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“Birds getting at your seedlings again?” Vash asks as casually as he can. He hands Wolfwood a bowl to dry.
“Nah, they’re bein’ good about it since I mulched,” Wolfwood says. He dries the bowl a little slow, sluggish; he doesn’t follow his answer with anything else.
Usually happy to chatter about the garden gossip, Wolfwood has been quiet since he came in for dinner. Over dinner itself he’d been distracted, hard for Vash to keep presently afloat, until Vash had scooted his chair around and made room for the weekend’s crossword. Vash didn’t like doing them as much, but he liked Wolfwood thoughtful rather than mired, telling Vash what to write instead of taking the pen for himself because one hand was occupied by his spoon while the other rubbed above Vash’s knee. Distracted from whatever was distracting him, it got Wolfwood to finish his dinner, too.
So, nothing seems wrong-wrong, he just isn’t sure what has Wolfwood off-kilter.
“It’s looking really nice out there,” Vash ventures, another bowl passed between them, “I saw the rosemary’s budding.”
Wolfwood leans against Vash’s shoulder, done drying, as Vash rinses his handful of silverware then wipes the suds down the drain. Oh, Wolfwood.
Part of Vash is so tender for Wolfwood to have any sort of domestic plight. He feels almost cruel, the way it sweetens his heart, but they both fought very hard and lost very much and clawed their way back to even more to be able to have these very problems, so it’s okay, maybe, that whatever has Wolfwood out of sorts thrills Vash in some way. Not Wolfwood’s pain, but the sharing of it, the press of their shoulders together, in a kitchen that is theirs, at the end of a day that is theirs.
“Mm, Miriam said it was already a year old when she gave it to me. Thought we might have to wait another year but seems like it settled in quick.”
Vash dries his hands on the kitchen towel Wolfwood hands him, then turns and folds him into his arms. He crams Wolfwood’s face into his neck, holding him full and tight, smothering. He wants it to be very clear, as a threat and a promise, that he’s not going anywhere.
“What’s up,” Vash asks. Wolfwood often goes belly-soft when Vash is direct, naked or clothed, so he tries to only do it when it’s asked for or warranted. It’s both right now, or Wolfwood would’ve wandered off after he was done with the dishes.
“You’re s’posed to let me make moody small talk,” Wolfwood complains, muffled. He slings his arms low around Vash’s waist. Vash squeezes at the base of Wolfwood’s skull. Lovingly.
“I would, dearest, but you weren’t very good at it.”
Wolfwood huffs a sigh, warm breath gusting over Vash’s neck.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“I think our metric is a bit messed up,” Vash says. He switches from scruffing Wolfwood to carding a hand up through his hair to cradle the crown of his head. Wolfwood huffs again, a laugh. “But I know. It doesn’t have to be a big deal though. Nicholas,” he takes a chance on it. Sometimes it’s what Wolfwood needs. Sometimes it’s not.
He’s quiet for a bit after that, a minute, maybe two, loose-limbed and leaning into Vash’s arms, letting Vash have him, letting himself have Vash. Vash holds them through it then leans back to get a look at him because he realizes he wasn’t wrong but he wasn’t right, either; Wolfwood isn’t folding himself away but he also isn’t budging on it.
He leans back to cup Wolfwood’s beloved face and tilt his head up, up, so that Wolfwood has to look at him. He squishes Wolfwood’s cheeks between his palms.
“Wolfwood,” he tries again. He sees it, in Wolfwood’s eyes, the belly bared, the winding down and uncoiling.
Wolfwood drops his gaze.
“Can’t get the squash to flower,” he confesses through his squished cheeks. Vash lets up a little. “M’not sure why. The leaves are big, you’ve seen ’em, it’s vinin’ like crazy, but every bud it puts out drops. It’s tryin’, it ain’t the squash's fault, but I checked the soil already and there’s plenty of what it needs for flowers. Thought I’d been good about keepin’ it watered enough, too."
Ah. It was the parts of Wolfwood still unsure if he could render this life; if he’s allowed to have it and if he’s good enough to share it. Vash’s throat tightens with a deep, protective love. Wolfwood stares, brow furrowed, somewhere around Vash’s throat. He doesn’t say anything else for another minute. Patient, Vash has to be patient.
“I want,” Wolfwood swallows, a false start but an honest one, so Vash cradles his face and waits. “I want to be able to make good things for you. For us. Feed you well. Lord knows you’ve probably got years of vitamin deficiencies and your metabolism’s still gettin’ used to sittin’ still for three meals a day on top of usin’ up most of your Plant juice and who knows what they’re puttin’ on the new commercial farms to keep the wams away. I’m sure your sisters get all the pulp or whatever in the right place but where do squash molecules even come from when it’s another dimension—”
Vash does squeeze his cheeks again, because Wolfwood is rambling.
