Chapter Text
Wolfwood has a strict nightly routine, and it goes as such: when the sun begins to set, painting the sky in warm reds and yellows, he'd lead the horses back to the stables, walk close to Angelina and sneak her a couple cubes of sugar. By the time he'd make it back to the house, the kids would be just beginning to be ushered in with the harsh yells of Miss Melanie, stumbling over one another and finding their seats at the dinner table, bowls of warm food in hand. They would eat ‘till they had their fill, he would then guide the children to bed, tucking them in and filling the time before they fall asleep with stories of gunslingers and criminals until all is quiet, the soft snoring of a dozen kids sleeping soundly. He'd make his way back down the steps, help out Miss Melanie with the last of the cleaning and part ways for the night.
Wolfwood carves out a few hours of the night just for himself, time set aside for him to sit down with a scrap of wood, smooth in the palm of his hand and a pocket knife heavy in the other. Other nights, the Bible that often sat in his bedside table collecting dust would be opened, its brown pages aged and wrinkled. There were a handful of dog-eared pages in Numbers, a hundred underlined sentences in Deuteronomy, and the tear stained pages of Job; the pages were raised and crinkled, and even when the book was closed, the pain of a life lived was still evident on its pages. At some point in the night, he'd pull from the nightstand a thick stack of pale yellow sheets of paper; childrens’ drawings of stick figures that vaguely resembled people and horses and the occasional sheep or two decorating them.
On especially quiet nights, he'd make his way to the small shelf on his wall opposite his bed. Hidden in the pages of a children's book too worn and faded from its age to be legible, there lay a handful of letters, crisp white paper and envelopes stark against the pale yellow and browns of the picture book it made a home in. It wasn’t often that he went looking at the letters, the few he did have. He opened them and glazed over words he's already read ten times over. He reads them and pushes down the bone deep need to put one foot in front of the other until he's just a couple miles into the direction of the nearest town. Standing in front of the doors of the post office, he pushes down the childish idea that if he peeks out the window five times more, he’ll catch a glimpse of silver hair and the familiar scent of his brother. The letters stay in the children's book for a reason.
On this night, he picks up the wooden bird and focuses on the wood shavings collecting in his lap and falling onto the floor, a mess to be cleaned up after he wakes in the morning.
Wolfwood has a strict nightly routine, and it doesn't usually involve him being startled by the sound of heavy banging on the front door, and opening said door to see a man soaked with blood and wet from the rain. The barrel of a shotgun in Wolfwood’s hands is what catches the man's attention first, he glances down lazily at it, and he laughs . He laughs before collapsing on his doorstep, and all of a sudden, Wolfwood feels very silly with the shotgun in his hands and a dying man at his feet.
His strict routine is different tonight because now Wolfwood is dragging a bloody, unconscious man across the floor and up the stairs into the bathroom, and this sort of thing isn't supposed to happen, it isn't part of his routine and God the body is weirdly light and frail in his grasp, and he’s just now realizing that this man only has one fucking arm , and the man’s blood is everywhere and fuck Miss Melanie is going to chew him out for it tomorrow if he doesn't spend the rest of the night scrubbing it out of the floors. The blood has managed to soak into Wolfwood's shirt by the time he makes it up the stairs, dripping in tacky rivulets like tar and now the man's body has gone limp against his chest. He pulls him into the bathroom, tossing him not too gently into the tub, and starts running the cool water, shoving a rickety bucket underneath the faucet.
He dumps the bucket over the man's head, who hardly notices the water, eyes squinting open and a few groans falling from his mouth before he shuts his eyes again. Wolfwood was praying that the water would work in making the man more awake, hoping he wouldn't have to peel the bloody layers of torn clothing off of him and patch up the wound.
He could very well leave the man back outside, let the rain wash away the blood entirely, but comes to the decision that Miss Melanie probably wouldn't appreciate waking up to a half dead body bleeding out on their front steps. He pulls out the bandages from the cabinet.
