inside. empty, thank god. he doesn't mind the occasional late night visitor but this is one night he doesn't need extra questions to scare off his current stray.]
Vash, huh? Name's Nicholas D. Wolfwood. You don't have to call me Father, no one else does. And what'd I say about the apologizing, huh? It's just a jacket. Got plenty of others.
[carefully he carries Vash past the rickety line of pews that are all in need of a good polish, past the tabernacle and into the sacristy where the first aid is. there's a couple chairs in the kitchenette, an island he's patched his fair share of wounds up on too. he's still running through the scenarios of where this kid came from - walking for a long time doesn't mean much. the average joe could hardly last five minutes in these parts, that could mean he came from up the street or six towns over.
carefully he sets vash on top of the island, just long enough to get most of him up there and his legs dangling from the knees down. he lets him cover up however he wants and cling to the jacket, kneeling down in one of the cabinets to drag out the first aid kits. hopefully he's not looking too hard, because..they're stocked with a whole load of shit heavier than just bandaids.]
Need you to tell me a couple things, spikey - can I call you spikey? It's the hair, it's - [he gestures to it with the wave of a hand to mimic it on his own head, eventually shaking it when he was about to say cute, because what the fuck.]
Besides your legs, you hurtin' anywhere else? Try not to get twitchy with me, this might sting.
[he can fix up a few scrapes and cuts, but dealing with a head injury is a whole different ballgame. he pulls open the first kid, pulling out gauze pads and saline mixture.]
[ there's no explanation for why this man feels safe, why it feels natural to want to left this man called nicholas d. wolfwood carry him into a church and tend to him. but he does - and wraps his arms around the man's shoulders the moment he's in the air. there's a small sound of surprise ( and a little wince of pain ) at how effortless it is, but he just plops his head against the man's shoulder and lets him take the lead. ]
Nicholas D. Wolfwood.
[ he says it softly, marveling at he way the name feels on his tongue - like he's said it a dozen times before. it's easy to tune out the rest of the outdoor noises when he's being held like this, forgetting the traffic he'd heard or the dark, even forgetting the sting of pain in his feet and the little scrapes on his knees and hands and cheek.
had he walked to find wolfwood?
something about that feels right.
sitting on the island, he tugs the jacket around himself to avoid the cool air conditioning, watching the man move around this room with familiarity and comfort. wolfwood who is a priest, who cares for parishoners here, who cares for these people despite the way he talks, who has a heart as big as -
how does he know this?
he lets out a little huff, his brow furrowing.
vash is his name. he woke up in the alley and started walking then running, and somehow he doesn't know where he's going but being here in this church feels close. he fidgets once he's settled, tugging the jacket and squirming a little as he looks around, observes all of the medical supplies wolfwood reveals in the cabinets. why does this seem unsurprising? shouldn't a church have books or wine or silly wafers in their cabinets? why does a priest have to heal so many hurts? ]
Spikey? O-oh. Um. Is my hair spikey? I guess so. I - you can call me - Spikey's good.
[ his face flushes just a little, and there's a light reach for his own hair to test just how spikey it is, but of course it is - his hair has always been unruly. he'd always been told he looked so unkempt for -
for... what?
he looks back to wolfwood, meeting his eyes and blinking, shaking his head a little. ]
My hands. I fell. When I was running. [ he looks to the gauze and saline, eyes traveling the line of his arms to his chest where there are little flecks of blood on his shirt from holding him. it's instinct that has him leaning forward in the space between them, dropping his forehead on wolfwood's shoulder. ]
I'm just so cold. Is it winter out there? I - I just got the shivers, I guess, Mr. Wolfwood. Sorry about that. This jacket's really warm though, so I bet it'll be over in - over soon.
[the amount of repetition he's getting should be concerning, like a newborn baby repeating everything its mother is saying. this kid - guy - whatever, looks somehow even younger now under the harsh fluorescent lighting. a little pale, shivering near uncontrollably, body littered in scars and scratches and flecks of dried blood mixing with the new. jesus fucking christ. his gaze lifts, noting the little beauty mark under his eye he'd missed earlier, drawing him in to ocean-blue and the pretty tinge of rosy red as he stumbles over his own hair style. has he never looked in a mirror? where the fuck did he even come from?
ok. he can do this - he's just gotta focus.
at least until he feels the soft press of his forehead nuzzling in against his shoulder, like he's still seeking protection, like somehow he thinks wolfwood is the guy to give it to him. and just like clockwork, there's the tug on his heartstrings followed by the angry twist in his gut of guilt. this guy wouldn't feel so safe and comfortable cozying up to him if he'd seen the spray of blood, the artful tangle of limbs left halfway across town earlier tonight. fuck - are the drops on his shirt even vash's? his hands come up, gingerly resting on his shoulders with a soft squeeze for the briefest of moments before they tremble slightly and gently start nudging vash back out of that same, bitter bullet of guilt building in his throat and making it hard to even swallow.]
Not quite winter. Heading into spring, or so they say. Hard to tell sometimes when it feels like the sun isn't shinin' around these parts.
Hang on though - I got some clothes for you. Keep the jacket though.
[he sets down the supplies on the edge of the counter, stepping over to the closet which is filled with robes he never wears - some from the previous priests, the old farts who tried to have some semblance of tradition around here. mixed in are the a few pairs of pants and shirts - mostly black. he grabs a stretched out henley and some sweats, probably about to look like floaters on this string bean sitting in front of him - but better than clinging to his coat bare naked all night.]
Let's get you cleaned up for now, then we'll warm you up. C'mere, lemme see your hands first.
[he holds out his own to let vash extend them before picking up some of the saline to clean the cuts. he keeps his tone neutral, casual even so as not to startle him with the questions. easy peasy.]
Looks like you ran pretty far if these are anything to go by.
[he glances up to make sure he's not hurting vash, even though he'd already warned him about the inevitable sting. but just to see if there's a reaction - fear, anger, anything to go off of.]
How'd you wind up in this neighborhood? You from around here? It's not exactly the kinda place we get a lot of visitors dropping by looking for tea and crackers, if I'm bein' honest.
[it's the worst of the worst. no one in their right mind would be out here unless it was familiar or they got lost by sheer dumb luck.]
[ it's easy to seek out the warmth of the other man - even with his forehead against his shoulder he begins to soak some of it up and feel a little more grounded. wolfwood is warm and safe, that much he knows, and when he feels the press of hands on his shoulders to nudge him back he almost wants to shoulder past and nuzzle back in, ask for a few minutes of that alone and he'd be fine.
but he doesn't.
he sits back obediently, face a little flushed from embarrassment, nodding softly. he makes a mental note about the sun - as if he can do anything about making the sun shine on this place more. but he gets the feeling that wolfwood would like that, and a part of him knows that one day, he can make it happen.
so he watches wolfwood collect the clothes and return, and he holds his bloodied hands out for him to work on. the saline stings, only enough for the faintest of winces and he keeps his eyes focused on the man's work at first, until he begins to look at the dark color of his hair, the olive tone of his skin, the brow furrowed in concentration, the faint smell of cigarettes.
yes, he's safe here. this is where he was running to. ]
I woke up in an alley. I walked at first because the sun was only just setting but I didn't know where I was. So I started running. There were noises, and lights, and it was pretty scary really. But I made it here and found you, so that can't be so bad, right?
[ a little laugh, and he marvels at how tenderly and gently wolfwood cleans his wounds. he shivers less and less as wolfwood works, some of the panic wearing off and the other man's energy enough to take off the edge. ]
But tea and crackers? Do you have that? That sounds great. [ another sheepish smile. ] Sorry. You're so nice, and you've... you're helping me I shouldn't ask for - I... I don't remember anything but waking up. Like I tripped - everything's so achey.
[ wolfwood carried him in, is cleaning him up, has brought him clothes. that should be enough. he should take those things and leave - he knows that's what normal people would do and yet he finds himself leaning in a little, the barest hint closer to the man. odd, to trust a stranger like this, and yet vash feels as though he's known wolfwood for all of his life. ]
[it's tough not to let the mounting concern show on his face, but he's pretty sure he's doing a damn good job of hiding it with every new, alarming thing vash tells him. it's way past sunset - which means he must have come pretty far. but the way he talks about noises and lights like those were things he's been deprived of makes it sound like he's been chained up in some fucking psycho's basement for the last few decades. jesus christ. he's right about one thing though: this is maybe the safest place he could have stumbled into short of a shelter tonight. so, there's that anyway. he nods along, still dabbing at the deepest of the cuts and pulling off a thick bandage to wrap the worst of it on one of his palms.]
Sounds like you were out there a long time tonight. You don't have to thank me for doing the right thing - wouldn't be much of a priest to turn away someone needing help.
Oh, and go ahead and put that shirt on now - I'm gonna get to your legs next. Less cold for you that way, yeah?
[he's about to crouch down and get to work with a larger cloth when he realizes that yeah, this kid is probably fucking starving. because of course he is - he should have thought of it sooner.]
Shit, sorry. Stay right there.
[he steps back to one of the cabinets, rummaging through and pulling out a mug he sets up under the shitty coffee dispenser. while it's brewing, he grabs a bag of unconsecrated wafers, which is unfortunately the only edible thing in the joint tonight.]
So maybe not tea and crackers, but...we've got coffee and communion.
[he should just. leave it at that. right? he holds out the steaming mug, chewing the inside of his bottom lip absently and setting down the wafers at vash's side.]
Look, it's late and everywhere around here is gonna be booked up for the night. You can say no, but I live next to the church. Got a couch and enough to throw together a hot meal until we figure out what to do about this in the morning. Only if you want to.
[he crouches down again, lightly washing away the dirt and grime that's nearly up to his ankles before tending to the scratches and scrapes on his feet first. even if he was walking less than he said, it wouldn't take long to get scuffed up on uneven pavement, dodging glass, needles, and god knows what else. he sneaks a glance upward, looking to see how his proposal has landed. for some reason he feels like he's holding his breath. like he's hoping he'll say yes, because the thought of him wandering around even with clothes on seems like another disaster waiting to happen, and he doesn't want to be the cause of someone else's future getting cut short tonight.]
[ there's a tiny lick of guilt that pulls through him the moment wolfwood stops cleaning his wounds and turns away to do something else. he can smell the coffee brewing, hears him rustling and knows he's asked for too much. but his stomach aches, feels so impossibly empty, and the promise of even something makes his stomach growl needily.
he pulls the shirt on as instructed, the fabric soft and already warmer than nothing at all. it swallows him whole, really, and he finds himself fisting his fingers into it and keeping it pulled close. it smells good - like the priest, he realizes - and something about that thought alone makes his whole body relax even more. this priest named wolfwood is a good man, a safe man, and the longer he stays here the more he wonders if this is who he had been running to all along.
but why?
he blinks up at the offer of the mug and the bag, reaching for it without second thought. the warmth along makes him hum, pleased, and he keeps it tucked tight to his chest, under his chin for a few moments while the man works on his bloodied feet. he will drink this hot drink, eat some of the funny little circles, and figure out what to do from there. after all, his belly will be full and he has clothes now.
he doesn't expect the overnight offer, however. ]
Oh. Oh, you don't have to do that. I mean, I'm sure I can find somewhere to stay. I made it all the way here so I bet there are plenty of places I could find, really.
