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Every time Wolfwood drinks the Evil-Electric-Eye-of-Micheal Juice it instantly turns to the blood of Christ in his mouth and fills him up with a syrupy hot whiteness behind his eyes that tricks him into thinking he can kill god. He can’t. God has far too many knives to be killed so easily. But he thinks so for those few moments when all the blood escaping him through holes he didn’t ask for start sealing up and he finishes what ever violence that’s been started. And when its over. When that divine white hotness ebbs out of him, and he is whole and alive and victorious, that’s when the slow long ache of god’s disappointment finds him. Crawls into his joints like a fungus and squats.
Same song, same dance, different hotel room: Vash snaps up the shower and Wolfwood face presses into the bed. Listens to the white noise machine of the shower. The asshole knows how to hack the pay by the minute timers all these motels try to run as scams, so he always takes forever. He’s nearly asleep when Vash(unstoppable force) hops on the bed with both knees, makes him (immovable object) pop off the covers and yelp.
“You gonna shower?” He asks.
“In the morning,” He tells the blankets.
“Juice blues~,” Vash says in a sad little singsong. He puts a hand on his back and rubs him between his shoulders, “I told you to stay behind me.”
“Well then you’d be shot and we’d be having the other argument.”
Vash pauses.
“Both arguments need saying when they happen.”
Wolfwood makes a noise, still face down, that is such an unbearably Vash thing to say. Both neither, always half full.
He makes another little sound as Vash works his fingers and the flat of his palm deep into the tense muscle of his shoulder. kneads him like something doomed to fly too close to the sun and become a croissant: Vash is the sun. He's the bread. Something something what's an Icarus, something something Eucharist. He hurts all over and fancy thoughts are escaping him, just their after image, like footprints eroded by wind. He stays still like a rabbit as the other man works his way through one shoulder then another. It feels good, but it wont solve his pain, which lives deep in his immune system. Vash knows this and leans in close and asks, like he always does; “Do you want a Tylenol?”
And this time Wolfwood says “Okay.”
“How much do you weigh?” Vash asks, and then, “How many drinks does it take to get you shit faced- don’t lie.”
Wolfwood answers as best he can, rolls on his side and watches Vash dig through his bag for the pill bottle. They are unmarked and they are absolutely not Tylenol. Vash uses his pocket knife to cut one into a fourth and hands it to him like its a candy- flourishing it with a motion.
“This going to make me see god?” Wolfwood asks after her puts it under his tongue. He knows he should swallow it whole, but he likes the sharp bitter tang of it in his mouth. (There's something wrong with him. And, oh, he knows it.)
“No, might melt you into molasses, but you’re not going anywhere anyway,” Vash says impishly.
“How many of these things do you take?” He asks.
“Usually or like ever?”
Wolfwood’s eyebrows go up, because wow, now he needed to know; “Both?”
“Two? Most; Five. For this one.” He points where Nicholas knows the biggest messiest scar is on his abdomen.
“What caliber?”
“I don’t know the gun was like, as big as me. Real tiny entry wound though,” He says reaching his good hand behind his back and under his shirt to find it. Like if he can touch it he can remember the rest of the story.
“Lemme see,” Wolfwood asks, snaking his hand up shirt after him- just an excuse to touch him. They've been playing these games long enough that Vash just turns and lets Wolfwood push up the fabric. Lets him press his thumb next to a thick round keloid scar for reference and says, “Some one shot you with .458 Winchester Magnum?!”
“Yeah if you say so-” Vash agrees, “And then you know, I-” He gestures at his stomach and then outward, the universal sign for one's insides going everywhere. His eyes go to that middle distance place for a second as he says it and Wolfwood regrets asking.
“Yeah, always sucks when you go-” He mirrors the gestures, pulling his hands off Vash (easier said than done) to do so. Because he is familiar. Intimately and deeply familiar. He should have two scars just like that.
“Everywhere. Yeah,” Vash agrees with that low empty tone Wolfwood hates, “So I took five.” He chirps like it was never a problem.
There is a long pause. Wolfwood looking at him carefully; Vash waiting for him to tell him he is stupid or silly or unhinged. Waiting for him to say the unexpected thing that always smooths his soul down after admitting something like that- Something other people would panic over.
But when Wolfwood finally says something it's: “Vash, I don’t have bones.”
“Oh no, not your bones~” Vash teases, voice full of singsong sarcasm, he tries so hard not to laugh, “I told you it was going to melt you.”
“Wow.”
Vash puts a steadying hand on his sternum and asks; “Do you want me to take your boots and your pants off before you zonk out?”
“Yeah, sure,” Wolfwood says, and the last thing he remembers before crashing hard is Vash slipping off one shoe, then the other and asking:
“Why the hell don’t you wear socks? The hell is wrong with you?”
“Do you think socks would fix me?” Wolfwood mumbles.
“No. Not even close. Go to sleep.” Vash says more to his loafers than to him.