The real challenge comes with shaking off the dark red coat from the man in the tub. Heavy with water and blood, it hits the floor with a thud once Wolfwood is able to remove it fully. The black button up underneath the coat clings to the man like a second skin. Wolfwood makes quick work of the buttons before peeling away the shirt from where most of the blood is gathering in his side, on his abdomen. It's so much blood that Wolfwood can't tell where or what the wound is, dousing it in alcohol to disinfect and clear the mess.
Wolfwood feels real lucky to not be the poor bastard bleeding out in the tub right now, because lucky for him, he's got two separate bullet wounds in him. One that has an exit wound, which he imagines is to blame for all of the blood soaking into the wooden floors and tub right now. The other wound isn't nearly as bad in terms of being responsible for severe blood loss, but there isn't an exit wound. The bullet is still lodged somewhere in this man's gut and it's the middle of the night and Wolfwood is not about to stick his hands in a stranger's gunshot wound when he already has to spend the next few hours scrubbing said man's blood from the floor, preferably before Miss Melanie and the children wake up to see it.
He cleans off the wound as best he can before bandaging him up, heaving the man's body from the tub and into his room, unceremoniously dumping his body on the floor with a thud. He had floors to clean, and making the man comfortable someplace was the least of his worries.
It's at least a couple hours before the floors are spotless again and Wolfwood is too exhausted to bring himself up the steps to fall asleep in the comfort of his bed. He surrenders to a dreamless slumber on the steps. He’s opening his eyes almost as soon as he has closed them when he’s jolted awake to what sounds like someone throwing themselves against the walls and rummaging through the bathroom.
Wolfwood would have been a little more worried about the ripped, bloody bandages and pools of red on the bathroom floor if he hadn't already spent the night scrubbing those same floors clean of blood from when he initially dragged the man in—the same man who is digging at his side to retrieve the bullet in his gut. He’s sickeningly pale, his movement shaky as he digs further into his abdomen, hissing through clenched teeth. He succeeds, and the bullet hits the floor with a metallic clang; the sound dampened with the added weight of blood, but nonetheless ringing too loud in Wolfwood's ears and the quiet house.
When the blonde meets his gaze, he's met with a guilty, toothy smile, leaning up against the sink for stability and trying not to slip in the pools of his own blood. He opens his mouth, and what comes out is barely a whisper. The angry, very slightly confused look on Wolfwood's face pushes the bleeding man to raise his voice in his next attempt.
“My… my hat? Have you seen it around?”
He had to be kidding. “You’re bleeding all over my floor, and you're asking about your hat?”
The man shifts from foot to foot, holding a hand over top of the open wound in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding and growing puddle under his feet. Wolfwood huffs out a sigh as he finds more bandages, throwing them to the man who scrambles to catch them before they hit the floor.
“Get patched up, and make it quick. The kids will be up soon–”
“Kids?” He says in a hushed whisper, a restrained yell.
Wolfwood looks towards the man and back down to the floor, rolls his eyes and gestures towards the mess, “And get this cleaned up too. Spent all night cleanin’ up after your ass.”
Miss Melanie is an incredible cook, and the bowl of food that sits in front of the man is warm and comforting. Yet, he looks anything but comfortable and comforted.
Her gaze is on him when she sets the bowl down in front of him, followed by a small army of children staring back at him from across the table.
His eyes don't fall on the steaming serving of oatmeal and fresh bread in front of him. In fact, he actively avoids looking at it. He looks between Wolfwood and Miss Melanie standing on either side of him before one of the children in the sea of others speaks up, and the man jumps in his seat.
“What happened to your arm?”
The rest of the children stare blankly at him, awaiting and demanding an answer from the strange, sickly pale man in their home.