[ he grabs a few of the wafers and pops them into his mouth, then another small handful, chewing the bland little things and swallowing, sighing happily as he goes for another. he feels more and more like he's coming to life again under the man's gentle touch and his kindness. he blinks down at him though, finding his own cheeks have flushed again when they meet eyes. ]
But... but if you don't mind. I don't want to be a pain, you know! I already got this place all bloody and I'm eating your food. The shirt's really comfortable, by the way. So. So I can sleep on the couch, but you don't have to do anything more for me, honest. I... I've caused enough trouble. I always do.
[ he smiles a little sadly and drinks from the mug, hiccuping almost immediately at how bitter the liquid is against his tongue. he swallows it down with a little huff. it's gross, but - it's already starting to warm him up again. ]
[it's human nature to feel some weird rash of possession seeing someone else in your own fuckin' clothes, right? because when wolfwood sneaks a glance up again in between dabbing at a particularly nasty cut, that's what he feels. it's inexplicable, especially since it looks like it's gonna swallow this kid whole. it's way too broad in the shoulders, wide enough that it might slip off a shoulder if he nudges his arm the right (or wrong) way. but it's better than nothing, and he forces himself to look at the intricate pattern of scars - both fresh from his trek across town and worn, embedded into the skin with no hope for smoothing over. there are still way too many questions he's worried he won't be able to get answers for. where did he come from? who did this to him? how'd he get free? is someone gonna come banging on his door at 4am looking for him? are they enough of a sick bastard that he could put a bullet between their eyes with a little less guilt than usual?
right now he realizes it might be an uphill battle just getting him to stay somewhere safe for the night. he's about to open his mouth and explain about the shelters, see if he can phone in a favor if vash is gonna insist on heading back out - but maybe it's the stale wafers or the warmth from the coffee that finally convinces him to give it a rest and just accept the offer. thank fuckin' god, considering wolfwood really isn't in the mood to have to spell out how much worse this could have gone. and oddly enough nick's not even sure he'd get it. maybe it's shock or amnesia or something else insane he'll have to deal with tomorrow, but the optimism he has about wandering around this neighborhood in this condition is somehow equal measures naive and...endearing. sort of. and just plain stupid.
but wolfwood looks up at him again anyway, glad to see a rush of color to his cheeks under that little beauty mark that's hopefully from warmth instead of embarrassment. christ, he is not the kind of person equipped to deal with this self esteem shit. he sighs, leaning back onto his haunches and gently rubbing salve over the arch of vash's foot.]
I don't mind. Wouldn't have offered if I did.
[he reaches for the bandages, starting to layer it carefully over the cleaned up wounds tight enough that they won't fall apart. he's gotta grab shoes, though they might not be big enough, so maybe he'll have to just grab slippers or carry him next door until they get that figured out.]
And I definitely wouldn't have given you either of these - [he reaches up to tug at the jacket still splayed over the top of his thighs - ] - if I gave a shit about the blood. Trust me, this isn't the worst I've seen around here, okay? [he's not sure what possesses him, but he offers a flash of teeth - like he's trying to make an admittedly poor joke out of the circumstances. optimism. he's trying it on for style. ha fucking ha.] And don't ask what is. You don't wanna know.
[i've caused enough trouble. i always do.
he glances up again at that, surprised at the amount of sorrow in his expression. it's feels oddly misplaced, and he's struck by the realization that he'd do anything to avoid seeing it there again. it's not right.]
No trouble at all. See? Can't be all that bad. And even if it is - I'm a priest, remember? You tell me what you did, I say a few words to the Guy Upstairs - and you're all set. Easy peasy.
[he finally manages to finish, slapping his knee and rising up onto his feet with a low grunt just in time to witness vash experience the blessing of cheap, bitter black coffee.]
Sorry. Group of ladies always clean me out of the sugar and cream every Sunday. Haven't gotten around to a restock yet.
And here - you can put these on now too.
[he gestures to the sweats, which will probably hang on by a thread around his bony hips, but it's better than wandering around with his ass hanging out for the next ten minutes until they get inside for the night.]
[ the idea that wolfwood has seen worse, has seen darker and more gruesome things doesn't surprise him, exactly. he doesn't know why he's not surprised, why he feels like he knows this, and it makes his head hurt even trying to suss out why he knows. there are so many questions, but when he meets wolfwood's eyes, all the noise goes quiet.
he should be here with him, that's the only truth he knows.
the man takes great care in bandaging him up and even with the bitter coffee, the shirt, and the bland little wafers he feels like he's coming back into his own body already, the fear and the cold slowly seeping away. his face fills with color however, when wolfwood swears he's no trouble. ]
Oh. Right. That's - you're really kind.
[ but a part of him knows that the trouble he's caused isn't curable by prayers, isn't stopped by words to God and he doesn't know why. ] If... If I remember what I did then I'll definitely tell you. I'm glad you found me. Who knows where I would have gone if you didn't.
[ he drinks the bitter coffee once more to try and prove he doesn't mind it, especially in the face of the man's apology. ] No, no it's good! It's just hot! In a good way, I mean I want coffee to be hot, right?
[ and with the gentlest order, vash sets the mug aside and reaches for the sweatpants. at first, he touches the fabric reverently, smiling a little. he brings it to his cheek first, marveling how soft it is - and it is soft, and he can tell it will be warm. it smells of the man across from him somehow - warm, musky, earthy. his face flushes when he realizes he's left it against his cheek too long and he hurriedly shakes them out, slipping his newly bandaged feet in and pulling until he stands, the fabric rucking up past his hips.
it's comically large on him, but he pulls at the little ties as tight as they can. he doesn't realize that the shirt does indeed slip over one shoulder in the process. ]
They're really warm. Thank you. For all of these things. It's really kind of you, and I don't know... well, I don't know how I can pay you back but I'll try. I... I don't remember anything but I bet when I do I'll have money somewhere. Maybe? I...
[ his brow pinches, his mouth turns down in a little frown. why can't he remember? ]
Yeah. I'm pretty glad I found you too, blondie. Don't think too hard on it. We'll just...take it as it comes, yeah?
[so maybe it is amnesia. or he's blocked out whatever hellish scenario he went through, and he can't necessarily blame the poor guy given the state of his body. if he has time tomorrow he might try and call up his guy - pick his brain a little about head injuries and if he knows anything about sick fucks doing damage to perceived merchandise around here. then again - what pimp is going to work their money makers over like this? it has his lips twisting in displeasure for a brief moment before he covers it, not wanting vash to see.]
Yeah well - the words "iced" and "coffee" don't belong together in my book. But you don't have to take my word for it.
[there's another wry smile, at least until vash picks up his sweatpants and does...that. he thinks at first maybe he's inspecting the tag to gauge the size, but he watches totally riveted to the spot in confusion, mild concern, and eventually just - something fucking insane crawling into his brain like a worm. what the fuck is wrong with him? about to lose his shit because this guy is practically nuzzling into a pair of his pants like a kitten trying to cover itself in scent. jesus fucking christ. he looks away while vash slips into them, unsurprised at the way they hang or the way the shirt is barely holding onto his slim shoulders. wolfwood clears his throat, focusing as intensely as possible on throwing away the bloodied supplies and tucking away the clean ones.]
Yeah - don't mention it. Can probably find you something better fitting tomorrow.
[he gestures vaguely towards the door, knowing there's at least one thrift store up the block. but the sad part is that whatever small happiness he has is snuffed out near immediately - and vash still looks lost somehow - clearly frazzled at the own limits of his mind and lack of recollection. not having money if it's been controlled by someone else would make the most sense. never seeing a dime of whatever work he was earning - just like those slimebags to keep their girls and guys in punishing, eternal debt. it makes him sick just thinking about it.]
Don't bother - I don't need the money. Wouldn't charge you even if I did.
[he stands back up, reaching to wash his hands in the sink and shake them out. he keeps his voice neutral again, seeing if there's something he can shake loose.]
You remember where you might'a gotten money from? What kinda job you had or something?
[he faces vash again, cocking a hip and folding his arms, trying to keep his face open and somewhat friendly. non-judgmental. because he's not judging, he's just trying to figure it out.]
Think it over while we walk. You want me to do the honors again?
[ there's almost wonder in his voice at the idea, especially when he looks back down at the cup still steaming hot. a part of him wants to take it with him, wants to crowd the heat against his chest and hold onto it even if the taste is too bitter for him. but he doesn't - instead he stands, wafers and coffee behind him, almost looking a little sheepish at wolfwood's question, eyes following him around the room. vash knows better than to move - than to wander. this isn't his home or his place, and so he dutifully stands where he's meant to. ]
Sorry. I... I don't remember. I'm not even sure I know what money looks like, but I know you use it to buy things.
[ he can't even fathom asking for anything more than he has already been so graciously offered. but he ducks his head, a little huff of a laugh following. ] But these clothes are nice - they're warm. I don't... I don't need anything else, honest. I'll remember in no time. I'll try.
[ and he'll do just that - tear into the recesses of his mind and try to find a scrap of something that might have answers. every call comes up with silence, every look - darkness. he is nothing but a body full of scars and cuts, dropped in the scary alley before he made his way here to wolfwood. wolfwood who, strangely, must be at the center of everything somehow.
he doesn't say that part. instead, he shakes his head, holding his hands up deferentially. ]
No, no! I... I wouldn't ask that. I can walk, I just might need - no, no I can walk. If you lead the way we'll make it there in no time.
[ he takes a tentative step toward wolfwood with a gentle smile. he wants to be held by him again, he realizes, crowded in against his chest where it had been so warm and so safe, but he knows better. so instead he reaches idly for the fabric at wolfwood's elbow to steady himself. ]
Thank you for helping me. [ it's meek, almost embarrassed, his face flushing. ]
[the groan he lets out is meant to be comical, because he already knows he'd probably fork over the seven bucks or whatever the fuck rip off the dilapidated starbucks up the street is charging for some sugary monstrosity. especially if it makes vash light up like that, looking less scared than he has the entire time he's known him. he looks good with a little spark in his eyes, and even though the clothes are too big and the food is too inadequate and the coffee too bitter, it's a hell of a lot better than when he first stumbled onto the church steps.
it should be more alarming than it is to hear him say he doesn't know what money looks like - because how fucking long has he been held in some freak's basement or stowed away from the real world? this could be really bad, but all he can do right now is worry about getting him a good night's sleep and some real food. baby steps.]
No need to force it. I've got someone I can ring up tomorrow morning - make sure you're not more banged up than either of us can see. But if you do remember anything, let me know, okay?
[the possibility of a head injury is still weighing on him, but he seems coherent enough and there's nothing wrong with his eyes or crusted blood on his head where he'd easily be able to see it.
vash seems adamant about walking on his own, but to be honest he's not feeling great about the possibility of having all his handiwork fucked up immediately and he's also not sure he can trust how steady he'll be on his feet seeing as he could barely stand about thirty minutes ago. still, he finds his own lips twitching upward in what is almost the return of that smile, eyes flicking down to the way delicate fingers pick at his shirt before sweeping back up to the warmth on his cheeks and the way it stops right underneath that beauty mark by his eye.]
Uh huh.
[it's said absently, before he steps forward and opens his arms again.]
Thank me later. Think it's better for you to just let me handle this part for now. At least until I can get you some real shoes.
[he feels a little ridiculous standing there, looking like he's trying for a hug when he just wants vash to situate himself enough that he can lift him up again.]
And what'd I say about all that? I'm just - doing what anyone ought to.
[even if they don't around here. even if he's not a good person underneath it all.]