“You take good care of us,” Vash tells him plainly.
Wolfwood’s eyes well up, reflexive, like a stubbed toe, and that has to be okay, it has to, because Wolfwood isn’t injured, Vash isn’t hurting him, he’s okay, he’s okay. He’s not hurting Wolfwood. Not in a bad way. Vash has to let it be okay.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Wolfwood says, frayed. “For chrissake, I’m trying to grow squash. I mean, what the hell, Vash? How’d we even get here,” Wolfwood ends on a watery laugh. It’s an old question between them and Vash’s heart aches and swells fiercely. He hears what Wolfwood is really asking: how can I stay, now that we’re here how do I dig my heels in, hard, without slipping.
Vash smiles, wry and affectionate, because nearly every morning he wakes up and thinks the same thing. He’s never had answers to the most important questions; he’s only known how to hold fast.
“I think you know what you’re doing.” This earns him a deeper frown and he can tell Wolfwood is going to say something so he hurries on. “Maybe not with squashes, not yet, but you know how to take care of me really well. Right?” Great, now Vash’s eyes are stinging too.
Wolfwood’s eyes are still glassy but he meets Vash’s gaze and holds them both steady. Their kitchen is warm from cooking. Their little dining table is cluttered with the crossword and small wood carvings and a basket of hard, sour, slow-ripening plums, scraps of to-do lists written on the backs of bits of mail and a vase of woody-stemmed thyme dotted with pale purple flowers. The ghosts stay at bay, drifting past. A twilight breeze sifts through the back screen door.
Wolfwood dips his head in acquiescence.
“Yeah,” he presses a kiss to the center of Vash’s palm, “when you let me.” Then he rests his head in Vash’s hand like a contented cat leaning into cheek rubs. It’s so sweet and so trusting it suddenly makes Vash shy. He feels his own cheeks grow rosy. “If only the squash bloomed as easy as you from just a little attention,” Wolfwood teases.
“Show me tomorrow and I’ll give it a talking to.”
The tip of Wolfwood’s nose is red from crying-not-crying. Vash darts in and nips it.
“Oi! What was that for?”
Vash goes pinker still. He doesn't have anything to say for himself.
"Sorry, sorry,” he smooches where he bit, sheepish, and starts to pull away.
Wolfwood’s hands tighten around his waist and reel him back.
“S’what I get for spoilin’ you.”
Before Vash can respond Wolfwood kisses him, a lingering press, and then another, soft and full and dizzyingly attentive even with the mire-gilded edge to it.
It’s no surprise, then, that Wolfwood is both handsy and quiet as they go about their evening routine. A hand at the small of Vash’s back as they brush their teeth, a kiss to the nape of Vash’s neck followed by rubbing in the minty-medicinal muscle ointment Vash knows he should use more but is often too lazy to bother with. By the time they’re ready for bed Wolfwood is muffled again, dampened, not absent but still marbled in his own bruise.
“Radio or reading?” Vash asks as he sorts the pillows for a propped-up nest. Wolfwood really only listens for the afternoon radio dramas but sometimes he likes the late-night call-in shows or a bit of music.
“Reading,” Wolfwood answers.
Vash sits on the edge of the bed and watches Wolfwood paw around the dresser for a sleep shirt. He pulls out one of Vash’s. Greedy, Vash thinks at the glimpse of Wolfwood’s bare waist, breadth of his ribcage, the flash of dark downy armpit, I am so greedy.
Wolfwood hands Vash his book from the nightstand then tucks Vash’s hair behind his ear. He gently flicks Vash’s earring.
“Did you open Lina’s letter yet?”
Wolfwood and Lina talk entirely through Vash, to the point where sometimes three-quarters of a letter will be to each other, Vash the neglected scribe and messenger. Lina telling Vash to tell Wolfwood about the tin-can spangles she strung up to keep the flying wam larva from her mustard greens, Wolfwood telling Vash to ask if she’s tried the new level three remediation fertilizer, each too stubborn and nervous to just talk to each other. Wolfwood still feeling guilty for taking Vash away and his role in everything after; Lina nervous and shy over who Wolfwood is to Vash, and, yes, a bit begrudging still, though Wolfwood admires her anger and spitfire. Both of them maniacs over their gardens and full of reserved familial affection they think is unrequited despite Vash’s insistence otherwise. Wolfwood kept a keen eye out for Lina’s letters but never read them before Vash.
“Read it while the rice was finishing, when you were watering,” he says, making to get up to fetch it, but Wolfwood pushes him back down and goes to get it himself.
The air is heavy and suspended when Wolfwood leaves the room, part of Vash pulled taut and out of the room with him. Everything goes slow the way it does when he dips his head underwater. The lamplight holds him like sap. He can hear Wolfwood walking around so it’s not too bad, but Vash sits and waits for Wolfwood to return before opening his book.