The blonde taps his fingers on the table anxiously, and from where Wolfwood stands in the doorway to the dining room, leaning against the frame, he can see the beads of sweat that collect on his temple and the shakiness of his hand where he taps along the table's surface. If it weren't for the tremble of his hands, it'd be almost graceful, like playing notes on a piano. His fingers were long, they'd be good for that sort of thing, Wolfwood imagined.
“A horse ate it.” He says it with a fake bravado, enough to be believable to the hoard of children sitting across from him. The children let out screams and squeals of disgust and disbelief, Wolfwood visibly softens at the sight. Wolfwood could tolerate their first meeting just a little more, seeing as the man grew more relaxed surrounded by the laughter of the children crowding him. Wolfwood swears he can see a glimpse of disappointment fall across his face as Miss Melanie begins to herd the children out of the room.
When she enters back in, she makes her way over and rests a hand on the man's shoulders, and visibly tenses.
“Well, how ‘bout we start with a name, young man.” She leans over his shoulder to meet his eyes, he follows reluctantly, a nervous smile spread across his face.
“R-right. It’s, ah,” His hand grips the table hard, fingers digging into the grain of the wood as he tries to push out the words. “Vash. My name is Vash.”
He hangs his head low, as if the words hurt him to say. Miss Melanie pats his shoulder gently, shifting to pull out a chair besides the man to sit. She wobbles some, her legs unsteady as she lowers herself and the blonde's hand reaches out quickly, as if to prepare to catch her if she was unsuccessful. She huffs out a short laugh, waving his hand away and settling further into the seat.
Vash settles back into his own seat, back stiff as a board. He avoids making eye contact with the cooling bowl of food in front of him, as if it'll bite back if he even thinks about glancing down towards it. He fidgets with the buttons of his borrowed shirt, one Miss Melanie dug up for him from Wolfwood's own dresser along with a slightly worn pair of slacks. She handed them to the man, neatly folded on top of each other and a bar of soap with it. It was kindness he hadn't been shown in a long time. He nearly melted into the floor when Miss Melanie handed them over to him with a soft smile and the command to wash up, his face soft and eyes wet.
Miss Melanie heaves out a sigh at the sight, “C’mon boy, you need to eat, you're too damn skinny.” She glances across the blonde towards Wolfwood, arms crossed over his chest. He is exhausted, his shoulders sat high and tense, he leans against the doorframe and is steadily sinking lower and lower on it.
The woman begins to lift herself up out of the seat, making her way to join Wolfwood at the door. “ Eat , and then we'll talk some more. Your food's getting cold.”
Vash looks at her like a kicked puppy, as if being left alone in the room with the ever menacing bowl of oatmeal is a far worse fate than being stared down by the two of them. She makes her way out of the dinning room and out towards the front steps, Wolfwood following close behind, but not before looking the blonde up and down with a scowl. His look might have been drowned out by his weariness, though it seemed to have gotten the point across anyway.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Nicolás, he's injured. We can spare him some time to heal before shoo-ing him away.” The woman was stubborn in her answer. There wasn't an ounce of uncertainty in her words as wrinkled hands smoothed down along Angelina’s nose, combing through her mane. “Well let him stay ‘till he's healed. He can help as a farmhand, Lord knows we could use the extra hands.”
“The hell we need an extra set a hands for? I don't need the help, that's for damn sure.” Wolfwood was working through his second cigarette that morning, and he is already itching for a third.
“Nico, look at you, you're exhausted. The fence has been needin’ fixin’ for too long now, the horses need shoes, María's been needin’ new parts–”
“He ain’t touchin’ María.”
“The truck will live, Nicolás. Have you got the time to run into town and get the parts?”
“I’ll make time,” He throws the cigarette from his mouth to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot to put it out, “Soon.”
She sighs, turning to face Wolfwood directly. She had made up her mind long ago, and there would be no convincing her otherwise.
“He’s staying, and that’s final. Now come, and pick that up! Y’know how I feel about those things.”