You'll be the first to know if I remember anything, honest!
[ not that he exactly has anyone else to tell but he's feeling a little more lively now, a little more like he can even stand on his own injured feet. it's difficult to believe he should be scared by this stranger, should be scared of anything, with the man here with him. the warmth of the coffee, the little wafers, the clothes, the bandages - nicholas d. wolfwood is a good, kind man. it's in his eyes, of course, and vash smiles a little, laughing at himself when he catches himself staring. ]
Is your friend a doctor? That might be good. Maybe he can help me remember.
[ he's about to take another step on his own when wolfwood opens his arms and at first, he blinks at him, a little confused. ] You don't...
[ but he's learned - he knows wolfwood won't give in and instead, vash just smiles a little, almost sheepish. he'd hate to ruin the bandages he worked so hard on, he'd hate to ruin anything that this man has done for him. so he nods softly and reaches for him, stepping close and curling his arms around wolfwood's neck so that when he is lifted, he can lean comfortably into his chest. ]
Sorry - I'll stop saying thank you, I promise but I feel - you're just being so kind. I have to say thank you. I remember that. I do have some manners.
[ a peek of personality there, the little indignant but playful dig at the end. ]
[does his "friend" have a medical degree? abso-fucking-lutely not. does he know how to stitch him up good without questions and give him a bottle of pills to keep him upright for his homilies when he gets banged up more than he bargained for? bingo. but vash doesn't need to know that right now, or ever. he'll give him a quick run down of the symptoms and decide if he needs to wrap up early to take him down to be seen in person, maybe figure out which shelter he'd best be received at. but somehow the second he thinks it there's a nagging thought that wants to dissuade him otherwise. what if someone is out there looking for him? what if this time they come back and finish the job?
fuck. he's got his hands full with the church - with the kids and the orphanage and with his nightly outings. he can't afford a stray amnesiac.
the exhaustion that settles in suddenly is bone deep, more emotional than physical as vash wraps his arms around his neck. for a minute his instinct makes him want to wrap his own right back around him - in some approximation of a hug, but that would be ridiculous, so he clears his throat and puts one hand around his waist and slides the other under his knees, hoisting him up easily again and trying not to be irritated by the three inches or so this beanpole has over him. he nudges open the door with his foot, keeping the hand around vash's waist and cocking a hip to hold him so his other hand can rummage around and lock the sacristy. there's at least two good wine chalices in there that he's sure a few down-and-outers might want to get their hands on, and even though he knows a lock doesn't stop the worst of 'em at least he can say he tried.
once he's done he shoves them back into his pocket, hefting vash up again while he babbles on with more apologies and thanks - and cracks a joke. wolfwood hums, lips twitching upward slightly as they start walking along the side of the building, towards a side door rather than the long center of rickety pews back towards the holy water.]
So you do make jokes. Hilarious.
[his voice is dry, a little gruff from too much nicotine - but there's wry amusement there that vash should be able to recognize.]
What kinda food do you like, blondie? I can promise you it ain't gonna be anything gourmet, but I think I got some leftover Chinese and enough for a grilled cheese or something decent to get thrown together.
[ vash makes a little sound as wolfwood fumbles with his keys, shifting him enough that he can't help but marvel at his strength - the way he's holding him so carefully, too, and so conscientious of his safety. nicholas is warm, though, in a way that lulls vash into a sense of calm, his arms curling a little tighter and his cheek finding the man's shoulder. (if he were thinking, he might note that he's almost nuzzled against his neck, but he doesn't think and he doesn't notice).
he's tired and sore in a way that tells him he needs sleep and that he might sleep deeply. it sounds good, really, sleeping - even better than the prospect of eating warm food. but he could stay held like this too all evening nd it would feel like enough.
instead, he blushes a little when wolfwood comments on his joke. ] Of course I make jokes. Why wouldn't I?
[ it's almost sheepish, but he holds onto the man a little tighter as they pass through the church and outside the building. he can't help the shiver that goes through him when they cross outside, the eerie feeling that he'd been running away from something and to this man, scared and lost and alone. it looks almost as vastly dark and empty now as it did then. a church. he's at a church. with a priest. a kind priest.
he lets out a little, shaky breath and comes back to the conversation, blinking up at wolfwood so suddenly that his nose grazes the man's cheek. ]
Oh! I like all food, really. But you don't have to do that - those little circles were good, and the coffee really helped a lot. I don't want to eat all of your food, you're probably hungry, too, Nick.
[ he watches as they walk, the little building nestled back to the side of the church. it's so odd how the building feels familiar. he knows the place will be small, but how he knows, he can't place it. small, lived in, warmly lit. and for a brief, brief moment he has a vision of the man walking into that home tired, scuffed up, but cooking in the little kitchen. ]
I think I just need some sleep, really. I don't think I snore, but if I do you can wake me up!
[ another image, sudden and stark, of a blonde boy with sharp, pale eyes pinching his cheek to wake him - you're snoring so loud, vash, stoooooppppp.. ]
[wolfwood is deeply aware of that presence against his neck. the soft brush of skin, the little prickle of soft, albeit pointy hair brushing under his chin - it's a lot. it's kinda fucking pathetic that it makes him realize it's been a long time since he's held someone like this, and longer still since he's let anyone near him that wasn't a kid or an 80-year old woman named phyllis. it's not like he's gonna do anything about it or let it get to his head, but the realization is a little jarring to say the least. he ignores it, assuming vash is just tired and probably wants to snooze as soon as he can. and honestly he can't blame the poor bastard given the state of his body before he'd patched it up. he'd clearly been running a long time, and he must be even more exhausted than wolfwood. which is exactly why he shouldn't be thinking about shit like that in the first place, cuz he isn't some perv or creep that's gonna take advantage of a cute face and pretty blue eyes that just need a little help.
he snorts, not in the mood to explain that vash seems like the type to take things way too literally. another check in the endearing column.]
Forget it.
[it's eerily quiet outside, that oddly tranquil moment where all the killers have stopped roaming around, the screaming subsides, and the neighborhood can pretend for just a few moments that they're in a normal suburb without all the grime sucking them down on this side of town. he's lost in his own gloomy thoughts that the light brush of his nose and proximity to his face nearly makes him jump out of his skin, and out of instinct he clutches the blond tighter in his arms so he doesn't do something totally amateur like drop his ass on the pavement. and if his heart rate rabbits up just a little higher, and his cheeks colour angrily - well it's no one's fuckin' business.]
I can eat. But you should too - and don't go trying to tell me the wafers were even remotely close to filling you up. I know they're stale and that coffee tastes like shit.
[without thinking, he lets two fingers around vash's waist pinch a little.]
You need something. I got it.
[nick, huh. all the grannies call him nicholas, business calls him wolfwood or that stupid code name that stuck around, and livio and the kids love to chant nico at him while they run circles around his person when he comes to visit the orphanage. he can stomach nick.
the building has a rundown exterior, no surprise. peeled paint over cracked brick, stairway reeking of smoke and carpet with stains he pointedly ignores as he carries vash up to the fourth and top floor. and when he gets inside - it's like vash imagines. a hell of a lot warmer than the outside, the organized chaos of a messy bachelor lifestyle, but attempts at making it at least somewhat lived in. and it's clean, and scuffed up, but so is he - so it works. there's a worn leather couch in the small sitting area, mere feet from the corner that holds the entirety of the kitchen. no high-tech appliances, but he's got a little fire-escape off to the side and a small door leading to shoebox that constitutes for a bedroom. the mirror in his bathroom is cracked, the grout needs some serious love, but the shower withing the cracked ceramic tub is scrubbed porcelain white and his cabinets are full of first-aid and aftershave, and it's good enough place to put his head on a pillow and call home.]
It's not much, but you're welcome to whatever you want while you get some rest.
[he locks the door, loudly pulling the deadbolt more for vash's benefit before walking over and gingerly lowering him to the couch. from there he takes a few steps to the fridge, rummaging around for frozen cheese and butter before pulling out a rusted frying pan and turning on the stovetop.]
Make yourself at home, spikey.
[the butter starts sizzling, and wolfwood shrugs out of his jacket and rolls up his sleeves to elbow length.]
You want something to drink? Water and whiskey are pretty much your only options.
[ the little pinch at his side makes him squirm a tiny bit and he huffs a little laugh - soft and tired - but a laugh all the same. he probably shouldn't feel so comfortable with this stranger but he does, and he still can't shake the feeling that he was meant to be here. ]
It didn't taste so bad! You made it and you're nice and kind, so it really was what I needed. I'm even warmer now, but maybe that's because you're warm.
[ the apartment itself looks so cozy, vash marveling at the little layout. the couch looks soft, and he likes that little traces of the man holding him are scattered throughout - an ash tray on the fire escape, a newspaper on the coffee table, the kitchen with a few dishes left in the sink. it's delightfully lived in, and even as he comes to sit on the couch he looks around in wonder. ]
You live here? It's so warm.
[ heating does wonders on a chill night, but he doesn't move from where he'd been gingerly placed. he keeps his palms pressed between his knees, looking around the couch and under it, before he sinks to the couch, letting his cheek touch one of the cushions and he sighs. the cushions mold around him, worn and sagging with use but it's the softest thing he's felt in a long, long time. ]
It's so great! And if you're a priest, then that means you're not far from work, either. Why, you could visit work all the time. That's pretty incredible.
[ his eyes grow heavy even as he lounges on the couch, but the sound of sizzling butter tells him he can't sleep. wolfwood has insisted on making something, after all, and it's with some effort he pushes himself back up and to his feet. he's careful as he walks across the carpet to the kitchen, peeking in at the man with his sleeves rolled up.
he has strong arms - after all, he'd carried him here - but he sees it even more now with the fabric rolled away. it makes his cheeks burn a little, and he nearly convinces himself to go back to where he'd been placed, but yet another question comes. ]
Oh. Water. But I can get it! You're cooking.
[ he tiptoes in, smelling heated butter and bread, and it's the smell and promise of food that has him leaning close into wolfwood's side, peering over his shoulder, curious, nearly dropping his chin against it. ]
It smells so good.
[ soon after? a loud, growling stomach. ]
Oh. Jeez. Sorry. Guess I'm hungrier than I thought.
[wolfwood decides he likes it when vash laughs - not the nervous one when he thinks he's being inconvenient or putting him out, but the actual version that sounds relaxed and like he's actually having a happy moment instead of whatever hell he's been through up until this point. poor kid looks exhausted when he sets him down, and maybe it's stupid but his heart gives an honest to god pang when he glances over his shoulder and sees him looking at his shitty little place like he's stepped into the taj fucking mahal. there are plenty of times he knows he oughta be more grateful for what he's got in this life - messed up as it can get - and this is just another one to add to the list. something about the way vash utterly relaxes after being so tentative and seemingly ready to bolt does something twisty to his guts too, but he is not gonna linger on it. nope, not a fucking chance - not when he's already way too invested in the orphanage and the kids and every other shitshow on this side of town.
and if he smiles a little to himself listening to vash ramble on about the benefits of a short commute, well that doesn't mean anything either. when the butter melts across the sizzling surface, he grabs two pieces of bread, pressing it down with a spatula and realizes he doesn't feel the need to glance over his shoulder even with a stranger in his house. he's got a good sense of people after this long, sure, but it should be weird having someone in here after living alone just about his entire life. he's half expecting he'll have to nudge vash awake, not that he would blame him for dozing off when the chatter lapses.
if nothing else, he's clearly earned a decent night's sleep. both of them have, and isn't it funny how wolfwood forgets about the awful scene of carnage he'd left behind earlier tonight? ain't that just a goddamn miracle? he wonders if blondie would be sleeping pretty over there if he knew what kinda man he was really under the roof of - if he could see how much blood was on his hands. it makes his fingers tighten imperceptibly on the handle of the pan for a moment, jaw tightening as he smells the slight waft of the bread getting too browned.
he picks them both up, flipping the melted cheese neatly onto the other piece of bread before transferring it over to a plate and rummaging around for a knife to cut it in half, two triangles - the way the kids like it out of habit.
and then he nearly jumps out of his fucking skin and drops the thing, because suddenly vash is right over his shoulder.]