Wolfwood clambers over Vash to settle cross-legged next to him. He reads the letter one-handed, his other on Vash’s knee idly rubbing his thumb over it, like he had during dinner. It’s one of Wolfwood’s oldest habits since living together, and even before. Tapping Vash’s knee to a jukebox tune while chatting with the girls, smoking out a hotel window while absently fussing with a buckle if he was feeling indulgent enough to let Vash stretch a leg onto his lap. Harmless, easy touch was such a rarity for Vash to receive back then, and even when he knew Wolfwood was afraid of him it didn’t stop an arm slung across his shoulders or a hand roughing up his hair; like Wolfwood couldn’t help it; like at the bottom of his fear was still the same starved and shuttered care that drove Wolfwood relentlessly forward and, now, made him maudlin over squash. It was terribly endearing and Vash had always felt undeserving of it, yet he couldn’t help his own covetousness for all of Wolfwood’s moods and whims and states of being. It should be enough to shepherd Wolfwood through, side-by-side.
He does his best to focus on his book. He looks at the words. He thinks about Wolfwood. He reads the words. He peeks at Wolfwood. He looks at the same words again.
When Wolfwood finishes the part of the letter for him (most of it) he reaches over Vash to set it on the nightstand and pauses, hovering.
“Want the light out?”
Not yet, not yet. He should let them sleep, he knows, but he doesn’t want Wolfwood trying to fall asleep like this, sequestered in the dark from Vash right there next to him. It feels too—lonely. One of the top things Vash never wants Wolfwood to be again is lonely.
Wolfwood also keeps attending to him. Even knowing why, it’s particularly provocative in a way he’s stubborn to figure out.
“M’gonna read a little more.”
“’Kay,” Wolfwood presses a kiss to the crown of Vash’s head and spends a moment with his nose buried in Vash’s hair. He leans back. “You stole all the pillows,” he complains without doing anything.
This is, blatantly, untrue. There’s one shoved between the bed and the wall that Wolfwood sometimes uses between his knees, and there are extras in the closet. If Wolfwood really wanted pillows he’d do something about it, probably by first swiping one from Vash’s reading nest. The fact that he doesn’t…Vash thinks about the kiss in the kitchen, the heavy glide of Wolfwood’s hands rubbing ointment into his neck and shoulders, how Wolfwood was wearing his shirt right now. There’s a buzzy thread between them that Wolfwood has been braiding and tugging. Wolfwood’s heart is a little bruised tonight, yes, but he keeps scattering breadcrumbs for Vash to peck at. It’s a near-beckoning enticement.
And, really, the selfish, needy truth of it is that Vash wants to sink his fingers into Wolfwood and lap at his soft, bittersweet mood, not to clean Wolfwood of it but to taste it himself.
Wolfwood, it seems, wants something of the sort too; he either doesn’t know what or doesn’t want to directly ask for it.
I can do better for him, Vash thinks, I can figure it out.
He pats his lap, returns his attention to the page. Wolfwood tries to tug the covers out from under but Vash doesn’t move.
“Later,” Vash says, turning a page and playing at preoccupied.
Wolfwood pinches his hip, satisfied with Vash’s whine as blanket tax, then shifts, shuffling around. Vash peeks over the book to see him ass up, digging through the small chest at the foot of the bed. His butt is really cute, all swaddled curves from his pajama shorts and the way Vash’s shirt hangs over, hem flared right where Wolfwood’s ass cheeks round out. There’s a bug bite on the back of his thigh with faint red lines crossed through from Wolfwood scratching at it. Vash has the powerful, possessive urge to suckle it.
And, of course, Wolfwood’s legs are a marvel he’ll never tire of. Knobby knees, sharp shins, strong thighs and shapely swell to his calves, dark hair sparse but incredibly pleasing to run his palms up and down. Wolfwood’s legs planted wide when wielding Punisher. Wolfwood’s legs clamped tight on either side of his motorcycle. Wolfwood’s legs smudged with dirt and gleaming with sweat, braced as he loosens and pulls tough scraggly hard-packed weeds. Wolfwood’s long legs spread and folded divinely—he flicks his eyes back to the page when Wolfwood pulls out a light quilt, the scrap one he made with Milly when she taught him how.
Wolfwood flumps down on top of the sheets, kicking at the quilt and arranging it to cover himself and as much of Vash’s shins as he can.
“What part are you at?” he asks, bedding down sideways, knees tucked up with his head in Vash’s lap. It’s Wolfwood’s book he’s reading, Vash catching up on Wolfwood’s favorite pulpy femme fatale series.
“The governess has been sloppy with her shady deposits—why was she keeping the bank statements in her underwear drawer? (“It ties together later”)—and your Gina is about to jump out the seventh story window.” Vash drops a hand to pet through Wolfwood’s hair, shielding him a little from the lamp.