Wolfwood watches as Miss Melanie makes her way out of the stable, instead of following, he takes up the space in front of Angelina’s stall, reaching out to hold her face and grumble out his complaints to someone who will listen. It is a routine both he and Angelina are familiar with.
“Are we done pouting about it now, Nico? Come, he's probably done eatin’ by now”
“Yeah, yeah. ‘M comin’.”
When Wolfwood and Miss Melanie make it back to the farm house and into the dining room, they find a handful of children with ears pressed to the walls, peering in from the door frame. They scatter as soon as Miss Melanie catches sight of them, feet stomping on the steps of the staircase and some further down the hallway and back outside.
Vash sits in the same place they left him, just as tense as before, a half eaten bowl of oatmeal sits in front of him. Miss Melanie's brows furrow at the sight, but she doesn't hang on it long, pulling out the chair besides Vash and urging Wolfwood to do the same.
“Well, Vash, me and Nicolás–”
“Wolfwood.” The dark haired man grunts out, crossing his arms tighter against his chest. Miss Melanie laughs as she settles further into her seat, resting her hands in her lap and gazing towards Wolfwood, who is sitting just as tense as the blonde in his seat. Vash laughs nervously, directing his eyes back to the surface of the table, resuming the tapping of his fingers against it.
“We have come to an agreement on things, and we’re willing to let you stay as long as is necessary for your wounds to heal. All that we ask for is some helping hands with daily chores, anything that needs doing on the ranch.”
The woman has Vash’s full attention, his jaw slack and the tremble in his hand coming back as he finds purchase on the shirt that hangs off his body. Miss Melanie stops, expecting an answer from the man; something like a thank you, or questions, but he stays silent, as if he's still trying to process the words that hang in the air around them, as though he were wholly unfamiliar with such an act of kindness. He stays silent.
“You’ll be working with Mr. Grumpy over there most of the time, he’ll show you the ropes. Isn't that right, Nicolás ?”
Wolfwood grumbles out something that sounds vaguely like a yes, and a more hushed complaint under his breath.
“But, we’re not gonna worry about that for now, ya need a good rest. Nico, take him back up to your room, yeah?”
Vash immediately shoots up, the most energetic they've seen him for a man who has two open wounds in his gut. “Please, that's not necessary, you two have done so much for me already. I don’t wanna overstep.”
“You're in no condition to be doing any kind of heavy liftin’. You wanna pay us back son? Go rest up and let your body heal.” Vash had not been in the house long, but he carried himself as if he knew the routine perfectly. Her words are law, and Vash made no further comments, standing up from his place at the table alongside Wolfwood.
Vash follows Wolfwood up the steps, holding the banister for support as he takes his time going up, wincing with every step. He's nearly out of breath by the time they reach the top, entering the room long after Wolfwood did.
Vash hadn’t really gotten the chance to get a good look at the room before storming into the bathroom earlier that morning, though the room would have been too blurry and wobbly in his vision to mean anything. Wolfwood busies himself with pulling extra blankets from a wardrobe nestled into the corner of the room, unfolding them and placing the sheets on top of the bed. Vash shifts in his spot by the door, his gaze drifting awkwardly from Wolfwood's backside to the desk that is pushed up against the window, wood shavings littered across its surface and more on the floor beneath it, a vaguely bird shaped wooden figure sat amongst the wood shavings.
Vash is pulled from his thoughts at the sound of wardrobe doors being slammed shut, Wolfwood turning back towards the bed, groaning under his breath something about taking it outta his ass if he stains it with blood. He huffs out a breathy laugh as Wolfwood drops the extra blankets on the bed, not sparing Vash so much as a glance as he makes his way out of the room.
Vash settles into the bed, it creaks under the little weight he puts on it. He lays on his backside, arm resting over the bandages wrapped tight beneath his shirt. He drifts to sleep, and it's the safest he's felt in years . Vash settles into the luxury of it all; a real bed and blanket, a warm bowl of food. It felt like more than he deserved . At this moment, his brain is too tired to sit with the unbearable heaviness of the blanket covering him—the feeling of warm food, love, and care that swirls in his stomach—it all begins to form in a place within his chest too close to his heart for his liking.