Jesus -
[it comes out in surprise, and he stills himself best as he can so he doesn't startle his guest either even if his own heart is racing a million miles a minute. people don't usually sneak up on him like that - what kind of assassin would he be?]
Uh, I mean. Sorry - dinner's served and all that.
[he turns his cheek, enough that he can see vash through his peripheral vision from how close he is. the small smattering of light freckles on his nose are only visible up close like this, and the beauty mark sticks out in stark comparison under his eyes. wolfwood swallows and turns his attention back to the stove, holding out the plate one handed and starting to make his own.]
You want another one just holler, okay? Sounds like you could eat a few.
[there's a teasing drawl at the end of that, but he turns over his shoulder to toss a smirk over his shoulder and let him know it's a joke. the bread is left out, one slice falling onto its side where he leaves the bag open just in case.]
[ vash gives a little smile, a cheeky thing that clearly has a little bit of humor bitten into it to soothe the way wolfwood has jumped. he hadn't meant to scare him at all, and he knows that making jokes should help. he doesn't know how he knows, but he does. he makes a mental note to make more noise next time so as not to scare the man. ]
I didn't mean to surprise you.
[ regardless, the food smells buttery and delicious, the smell of frying bread and cheese is enough to dissuade vash from pressing further. in fact, with the plate offered to him he blinks down at it in wonder. it does look good and he's sure he could eat dozens of these for how empty his stomach feels but he tells himself one will be fine. one will be enough. one is all he needs to feel a little full and get some rest.
he doesn't move to the table to eat but instead leans against the counter as he picks it up and takes a bite, humming happily at the warmth of it and the melty cheese on his tongue. ]
This is amazing! [ it's said around a mouthful as he takes another heaping bite. ] It's so crunchy and cheesy and warm. [ the kitchen is small enough that when he sighs and closes his eyes, he doesn't realize he's brushing wolfwood with one elbow.
a part of him wants to stay in this moment - making these cheesy sandwiches and teasing and feeling for a moment like maybe he belongs somewhere. that feeling hasn't left him - the lost and lonely feeling - even though he's certain the man beside him is in fact who he'd been looking for. he can't shake the feeling that there's something else, but the longing is unmistakable.
tomorrow he will wake up on that comfy couch and have to go back out onto the streets, or see the doctor the man spoke of, or a shelter. all these things he's heard and yet he wishes he had the courage enough to ask to stay.
he could never do that, put this kind man out for his sake.
when he finishes the sandwich, he sighs, even licks the salty butter from his fingers. wolfwood is right - he could eat more, a few even. instead: ]
That was really great. You really didn't have to do that, you know, not for me. But it was very kind of you. I - I'll let you eat yours in peace, I swear. But you're... - I can sleep there tonight? On the couch? Now that my stomach's full I guess I'm getting pretty tired. I feel like I've been awake for days.
I didn't fuckin' swear to him. Besides, I'm not even a real priest.
[half true, full of just the same amount of humor with a little bit more deadpan, and wolfwood's lips pull into a wry smile in return. he's already forgotten nearly jumping out of his gourd, mostly because there's no way it was done on purpose. still, it's hard not to think what kinda life he's lived that has made him inhumanly quiet like that - was he stuffed up in some basement, trying uselessly to exist without drawing attention from some psycho? part of him is hooked into this mystery now - still worried someone is gonna come barging in and demanding to take back vash. or that he'll wake up to him half dead from a head injury he doesn't know is brewing, but that seems a little dramatic and when did he turn into such a fucking dad about this?
he picks up his own grilled cheese, holding it out to faux-knock against vash's in a lazy salute before taking a hearty bite of his own. yeah, it's not the greatest thing but it'll do. definitely not as good as blondie is making it out to be, and the way he's talking about it makes it seem like he's never even had one in his whole life. he doesn't say anything about the slight jostle at his elbow or the warmth that follows, tries not to linger on the fact that even though it's a foreign feeling in his apartment when he's usually here alone it actually is...kinda nice. he's never pictured himself getting some lame picket white fence life with someone else involved in his bullshit - the way he sees it, working off this kinda debt isn't the kind of thing you pay off and just get to leave. but if he was? yeah, it might be nice to have someone waiting to greet him when he walked through the door. to have something spicy on the stove wafting through the place, to drop bone tired into bed with just enough energy to -
nevermind. it's never gonna happen. he polishes off the rest of his sandwich, watching vash scarf down his own and lick at the remainder on his fingers with a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.]
You might be the only person to ever be a fan of my cooking, blondie. I'm flattered. You sure you don't want another one?
[he glances down at vash's stomach for the real answer, wondering if it's gonna chime in again.]
Uh huh, you can crash on the couch. Knock yourself out, I'll get some blankets. Gets pretty bright in here around 5 - if it keeps you up I got another pillow you can hide under.
[he softens at the last bit, reaching out to put a tentative hand on vash's shoulder.]
You gotta be exhausted. But you're safe here, I promise. So get some rest and you know where to knock if you need anything.
[his pointer finger aims and jabs towards his bedroom door.]
[ it would be so easy to ask for another sandwich, to keep this man close to him a little bit longer so that he doesn't have to wonder about tomorrow. he doesn't even know what tomorrow will be and already it makes his gut twist anxiously. he'll figure it out - just like he found wolfwood here, he'll find help at another place, he's sure of it. he'll drink his water when he goes to rest on the couch, will the hungry aches away from his gut, and settle in. ]
The sandwich was really tasty. Not sure why anyone wouldn't like it, honestly. I've never had one before, so maybe that's why they're afraid of your cooking - they haven't tried it yet!
[ he glances around a little, toward the window that overlooks the room, a little fire escape outside. he doesn't even know what time it is right now, but five am will be bright, and even if it is, he won't complain.
he blinks when he feels the easy weight of the man's hand on his shoulder and he turns to blink at it, then look up. ]
You're the one that should be tired. You did so much work to help me. [ he smiles softly, holding up one of his bandaged hands as proof. ] But I am pretty tired, too. I'll get some rest if you do.
[ he grins, turns then to head toward the couch, the blankets, the pillows. it's warm, comfortable, smells of tobacco and aftershave. the man must sit here often after work and he finds the scent of him alone makes his eyes heavy as he settles in. he listens for a long time to the movement behind wolfwood's bathroom door - water running, a light flicking on then off, the groan of a bed. then silence, save for the occasional sound outside.
he doesn't realizes he's drifted off until he wakes, shivering. the chill of night has set in and the blanket he'd been given is warm, but not quite enough. his hands and feet get cold first, skin turning to goosebumps as he waits longer, trying to burrow deeper against the couch and close his eyes against the discomfort. he's sweating a little, too - his body having woken from some feverish dream he can't remember.
light. a woman with a kind smile. the boy from earlier.
that's it.
slowly, he peels himself up from the couch, blanket wrapped around himself as he approaches the door. he can hear wolfwood breathing on the other side, and it takes a great deal of courage to softly knock with his blanket covered hand. no answer.
only then does he slowly slip inside, surprised to find the small room has a hint of warmth that the open living room does not. he hesitates, looking over the resting man. it would be rude to wake him for this. and so slowly, he perches at the edge of his bed, sitting down and keeping himself curled in his blanket at the edge. it's enough to soothe the worry, the shaken nerves wracking his gut and his mind. he can't help but be drawn to the veritable furnace of the other man beneath his covers, and vash slowly rolls against his side, pressing into the warmth of his arm with his cheek.
he thinks he'll stay there just a few minutes, a beat to get warmed up then return to the couch. instead, when his eyes grow heavy again, he doesn't fight it, and drifts off. in his sleep, he curls closer, molding himself into the warmth of his side and drifting into an easy sleep. ]
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𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔰 𝔣𝔞𝔩𝔩;
groaning, he sits up from his place, wincing at the whip of a cool wind through the alley he's found himself in. he doesn't recognize any of the buildings and the streets have otherwise gone quiet for the night, homes shuttered and curtains pulled. he's naked, but that doesn't truly bother him. for a moment, he thinks it should but he can't put his finger on the why.
vash turns each way (ah yes, his name is vash), looking up and down the alley. ]
Hello?
[ small, uncertain. he pushes himself up to his feet and its then he realizes his head hurts, too. it spins, making his stomach flip sickly in his gut, his vision swirl. did he hit his head? a hand raised to his temple says that yes, he did, and is confirmed by the presence of blood on his fingertips in the guttering street light.
instinct pulls him, a gut feeling that draws him out of the alley and up the road, arms hugging his torso, back hunched. he doesn't recognize anything - the lights, the strange noises coming from within houses, and the roaring, scary things on the road make him yelp when they swerve past him in the road. ah. a road. he knows that. and another car whizzes past him, blaring its horn. that's enough to send him running, bare feet sore and scuffed, turning down any street that feels like it might lead somewhere.
he slips when he comes round a corner, skidding onto his already sore knees just outside an ornate, neatly-kept swathe of grass and a sign. ]
Anyone? Please, I...
[ the night goes quiet and his eyes raise to peer past the sign, the grass, the fine flowers - he recognizes the cross, if nothing else. ]
I'm lost.
[ maybe. is lost the word he should be using? is lost what he feels, really? he wants to ask where he is, why he's here, what the angry things blaring at him are called, and why he remembers only his name.
or a name.
vash.
it must be his, right? people have names and he should have one and if he can remember nothing else, he should at least be able to remember his name?
there's the scuff of something up the way, from the direction he'd come running and he startles, trying to scramble to his feet but crying out when his bloodied palms sting angrily against cement bringing him right back down in a little heap by the grass. ]
Hello?
no subject
maybe if he thinks back he'll remember he did once, a long time ago - when he was young and stupid and still thought miracles happened if you tried hard enough to be a good person. but he was never really one of those, either, so maybe he's just fucked up all around. it doesn't seem to matter considering where he's ended up anyway.
like all things, it starts with the kids. of course it's the fucking kids that tug at his heartstrings - have him always acting like someone he isn't anymore. but he can't help it when he looks at their faces and the things they've been through in this crapshoot of a neighborhood and they need someone. somewhere safe, something to have hope for again. and maybe it's ironic that someone who's been hollowed a long time is the one trying to make other people feel it, even if they're too little to understand, but he's already an oxymoron on every day ending in y, so what's a few more contradictions tossed in. a priest that doesn't believe in god, a bad guy doing some good around the world. but it keeps on turning.
the names were familiar around here before the faces. the eye of michael, legato, knives. his mama used to tell him if he hung around with the sharks long enough soon he'd become one of them, swimming in their pond no matter how big or small, and he guesses she was right after all. feels more like treading water at this rate - keeping the church safe, keeping the kids off the streets and in the orphanage. getting them the donations they need to really help, to have a fighting chance out of this shithole and into something better. deep down if he had to pinpoint when he got in over his head he'd know - it was livio, the medicine, the treatments - but he'd never fucking admit it out loud even if they put a gun to his head.
and would he do it again?
yeah. yeah, he would.
so he's got nothing to complain about, really. he doesn't have to like it, but he's made his bed and he's gotta lie in it. a few bullets here, a smile and wave and a tiny body hugging him goodbye, the old ladies at the church chatting his ear off about his half-assed sermons, rinse, repeat. that's his life now. he's not stupid enough to think there aren't people who have it even worse - so it's why he gets up every day and keeps doing it. is it an illusion of choice? some days, maybe. but as long as there are kids that need someone looking out for them and people out there better than he'll ever be willing to help and do even more out there for others...he can not-really-grin and bear it.
(and when he's alone, when he gets a few winks of sleep - he tries not to think about how his hands gush red and his soul is probably already signed to an eternity of punishment.)
he's good about not letting them get dirty during the day though, when he shoves a bent cigarette in his mouth and ignites it with a one-handed flick of his lighter before shoving it and his hands back in his pockets and casually strolls back home. a shower is in order, and it's early enough that he can bullshit most of his homily for a few minutes before crashing into bed and finishing it in the morning. he's got leftovers that are a day past satisfying in the fridge he'll stuff into his mouth and suck up, and that's that.
or at least, that was the plan. he hears the hollering before he sees anything - not unusual in this neighborhood, and definitely not unusual at this time of night. he knows most of the tweakers and druggies that stumble around when it's dark and they got nowhere else to be, and it wouldn't be the first time he shoves a few bills their way and tells 'em where to find the right shelter that won't turn them away that night. fuck, if that were him he'd probably want to be out of his mind in their shoes too. some nights that seems better than the way he's going through the motions, but that's not the point now.
the screaming is too coherent to be any of his usuals. and as he rounds the corner where the church is, he sees the only person it belongs to miles away. mainly because - they're naked as they day they were presumably born, crumpled up into a pathetic pile next to the one piece of greenery he lets the ladies take care of (he doesn't have a green thumb, okay, not a crime) to look somewhat presentable. light in the darkness or whatever the hell people want to comfort themselves with. his first thought is trafficking - maybe someone run away from one of the houses up the street. they aren't all bad when they're willing, and people gotta make a living, but he knows there are some fucked up ones too.
so he's not surprised when the next thing he sees is the blood on this person's feet, the scars everywhere else.
fuck. somebody really worked this poor asshole over from the intricate lines that all twine together like gnarled roots of a tree. wolfwood stills, looking up and down the street and seeing no obvious cause for the culprit.]
Hey.
[it comes out gruff, annoyed even if it's really just the nicotine. there's a mop of blond hair, and wolfwood finally is able to suss out that this...person, is in fact a man. boy? he looks like a fucking newborn fawn, a tangle of pale limbs and big baby blues that look pained and even worse: scared.
ah fuck.
he's moving before he even realizes it, pulling off his well-worn leather jacket and kneeling down to cover him.]
Hey. [he repeats it lamely, eyes skimming to confirm there's nothing else to identify him by. no wallet, no clothes.]
You're gonna be okay. Can you stand?
[he bites down too hard on his cigarette, exhaling through his nose before tossing it away and jabbing his thumb towards the rickety doors behind them.]
This is a church. We should get you inside for now.
no subject
it's the stranger that brings with it a new set of problems - the annoyed voice, and vash flinches physically. it makes him shift to try and stand again. ]
I - I'll go - I'm just lost, I don't know where I am...
[ he flinches again when the man moves closer, but when he opens his eyes he's met with fabric offered out. it looks warm, and when his eyes raise in the dim light, he's met with dark eyes behind dark lenses and a wisp of smoke. a cigarette - he knows that, somehow, like he's studied it before. particularly, the way this one is bent in the stranger's mouth.
he reaches for the coat without thinking, hugging it to his chest out of instinct. it's warm and smells of something musky and rich - safe something deep in his gut says - and he nearly forgets to listen to the man as he speaks again. ]
W-what? Sorry, I just - I can... I can stand. I just don't know how I got...
[ a hand motion and vash's eyes follow the gesture to the building the man has called a church. ah. a church. it feels like it should be familiar, like he's been there before, and the thought alone makes him feel sick. but the man with the kind eyes and good smell tells him to stand and so he does just that - forces himself up on bloodied palms and feet, pushing until he stands, hugging the jacket around him tightly. it's warm and he's so cold. ]
I'll bleed on the floor. [ and that's bad, right? a church feels important, and to bleed all over it feels like something he shouldn't do. ]
I shouldn't - I... jeez, my teeth won't stop chattering. Weird, huh? [ nerves, fear, confusion. ] I... I don't know what a church is. Is it good, mister? I... I don't want to ruin it. I'll ruin it.
no subject
Whoa - jesus, that's not what I was saying.
[he crouches down, hands still up to get a closer look into his eyes. is he on anything? pupils dilated? they look normal enough, but there's still a dazed quality about him, mixed with the stuttering and hesitation that has him wondering if it's just good old trauma. he's glad to see him wrap up in his jacket, pushing upright as wolfwood holds out his hands again nearby in case he's unsteady on his feet and needs to catch him right away.
it's when he starts babbling on about ruining the church somehow, like it hasn't seen worse when he's come in to patch himself up on dark nights like this and wolfwood can't help but snort in amusement that's self-deprecating.
not knowing what a church is though - that's the more concerning thing. an atheist is one thing, but...not at all?]
Hey, don't worry about that right now. The important thing is we get you in somewhere warm.
[he swallows, wanting to approach this gently and fearing he'll spook like a startled, cornered animal if it comes out wrong.]
Look, I've got a first aid kid and some clothes in there. I'm - the priest here. [as if he's ever donned a collar in his life. he knows he sure as fuck doesn't look it.] I can help you get cleaned up - if it's okay with you. I'd call the cops, but they're not coming down here this late.
[they're also just as corrupt as the criminals running around here, but he's worried saying as much might scare the shit outta this poor kid even further.]
Might be better if you let me carry you in, actually. Don't want you gettin' dizzy on me.
[there's nothing stupid like you can trust me, or no funny business, because that's exactly the kind of bullshit someone would say even if they did have the worst of intentions. he's had his fair share of dealing with skittish kids, he can handle this.]
You got a name, blondie?
no subject
so when the man speaks he just nods dumbly, agreeing to anything and everything he says because something in his gut tells him this guy is safe. ]
Warm... would be nice.
[ he tries for a little smile at the thought of being warm, of being away from the street and the cars (right, they're cars). but the man says he's a priest and that's a church behind him and it's everything in vash to hold still and listen and not run for the first sign of safety. how long has he been outside? he can't remember.
he can't remember anything. ]
Oh. A priest. Okay. [ he knows the word, it feels familiar, and he knows it belongs in a church but all he can focus on is the warmth of the jacket and the smell of it, the way the other man holds his hands up, and how kind he's being when vash knows that he must look as terrible as he feels.
he doesn't know what the man's hands up mean, but he reaches for them out of some instinct, nodding his head. ]
Sorry, I - I have been walking a long time I think, and ah - well I think everything hurts but I'm too heavy to carry. I - I can walk, maybe. I can try.
[ but he sways when he turns to look behind him at the distance between them and the church, the movement enough to make his vision swim and his hands grip a little tighter to the other man's. ]
Maybe not - [ a little laugh again, his teeth chattering against the cool night air. he jumps when a car in the distance roars down the street, muffler loud. ]
Vash. That's - I - I don't remember anything else. I'm... I'm sorry. I just - it's cold, and I don't want to get blood on you or - it's probably on your jacket, I'm really sorry, mister. I'm - I didn't -
[ a little sigh as he tries to catch his breath. ]
no subject
[seems like a habit, and it's the exact kind of placating shit someone who's been through it would be conditioned to do to make themselves small and try to avoid confrontation. though by the looks of it, it wasn't enough in his case - the stranger - vash. but there's one thing he's gotta snort at, and that's the laughable idea that this long tangle of limbs is gonna be too heavy for him to carry. not like vash sees the guns he slings around on the regular, or the kind of lifting he's doing when it's time for spring cleaning or the christmas donations come in generous. it's a little endearing and overly thoughtful, if he's honest, but then again he's used to people underestimating his whole un-assuming guy thing.
but between the way vash is swaying like a barely bloomed bud in the middle of a thunderstorm and the way he startles at some asshole either too broke or with too small a dick to drive right, he's not changing any other accidents with this.]
Relax, I'm stronger than I look. I got you.
[he takes a long inhale of his barely touched smoke, breathing it in deep before flicking it out onto the cement in the street and watching the sparks fade. all that before he dips down, positioning his arms to heft blondie up into his arms.]
Put your arms around my shoulders. 'Atta boy.
[he carefully starts walking towards the doors, weather-worn with chipped paint on the handles. the cross looks well kept at least, and he pushes the heavy bottom with one of his shoes to kick it open and nudge them both inside. empty, thank god. he doesn't mind the occasional late night visitor but this is one night he doesn't need extra questions to scare off his current stray.]
Vash, huh? Name's Nicholas D. Wolfwood. You don't have to call me Father, no one else does. And what'd I say about the apologizing, huh? It's just a jacket. Got plenty of others.
[carefully he carries Vash past the rickety line of pews that are all in need of a good polish, past the tabernacle and into the sacristy where the first aid is. there's a couple chairs in the kitchenette, an island he's patched his fair share of wounds up on too. he's still running through the scenarios of where this kid came from - walking for a long time doesn't mean much. the average joe could hardly last five minutes in these parts, that could mean he came from up the street or six towns over.
carefully he sets vash on top of the island, just long enough to get most of him up there and his legs dangling from the knees down. he lets him cover up however he wants and cling to the jacket, kneeling down in one of the cabinets to drag out the first aid kits. hopefully he's not looking too hard, because..they're stocked with a whole load of shit heavier than just bandaids.]
Need you to tell me a couple things, spikey - can I call you spikey? It's the hair, it's - [he gestures to it with the wave of a hand to mimic it on his own head, eventually shaking it when he was about to say cute, because what the fuck.]
Besides your legs, you hurtin' anywhere else? Try not to get twitchy with me, this might sting.
[he can fix up a few scrapes and cuts, but dealing with a head injury is a whole different ballgame. he pulls open the first kid, pulling out gauze pads and saline mixture.]
no subject
Nicholas D. Wolfwood.
[ he says it softly, marveling at he way the name feels on his tongue - like he's said it a dozen times before. it's easy to tune out the rest of the outdoor noises when he's being held like this, forgetting the traffic he'd heard or the dark, even forgetting the sting of pain in his feet and the little scrapes on his knees and hands and cheek.
had he walked to find wolfwood?
something about that feels right.
sitting on the island, he tugs the jacket around himself to avoid the cool air conditioning, watching the man move around this room with familiarity and comfort. wolfwood who is a priest, who cares for parishoners here, who cares for these people despite the way he talks, who has a heart as big as -
how does he know this?
he lets out a little huff, his brow furrowing.
vash is his name. he woke up in the alley and started walking then running, and somehow he doesn't know where he's going but being here in this church feels close. he fidgets once he's settled, tugging the jacket and squirming a little as he looks around, observes all of the medical supplies wolfwood reveals in the cabinets. why does this seem unsurprising? shouldn't a church have books or wine or silly wafers in their cabinets? why does a priest have to heal so many hurts? ]
Spikey? O-oh. Um. Is my hair spikey? I guess so. I - you can call me - Spikey's good.