Vash wakes up to a room a lot dimmer than before. A gas lamp is the only thing illuminating the space, sitting in the corner of the desk with a collection of wood shavings surrounding it and a too full ashtray in the center. Vash’s eyes lazily glance over to a figure slumped over in a chair before settling on the shelf above him. It is empty, save for a few chunks of wood and a worn, faded children's book—obviously well loved with age—a stark contrast to the white sheets of paper that peeked out from the very top of it. His eyes found the man again, and in his hands a familiar wooden figure. It looks more complete now, the indentations of feathers and a beak more clear and distinct.
Wolfwood’s shoulders are curled in on himself, his neck twisting at an awkward angle in his sleep. His arms are wrapped weakly around his frame, his sleeves are unrolled now, wrinkled fabric covering the length of his arms. The bed creaks as Vash slowly lifts himself up. His body shivers as the covers pool at his waist, the slightly too-big borrowed shirt doing little to help against the chill with the way it hangs off of him. His gaze falls back onto Wolfwood, and he swears he can see bumps form from the cool air where bare skin is exposed to the room. Vash laughs to himself at the sight of it, Wolfwood's rolled down sleeves and his exposed chest. He holds his hand to his abdomen as he stands up, his legs shaky under him, pangs of hunger only intensifying the feeling of the two gaping holes in his gut.
His hand trembles as he removes it from where it hovers over his stomach back to the bed, collecting the warm blanket in his arm. The floorboards creak under him even with his cautious steps. When he reaches Wolfwood, feeling the subtle heat of the gas lamp beside them, he crouches down to examine the bird in his hand further. Carefully, he sets the blanket on the floor and he reaches out for it, pulling it from the man's grasp to inspect for himself. The grain of the wood is smooth to touch, his thumb glides over every dip and curve, every carefully constructed feathers.
It is beautiful craftsmanship, something so rare to see as someone always on the run. He hardly had the time anymore to breathe, to enjoy a warm, honeyed sunset or sit with a well worn book. He is only ever allowed small glimpses of these things, of life. The wooden bird in his hand feels as real as the ones that sang early morning songs, it feels alive under his touch, and he savors the feeling of it.
That was until Vash is interrupted by the sounds of groans and mumbles from the man in the chair, heavy calloused hands coming up to wipe the weariness from his face, and Vash is setting the bird on the desk before Wolfwood can find it in the blonde's hand.
“...The hell you doin’ up blondie?”
“You looked cold. You're not planning on sleepin’ on that chair all night, are ya?”
Wolfwood wipes at his eyes, his arms raising above his head to stretch out the tense muscles of his back, groaning as he does so. His shirt raises just a bit, exposing his stomach to the cool air of the room and Vash is scrambling for the blanket on the floor, his face flushed. He sets the blanket onto Wolfwood's lap, standing up from his crouched position on the floor.
“It’s gettin’ more chilly out,” His eyes trail down Wolfwood's chest with a small smile on his lips. “And that shirt doesn't seem to be helpin’ much either.”
Wolfwood slowly rises from the chair, a hand rubbing at his back. “Yeah, yeah. And you're meant to be doing a whole lot less talkin’ and a lot more sleepin’.” He shuts the lamp off and drags himself over to the bed, reaching for a spare pillow and making a place for himself on the floor besides the bed.
Vash shifts uncomfortably in the corner of the room, watching as Wolfwood settles into the floor and rests his head on the pillow.
“C’mon Spikey, we got a busy mornin’ tomorrow.”
“Spikey? My hair is not–”
“ Sleep , blondie.” He pulls the covers tighter against himself and Vash makes no further complaint, instead stumbling over to the bed and falling back into it.