[ his face flushes just a little, and there's a light reach for his own hair to test just how spikey it is, but of course it is - his hair has always been unruly. he'd always been told he looked so unkempt for -
for... what?
he looks back to wolfwood, meeting his eyes and blinking, shaking his head a little. ]
My hands. I fell. When I was running. [ he looks to the gauze and saline, eyes traveling the line of his arms to his chest where there are little flecks of blood on his shirt from holding him. it's instinct that has him leaning forward in the space between them, dropping his forehead on wolfwood's shoulder. ]
I'm just so cold. Is it winter out there? I - I just got the shivers, I guess, Mr. Wolfwood. Sorry about that. This jacket's really warm though, so I bet it'll be over in - over soon.
no subject
ok. he can do this - he's just gotta focus.
at least until he feels the soft press of his forehead nuzzling in against his shoulder, like he's still seeking protection, like somehow he thinks wolfwood is the guy to give it to him. and just like clockwork, there's the tug on his heartstrings followed by the angry twist in his gut of guilt. this guy wouldn't feel so safe and comfortable cozying up to him if he'd seen the spray of blood, the artful tangle of limbs left halfway across town earlier tonight. fuck - are the drops on his shirt even vash's? his hands come up, gingerly resting on his shoulders with a soft squeeze for the briefest of moments before they tremble slightly and gently start nudging vash back out of that same, bitter bullet of guilt building in his throat and making it hard to even swallow.]
Not quite winter. Heading into spring, or so they say. Hard to tell sometimes when it feels like the sun isn't shinin' around these parts.
Hang on though - I got some clothes for you. Keep the jacket though.
[he sets down the supplies on the edge of the counter, stepping over to the closet which is filled with robes he never wears - some from the previous priests, the old farts who tried to have some semblance of tradition around here. mixed in are the a few pairs of pants and shirts - mostly black. he grabs a stretched out henley and some sweats, probably about to look like floaters on this string bean sitting in front of him - but better than clinging to his coat bare naked all night.]
Let's get you cleaned up for now, then we'll warm you up. C'mere, lemme see your hands first.
[he holds out his own to let vash extend them before picking up some of the saline to clean the cuts. he keeps his tone neutral, casual even so as not to startle him with the questions. easy peasy.]
Looks like you ran pretty far if these are anything to go by.
[he glances up to make sure he's not hurting vash, even though he'd already warned him about the inevitable sting. but just to see if there's a reaction - fear, anger, anything to go off of.]
How'd you wind up in this neighborhood? You from around here? It's not exactly the kinda place we get a lot of visitors dropping by looking for tea and crackers, if I'm bein' honest.
[it's the worst of the worst. no one in their right mind would be out here unless it was familiar or they got lost by sheer dumb luck.]
no subject
but he doesn't.
he sits back obediently, face a little flushed from embarrassment, nodding softly. he makes a mental note about the sun - as if he can do anything about making the sun shine on this place more. but he gets the feeling that wolfwood would like that, and a part of him knows that one day, he can make it happen.
so he watches wolfwood collect the clothes and return, and he holds his bloodied hands out for him to work on. the saline stings, only enough for the faintest of winces and he keeps his eyes focused on the man's work at first, until he begins to look at the dark color of his hair, the olive tone of his skin, the brow furrowed in concentration, the faint smell of cigarettes.
yes, he's safe here. this is where he was running to. ]
I woke up in an alley. I walked at first because the sun was only just setting but I didn't know where I was. So I started running. There were noises, and lights, and it was pretty scary really. But I made it here and found you, so that can't be so bad, right?
[ a little laugh, and he marvels at how tenderly and gently wolfwood cleans his wounds. he shivers less and less as wolfwood works, some of the panic wearing off and the other man's energy enough to take off the edge. ]
But tea and crackers? Do you have that? That sounds great. [ another sheepish smile. ] Sorry. You're so nice, and you've... you're helping me I shouldn't ask for - I... I don't remember anything but waking up. Like I tripped - everything's so achey.
[ wolfwood carried him in, is cleaning him up, has brought him clothes. that should be enough. he should take those things and leave - he knows that's what normal people would do and yet he finds himself leaning in a little, the barest hint closer to the man. odd, to trust a stranger like this, and yet vash feels as though he's known wolfwood for all of his life. ]
Thank you for helping me. I... it's really kind.
no subject
Sounds like you were out there a long time tonight. You don't have to thank me for doing the right thing - wouldn't be much of a priest to turn away someone needing help.
Oh, and go ahead and put that shirt on now - I'm gonna get to your legs next. Less cold for you that way, yeah?
[he's about to crouch down and get to work with a larger cloth when he realizes that yeah, this kid is probably fucking starving. because of course he is - he should have thought of it sooner.]
Shit, sorry. Stay right there.
[he steps back to one of the cabinets, rummaging through and pulling out a mug he sets up under the shitty coffee dispenser. while it's brewing, he grabs a bag of unconsecrated wafers, which is unfortunately the only edible thing in the joint tonight.]
So maybe not tea and crackers, but...we've got coffee and communion.
[he should just. leave it at that. right? he holds out the steaming mug, chewing the inside of his bottom lip absently and setting down the wafers at vash's side.]
Look, it's late and everywhere around here is gonna be booked up for the night. You can say no, but I live next to the church. Got a couch and enough to throw together a hot meal until we figure out what to do about this in the morning. Only if you want to.
[he crouches down again, lightly washing away the dirt and grime that's nearly up to his ankles before tending to the scratches and scrapes on his feet first. even if he was walking less than he said, it wouldn't take long to get scuffed up on uneven pavement, dodging glass, needles, and god knows what else. he sneaks a glance upward, looking to see how his proposal has landed. for some reason he feels like he's holding his breath. like he's hoping he'll say yes, because the thought of him wandering around even with clothes on seems like another disaster waiting to happen, and he doesn't want to be the cause of someone else's future getting cut short tonight.]
What do you think, blondie?
no subject
he pulls the shirt on as instructed, the fabric soft and already warmer than nothing at all. it swallows him whole, really, and he finds himself fisting his fingers into it and keeping it pulled close. it smells good - like the priest, he realizes - and something about that thought alone makes his whole body relax even more. this priest named wolfwood is a good man, a safe man, and the longer he stays here the more he wonders if this is who he had been running to all along.
but why?
he blinks up at the offer of the mug and the bag, reaching for it without second thought. the warmth along makes him hum, pleased, and he keeps it tucked tight to his chest, under his chin for a few moments while the man works on his bloodied feet. he will drink this hot drink, eat some of the funny little circles, and figure out what to do from there. after all, his belly will be full and he has clothes now.
he doesn't expect the overnight offer, however. ]
Oh. Oh, you don't have to do that. I mean, I'm sure I can find somewhere to stay. I made it all the way here so I bet there are plenty of places I could find, really.
[ he grabs a few of the wafers and pops them into his mouth, then another small handful, chewing the bland little things and swallowing, sighing happily as he goes for another. he feels more and more like he's coming to life again under the man's gentle touch and his kindness. he blinks down at him though, finding his own cheeks have flushed again when they meet eyes. ]
But... but if you don't mind. I don't want to be a pain, you know! I already got this place all bloody and I'm eating your food. The shirt's really comfortable, by the way. So. So I can sleep on the couch, but you don't have to do anything more for me, honest. I... I've caused enough trouble. I always do.
[ he smiles a little sadly and drinks from the mug, hiccuping almost immediately at how bitter the liquid is against his tongue. he swallows it down with a little huff. it's gross, but - it's already starting to warm him up again. ]
no subject
right now he realizes it might be an uphill battle just getting him to stay somewhere safe for the night. he's about to open his mouth and explain about the shelters, see if he can phone in a favor if vash is gonna insist on heading back out - but maybe it's the stale wafers or the warmth from the coffee that finally convinces him to give it a rest and just accept the offer. thank fuckin' god, considering wolfwood really isn't in the mood to have to spell out how much worse this could have gone. and oddly enough nick's not even sure he'd get it. maybe it's shock or amnesia or something else insane he'll have to deal with tomorrow, but the optimism he has about wandering around this neighborhood in this condition is somehow equal measures naive and...endearing. sort of. and just plain stupid.
but wolfwood looks up at him again anyway, glad to see a rush of color to his cheeks under that little beauty mark that's hopefully from warmth instead of embarrassment. christ, he is not the kind of person equipped to deal with this self esteem shit. he sighs, leaning back onto his haunches and gently rubbing salve over the arch of vash's foot.]
I don't mind. Wouldn't have offered if I did.
[he reaches for the bandages, starting to layer it carefully over the cleaned up wounds tight enough that they won't fall apart. he's gotta grab shoes, though they might not be big enough, so maybe he'll have to just grab slippers or carry him next door until they get that figured out.]
And I definitely wouldn't have given you either of these - [he reaches up to tug at the jacket still splayed over the top of his thighs - ] - if I gave a shit about the blood. Trust me, this isn't the worst I've seen around here, okay? [he's not sure what possesses him, but he offers a flash of teeth - like he's trying to make an admittedly poor joke out of the circumstances. optimism. he's trying it on for style. ha fucking ha.] And don't ask what is. You don't wanna know.
[i've caused enough trouble. i always do.
he glances up again at that, surprised at the amount of sorrow in his expression. it's feels oddly misplaced, and he's struck by the realization that he'd do anything to avoid seeing it there again. it's not right.]
No trouble at all. See? Can't be all that bad. And even if it is - I'm a priest, remember? You tell me what you did, I say a few words to the Guy Upstairs - and you're all set. Easy peasy.
[he finally manages to finish, slapping his knee and rising up onto his feet with a low grunt just in time to witness vash experience the blessing of cheap, bitter black coffee.]
Sorry. Group of ladies always clean me out of the sugar and cream every Sunday. Haven't gotten around to a restock yet.
And here - you can put these on now too.
[he gestures to the sweats, which will probably hang on by a thread around his bony hips, but it's better than wandering around with his ass hanging out for the next ten minutes until they get inside for the night.]
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he should be here with him, that's the only truth he knows.
the man takes great care in bandaging him up and even with the bitter coffee, the shirt, and the bland little wafers he feels like he's coming back into his own body already, the fear and the cold slowly seeping away. his face fills with color however, when wolfwood swears he's no trouble. ]
Oh. Right. That's - you're really kind.
[ but a part of him knows that the trouble he's caused isn't curable by prayers, isn't stopped by words to God and he doesn't know why. ] If... If I remember what I did then I'll definitely tell you. I'm glad you found me. Who knows where I would have gone if you didn't.
[ he drinks the bitter coffee once more to try and prove he doesn't mind it, especially in the face of the man's apology. ] No, no it's good! It's just hot! In a good way, I mean I want coffee to be hot, right?
[ and with the gentlest order, vash sets the mug aside and reaches for the sweatpants. at first, he touches the fabric reverently, smiling a little. he brings it to his cheek first, marveling how soft it is - and it is soft, and he can tell it will be warm. it smells of the man across from him somehow - warm, musky, earthy. his face flushes when he realizes he's left it against his cheek too long and he hurriedly shakes them out, slipping his newly bandaged feet in and pulling until he stands, the fabric rucking up past his hips.
it's comically large on him, but he pulls at the little ties as tight as they can. he doesn't realize that the shirt does indeed slip over one shoulder in the process. ]
They're really warm. Thank you. For all of these things. It's really kind of you, and I don't know... well, I don't know how I can pay you back but I'll try. I... I don't remember anything but I bet when I do I'll have money somewhere. Maybe? I...
[ his brow pinches, his mouth turns down in a little frown. why can't he remember? ]
Sorry.
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[so maybe it is amnesia. or he's blocked out whatever hellish scenario he went through, and he can't necessarily blame the poor guy given the state of his body. if he has time tomorrow he might try and call up his guy - pick his brain a little about head injuries and if he knows anything about sick fucks doing damage to perceived merchandise around here. then again - what pimp is going to work their money makers over like this? it has his lips twisting in displeasure for a brief moment before he covers it, not wanting vash to see.]
Yeah well - the words "iced" and "coffee" don't belong together in my book. But you don't have to take my word for it.
[there's another wry smile, at least until vash picks up his sweatpants and does...that. he thinks at first maybe he's inspecting the tag to gauge the size, but he watches totally riveted to the spot in confusion, mild concern, and eventually just - something fucking insane crawling into his brain like a worm. what the fuck is wrong with him? about to lose his shit because this guy is practically nuzzling into a pair of his pants like a kitten trying to cover itself in scent. jesus fucking christ. he looks away while vash slips into them, unsurprised at the way they hang or the way the shirt is barely holding onto his slim shoulders. wolfwood clears his throat, focusing as intensely as possible on throwing away the bloodied supplies and tucking away the clean ones.]
Yeah - don't mention it. Can probably find you something better fitting tomorrow.
[he gestures vaguely towards the door, knowing there's at least one thrift store up the block. but the sad part is that whatever small happiness he has is snuffed out near immediately - and vash still looks lost somehow - clearly frazzled at the own limits of his mind and lack of recollection. not having money if it's been controlled by someone else would make the most sense. never seeing a dime of whatever work he was earning - just like those slimebags to keep their girls and guys in punishing, eternal debt. it makes him sick just thinking about it.]
Don't bother - I don't need the money. Wouldn't charge you even if I did.
[he stands back up, reaching to wash his hands in the sink and shake them out. he keeps his voice neutral again, seeing if there's something he can shake loose.]
You remember where you might'a gotten money from? What kinda job you had or something?
[he faces vash again, cocking a hip and folding his arms, trying to keep his face open and somewhat friendly. non-judgmental. because he's not judging, he's just trying to figure it out.]
Think it over while we walk. You want me to do the honors again?
[carry him, that is.]
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[ there's almost wonder in his voice at the idea, especially when he looks back down at the cup still steaming hot. a part of him wants to take it with him, wants to crowd the heat against his chest and hold onto it even if the taste is too bitter for him. but he doesn't - instead he stands, wafers and coffee behind him, almost looking a little sheepish at wolfwood's question, eyes following him around the room. vash knows better than to move - than to wander. this isn't his home or his place, and so he dutifully stands where he's meant to. ]
Sorry. I... I don't remember. I'm not even sure I know what money looks like, but I know you use it to buy things.
[ he can't even fathom asking for anything more than he has already been so graciously offered. but he ducks his head, a little huff of a laugh following. ] But these clothes are nice - they're warm. I don't... I don't need anything else, honest. I'll remember in no time. I'll try.
[ and he'll do just that - tear into the recesses of his mind and try to find a scrap of something that might have answers. every call comes up with silence, every look - darkness. he is nothing but a body full of scars and cuts, dropped in the scary alley before he made his way here to wolfwood. wolfwood who, strangely, must be at the center of everything somehow.
he doesn't say that part. instead, he shakes his head, holding his hands up deferentially. ]
No, no! I... I wouldn't ask that. I can walk, I just might need - no, no I can walk. If you lead the way we'll make it there in no time.
[ he takes a tentative step toward wolfwood with a gentle smile. he wants to be held by him again, he realizes, crowded in against his chest where it had been so warm and so safe, but he knows better. so instead he reaches idly for the fabric at wolfwood's elbow to steady himself. ]
Thank you for helping me. [ it's meek, almost embarrassed, his face flushing. ]
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it should be more alarming than it is to hear him say he doesn't know what money looks like - because how fucking long has he been held in some freak's basement or stowed away from the real world? this could be really bad, but all he can do right now is worry about getting him a good night's sleep and some real food. baby steps.]
No need to force it. I've got someone I can ring up tomorrow morning - make sure you're not more banged up than either of us can see. But if you do remember anything, let me know, okay?
[the possibility of a head injury is still weighing on him, but he seems coherent enough and there's nothing wrong with his eyes or crusted blood on his head where he'd easily be able to see it.
vash seems adamant about walking on his own, but to be honest he's not feeling great about the possibility of having all his handiwork fucked up immediately and he's also not sure he can trust how steady he'll be on his feet seeing as he could barely stand about thirty minutes ago. still, he finds his own lips twitching upward in what is almost the return of that smile, eyes flicking down to the way delicate fingers pick at his shirt before sweeping back up to the warmth on his cheeks and the way it stops right underneath that beauty mark by his eye.]
Uh huh.
[it's said absently, before he steps forward and opens his arms again.]
Thank me later. Think it's better for you to just let me handle this part for now. At least until I can get you some real shoes.
[he feels a little ridiculous standing there, looking like he's trying for a hug when he just wants vash to situate himself enough that he can lift him up again.]
And what'd I say about all that? I'm just - doing what anyone ought to.
[even if they don't around here. even if he's not a good person underneath it all.]
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[ not that he exactly has anyone else to tell but he's feeling a little more lively now, a little more like he can even stand on his own injured feet. it's difficult to believe he should be scared by this stranger, should be scared of anything, with the man here with him. the warmth of the coffee, the little wafers, the clothes, the bandages - nicholas d. wolfwood is a good, kind man. it's in his eyes, of course, and vash smiles a little, laughing at himself when he catches himself staring. ]
Is your friend a doctor? That might be good. Maybe he can help me remember.
[ he's about to take another step on his own when wolfwood opens his arms and at first, he blinks at him, a little confused. ] You don't...
[ but he's learned - he knows wolfwood won't give in and instead, vash just smiles a little, almost sheepish. he'd hate to ruin the bandages he worked so hard on, he'd hate to ruin anything that this man has done for him. so he nods softly and reaches for him, stepping close and curling his arms around wolfwood's neck so that when he is lifted, he can lean comfortably into his chest. ]
Sorry - I'll stop saying thank you, I promise but I feel - you're just being so kind. I have to say thank you. I remember that. I do have some manners.
[ a peek of personality there, the little indignant but playful dig at the end. ]
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[does his "friend" have a medical degree? abso-fucking-lutely not. does he know how to stitch him up good without questions and give him a bottle of pills to keep him upright for his homilies when he gets banged up more than he bargained for? bingo. but vash doesn't need to know that right now, or ever. he'll give him a quick run down of the symptoms and decide if he needs to wrap up early to take him down to be seen in person, maybe figure out which shelter he'd best be received at. but somehow the second he thinks it there's a nagging thought that wants to dissuade him otherwise. what if someone is out there looking for him? what if this time they come back and finish the job?
fuck. he's got his hands full with the church - with the kids and the orphanage and with his nightly outings. he can't afford a stray amnesiac.
the exhaustion that settles in suddenly is bone deep, more emotional than physical as vash wraps his arms around his neck. for a minute his instinct makes him want to wrap his own right back around him - in some approximation of a hug, but that would be ridiculous, so he clears his throat and puts one hand around his waist and slides the other under his knees, hoisting him up easily again and trying not to be irritated by the three inches or so this beanpole has over him. he nudges open the door with his foot, keeping the hand around vash's waist and cocking a hip to hold him so his other hand can rummage around and lock the sacristy. there's at least two good wine chalices in there that he's sure a few down-and-outers might want to get their hands on, and even though he knows a lock doesn't stop the worst of 'em at least he can say he tried.
once he's done he shoves them back into his pocket, hefting vash up again while he babbles on with more apologies and thanks - and cracks a joke. wolfwood hums, lips twitching upward slightly as they start walking along the side of the building, towards a side door rather than the long center of rickety pews back towards the holy water.]
So you do make jokes. Hilarious.
[his voice is dry, a little gruff from too much nicotine - but there's wry amusement there that vash should be able to recognize.]
What kinda food do you like, blondie? I can promise you it ain't gonna be anything gourmet, but I think I got some leftover Chinese and enough for a grilled cheese or something decent to get thrown together.
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he's tired and sore in a way that tells him he needs sleep and that he might sleep deeply. it sounds good, really, sleeping - even better than the prospect of eating warm food. but he could stay held like this too all evening nd it would feel like enough.
instead, he blushes a little when wolfwood comments on his joke. ] Of course I make jokes. Why wouldn't I?
[ it's almost sheepish, but he holds onto the man a little tighter as they pass through the church and outside the building. he can't help the shiver that goes through him when they cross outside, the eerie feeling that he'd been running away from something and to this man, scared and lost and alone. it looks almost as vastly dark and empty now as it did then. a church. he's at a church. with a priest. a kind priest.
he lets out a little, shaky breath and comes back to the conversation, blinking up at wolfwood so suddenly that his nose grazes the man's cheek. ]
Oh! I like all food, really. But you don't have to do that - those little circles were good, and the coffee really helped a lot. I don't want to eat all of your food, you're probably hungry, too, Nick.
[ he watches as they walk, the little building nestled back to the side of the church. it's so odd how the building feels familiar. he knows the place will be small, but how he knows, he can't place it. small, lived in, warmly lit. and for a brief, brief moment he has a vision of the man walking into that home tired, scuffed up, but cooking in the little kitchen. ]
I think I just need some sleep, really. I don't think I snore, but if I do you can wake me up!
[ another image, sudden and stark, of a blonde boy with sharp, pale eyes pinching his cheek to wake him - you're snoring so loud, vash, stoooooppppp.. ]
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he snorts, not in the mood to explain that vash seems like the type to take things way too literally. another check in the endearing column.]
Forget it.
[it's eerily quiet outside, that oddly tranquil moment where all the killers have stopped roaming around, the screaming subsides, and the neighborhood can pretend for just a few moments that they're in a normal suburb without all the grime sucking them down on this side of town. he's lost in his own gloomy thoughts that the light brush of his nose and proximity to his face nearly makes him jump out of his skin, and out of instinct he clutches the blond tighter in his arms so he doesn't do something totally amateur like drop his ass on the pavement. and if his heart rate rabbits up just a little higher, and his cheeks colour angrily - well it's no one's fuckin' business.]
I can eat. But you should too - and don't go trying to tell me the wafers were even remotely close to filling you up. I know they're stale and that coffee tastes like shit.
[without thinking, he lets two fingers around vash's waist pinch a little.]
You need something. I got it.
[nick, huh. all the grannies call him nicholas, business calls him wolfwood or that stupid code name that stuck around, and livio and the kids love to chant nico at him while they run circles around his person when he comes to visit the orphanage. he can stomach nick.
the building has a rundown exterior, no surprise. peeled paint over cracked brick, stairway reeking of smoke and carpet with stains he pointedly ignores as he carries vash up to the fourth and top floor. and when he gets inside - it's like vash imagines. a hell of a lot warmer than the outside, the organized chaos of a messy bachelor lifestyle, but attempts at making it at least somewhat lived in. and it's clean, and scuffed up, but so is he - so it works. there's a worn leather couch in the small sitting area, mere feet from the corner that holds the entirety of the kitchen. no high-tech appliances, but he's got a little fire-escape off to the side and a small door leading to shoebox that constitutes for a bedroom. the mirror in his bathroom is cracked, the grout needs some serious love, but the shower withing the cracked ceramic tub is scrubbed porcelain white and his cabinets are full of first-aid and aftershave, and it's good enough place to put his head on a pillow and call home.]
It's not much, but you're welcome to whatever you want while you get some rest.
[he locks the door, loudly pulling the deadbolt more for vash's benefit before walking over and gingerly lowering him to the couch. from there he takes a few steps to the fridge, rummaging around for frozen cheese and butter before pulling out a rusted frying pan and turning on the stovetop.]
Make yourself at home, spikey.
[the butter starts sizzling, and wolfwood shrugs out of his jacket and rolls up his sleeves to elbow length.]
You want something to drink? Water and whiskey are pretty much your only options.
[he doesn't sound particularly sorry about it.]
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It didn't taste so bad! You made it and you're nice and kind, so it really was what I needed. I'm even warmer now, but maybe that's because you're warm.
[ the apartment itself looks so cozy, vash marveling at the little layout. the couch looks soft, and he likes that little traces of the man holding him are scattered throughout - an ash tray on the fire escape, a newspaper on the coffee table, the kitchen with a few dishes left in the sink. it's delightfully lived in, and even as he comes to sit on the couch he looks around in wonder. ]
You live here? It's so warm.
[ heating does wonders on a chill night, but he doesn't move from where he'd been gingerly placed. he keeps his palms pressed between his knees, looking around the couch and under it, before he sinks to the couch, letting his cheek touch one of the cushions and he sighs. the cushions mold around him, worn and sagging with use but it's the softest thing he's felt in a long, long time. ]
It's so great! And if you're a priest, then that means you're not far from work, either. Why, you could visit work all the time. That's pretty incredible.
[ his eyes grow heavy even as he lounges on the couch, but the sound of sizzling butter tells him he can't sleep. wolfwood has insisted on making something, after all, and it's with some effort he pushes himself back up and to his feet. he's careful as he walks across the carpet to the kitchen, peeking in at the man with his sleeves rolled up.
he has strong arms - after all, he'd carried him here - but he sees it even more now with the fabric rolled away. it makes his cheeks burn a little, and he nearly convinces himself to go back to where he'd been placed, but yet another question comes. ]
Oh. Water. But I can get it! You're cooking.
[ he tiptoes in, smelling heated butter and bread, and it's the smell and promise of food that has him leaning close into wolfwood's side, peering over his shoulder, curious, nearly dropping his chin against it. ]
It smells so good.
[ soon after? a loud, growling stomach. ]
Oh. Jeez. Sorry. Guess I'm hungrier than I thought.
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and if he smiles a little to himself listening to vash ramble on about the benefits of a short commute, well that doesn't mean anything either. when the butter melts across the sizzling surface, he grabs two pieces of bread, pressing it down with a spatula and realizes he doesn't feel the need to glance over his shoulder even with a stranger in his house. he's got a good sense of people after this long, sure, but it should be weird having someone in here after living alone just about his entire life. he's half expecting he'll have to nudge vash awake, not that he would blame him for dozing off when the chatter lapses.
if nothing else, he's clearly earned a decent night's sleep. both of them have, and isn't it funny how wolfwood forgets about the awful scene of carnage he'd left behind earlier tonight? ain't that just a goddamn miracle? he wonders if blondie would be sleeping pretty over there if he knew what kinda man he was really under the roof of - if he could see how much blood was on his hands. it makes his fingers tighten imperceptibly on the handle of the pan for a moment, jaw tightening as he smells the slight waft of the bread getting too browned.
he picks them both up, flipping the melted cheese neatly onto the other piece of bread before transferring it over to a plate and rummaging around for a knife to cut it in half, two triangles - the way the kids like it out of habit.
and then he nearly jumps out of his fucking skin and drops the thing, because suddenly vash is right over his shoulder.]
Jesus -
[it comes out in surprise, and he stills himself best as he can so he doesn't startle his guest either even if his own heart is racing a million miles a minute. people don't usually sneak up on him like that - what kind of assassin would he be?]
Uh, I mean. Sorry - dinner's served and all that.
[he turns his cheek, enough that he can see vash through his peripheral vision from how close he is. the small smattering of light freckles on his nose are only visible up close like this, and the beauty mark sticks out in stark comparison under his eyes. wolfwood swallows and turns his attention back to the stove, holding out the plate one handed and starting to make his own.]
You want another one just holler, okay? Sounds like you could eat a few.
[there's a teasing drawl at the end of that, but he turns over his shoulder to toss a smirk over his shoulder and let him know it's a joke. the bread is left out, one slice falling onto its side where he leaves the bag open just in case.]
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[ vash gives a little smile, a cheeky thing that clearly has a little bit of humor bitten into it to soothe the way wolfwood has jumped. he hadn't meant to scare him at all, and he knows that making jokes should help. he doesn't know how he knows, but he does. he makes a mental note to make more noise next time so as not to scare the man. ]
I didn't mean to surprise you.
[ regardless, the food smells buttery and delicious, the smell of frying bread and cheese is enough to dissuade vash from pressing further. in fact, with the plate offered to him he blinks down at it in wonder. it does look good and he's sure he could eat dozens of these for how empty his stomach feels but he tells himself one will be fine. one will be enough. one is all he needs to feel a little full and get some rest.
he doesn't move to the table to eat but instead leans against the counter as he picks it up and takes a bite, humming happily at the warmth of it and the melty cheese on his tongue. ]
This is amazing! [ it's said around a mouthful as he takes another heaping bite. ] It's so crunchy and cheesy and warm. [ the kitchen is small enough that when he sighs and closes his eyes, he doesn't realize he's brushing wolfwood with one elbow.
a part of him wants to stay in this moment - making these cheesy sandwiches and teasing and feeling for a moment like maybe he belongs somewhere. that feeling hasn't left him - the lost and lonely feeling - even though he's certain the man beside him is in fact who he'd been looking for. he can't shake the feeling that there's something else, but the longing is unmistakable.
tomorrow he will wake up on that comfy couch and have to go back out onto the streets, or see the doctor the man spoke of, or a shelter. all these things he's heard and yet he wishes he had the courage enough to ask to stay.
he could never do that, put this kind man out for his sake.
when he finishes the sandwich, he sighs, even licks the salty butter from his fingers. wolfwood is right - he could eat more, a few even. instead: ]
That was really great. You really didn't have to do that, you know, not for me. But it was very kind of you. I - I'll let you eat yours in peace, I swear. But you're... - I can sleep there tonight? On the couch? Now that my stomach's full I guess I'm getting pretty tired. I feel like I've been awake for days.
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[half true, full of just the same amount of humor with a little bit more deadpan, and wolfwood's lips pull into a wry smile in return. he's already forgotten nearly jumping out of his gourd, mostly because there's no way it was done on purpose. still, it's hard not to think what kinda life he's lived that has made him inhumanly quiet like that - was he stuffed up in some basement, trying uselessly to exist without drawing attention from some psycho? part of him is hooked into this mystery now - still worried someone is gonna come barging in and demanding to take back vash. or that he'll wake up to him half dead from a head injury he doesn't know is brewing, but that seems a little dramatic and when did he turn into such a fucking dad about this?
he picks up his own grilled cheese, holding it out to faux-knock against vash's in a lazy salute before taking a hearty bite of his own. yeah, it's not the greatest thing but it'll do. definitely not as good as blondie is making it out to be, and the way he's talking about it makes it seem like he's never even had one in his whole life. he doesn't say anything about the slight jostle at his elbow or the warmth that follows, tries not to linger on the fact that even though it's a foreign feeling in his apartment when he's usually here alone it actually is...kinda nice. he's never pictured himself getting some lame picket white fence life with someone else involved in his bullshit - the way he sees it, working off this kinda debt isn't the kind of thing you pay off and just get to leave. but if he was? yeah, it might be nice to have someone waiting to greet him when he walked through the door. to have something spicy on the stove wafting through the place, to drop bone tired into bed with just enough energy to -
nevermind. it's never gonna happen. he polishes off the rest of his sandwich, watching vash scarf down his own and lick at the remainder on his fingers with a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.]
You might be the only person to ever be a fan of my cooking, blondie. I'm flattered. You sure you don't want another one?
[he glances down at vash's stomach for the real answer, wondering if it's gonna chime in again.]
Uh huh, you can crash on the couch. Knock yourself out, I'll get some blankets. Gets pretty bright in here around 5 - if it keeps you up I got another pillow you can hide under.
[he softens at the last bit, reaching out to put a tentative hand on vash's shoulder.]
You gotta be exhausted. But you're safe here, I promise. So get some rest and you know where to knock if you need anything.
[his pointer finger aims and jabs towards his bedroom door.]
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The sandwich was really tasty. Not sure why anyone wouldn't like it, honestly. I've never had one before, so maybe that's why they're afraid of your cooking - they haven't tried it yet!
[ he glances around a little, toward the window that overlooks the room, a little fire escape outside. he doesn't even know what time it is right now, but five am will be bright, and even if it is, he won't complain.
he blinks when he feels the easy weight of the man's hand on his shoulder and he turns to blink at it, then look up. ]
You're the one that should be tired. You did so much work to help me. [ he smiles softly, holding up one of his bandaged hands as proof. ] But I am pretty tired, too. I'll get some rest if you do.
[ he grins, turns then to head toward the couch, the blankets, the pillows. it's warm, comfortable, smells of tobacco and aftershave. the man must sit here often after work and he finds the scent of him alone makes his eyes heavy as he settles in. he listens for a long time to the movement behind wolfwood's bathroom door - water running, a light flicking on then off, the groan of a bed. then silence, save for the occasional sound outside.
he doesn't realizes he's drifted off until he wakes, shivering. the chill of night has set in and the blanket he'd been given is warm, but not quite enough. his hands and feet get cold first, skin turning to goosebumps as he waits longer, trying to burrow deeper against the couch and close his eyes against the discomfort. he's sweating a little, too - his body having woken from some feverish dream he can't remember.
light. a woman with a kind smile. the boy from earlier.
that's it.
slowly, he peels himself up from the couch, blanket wrapped around himself as he approaches the door. he can hear wolfwood breathing on the other side, and it takes a great deal of courage to softly knock with his blanket covered hand. no answer.
only then does he slowly slip inside, surprised to find the small room has a hint of warmth that the open living room does not. he hesitates, looking over the resting man. it would be rude to wake him for this. and so slowly, he perches at the edge of his bed, sitting down and keeping himself curled in his blanket at the edge. it's enough to soothe the worry, the shaken nerves wracking his gut and his mind. he can't help but be drawn to the veritable furnace of the other man beneath his covers, and vash slowly rolls against his side, pressing into the warmth of his arm with his cheek.
he thinks he'll stay there just a few minutes, a beat to get warmed up then return to the couch. instead, when his eyes grow heavy again, he doesn't fight it, and drifts off. in his sleep, he curls closer, molding himself into the warmth of his side and drifting into an easy sleep. ]