“With the rope-harness-thingamajig she makes from the governess’s stockings and bras?”
“I’m not there yet!”
Wolfwood hums and rubs his cheek against Vash’s thigh. He settles, then, which Vash likes, but every time Vash steals a peek he’s staring muddily at the back of the book or some nowhere zone off to the side. Hm.
“Head up real quick,” Vash says.
Wolfwood raises his head as Vash scoots down so that he can settle Wolfwood higher up his thigh. When one of Wolfwood’s hands creeps out from under the quilt to tuck securely under Vash’s leg, Vash knows he’s on the right track. He looks over his book again to find Wolfwood already watching him. How is Vash expected to keep up this pretense when faced with those big brown eyes, so dark and soft and devastatingly beautiful in the low lamplight? What’s he supposed to do with a gaze so warm and deep, open and waiting?
He switches from carding through Wolfwood’s hair to firmly cupping the back of his neck. Wolfwood’s eyebrow quirks, that fleck of boyish mischief Vash always finds irresistible heating through, and it’s both an offering and a need unspooling between them.
“What?” Wolfwood asks, innocent, blinking sleepily. “Thought you were gonna keep reading.”
Vash presses Wolfwood’s head forward. He scoots, obliging, until his nose nuzzles against Vash’s dick through his pajama pants. Wolfwood’s eyes drop closed and he inhales deep. Vash feels the heat from his exhale.
“I'll finish this chapter.”
He nudges Wolfwood a little more until Wolfwood’s mouth is flush against him. Vash’s primary petals are already fattening, but it’s a gentle fill. Nothing making him too big or demanding, nothing twining or opening. Just plush and bloodwarm.
“Alright,” Wolfwood says, and Vash gets a little more plush, a little more bloodwarm, at Wolfwood’s lips moving against him. Wolfwood doesn’t do anything else besides rest his mouth, parted and humid, against the fabric between them. It could be enough, it should be enough, but, but—
“Wait, sorry, up one more time.”
Wolfwood sits up, “We don’t have to,” the quilt slips down his shoulder in a maddening display, his hair rumpled from Vash’s petting. Vash’s heart pricks all over, electric.
He doesn’t bother answering. Instead he makes a show of wiggling out of his pajama pants until Wolfwood helps him. He folds Vash’s pants and sets them on the blanket chest and Vash loves him, loves him.
He pats his lap again, back to feigning distraction with his book like his dick isn’t out in the cool lamp-lit air of their bedroom, like he isn’t hungry for Wolfwood’s mouth around him. Wolfwood lays back down and scoots until he can nuzzle again, this time with nothing between them. He presses warm dry kisses, proprietary, first to the little pouch of lower belly fat Vash has managed to accrue, then to Vash’s dark, feathery curls, and when Vash brushes his bangs off his forehead Wolfwood’s mouth parts around him.
It’s almost violently hot inside, so much so that it takes a minute for him to register anything else. He warms to Wolfwood’s mouth, equalizing, matching, a fizzy plateaued pleasure that flirts with arousal and seeps heavy contentment into his hips, his belly, melts through his legs and spine. Other sensations start to filter through: wet, the slickness of Wolfwood’s cheek, the soft give of his tongue, the perfect arch of his hard palate. Vash feels the flat edge of his teeth when Wolfwood swallows once before he relaxes his jaw.
Vash is an easy mouthful for him like this.
“Good?”
“Mmh,” Wolfwood hums. His eyes slip closed.
“Good,” Vash buries his fingers back in Wolfwood’s hair, cups his precious skull and rubs his thumb against Wolfwood’s temple.
He watches him for another few minutes, all of him aching wildly, nearly unbearably, with adoration, with that strange frayed loneliness sated all at once, until Wolfwood cracks an eye open and tilts his head back to give Vash a look. It’s not terribly severe, what with the undeniable muzzy warmth that now blankets Wolfwood’s discordance and the fond exasperation at being gazed at, but it is effective for those very reasons. Vash tugs Wolfwood’s earlobe (red, he noticed, from the moment Wolfwood felt him staring) and reads.
He intends to stop at the end of the chapter and put them to bed properly but when he checks on Wolfwood he finds him asleep. His mouth is still mostly in place, Vash still enveloped in his warmth, but he’s gone totally lax. Drool has slipped between Vash’s thighs. If he focuses he can feel how it has wetted, just barely, the cusp of his ass cheeks. Spit shines on Wolfwood’s lower lip and chin and Vash wants to kiss him so badly. He should let him rest a little more though. He watches Wolfwood sleep, thinking he could start the next chapter, but why would he look at anything else? Just a bit longer, then he’ll get them squared away, good night kiss and all.
Vash wakes up in the dark, legs cold, stumbling out of bed before he’s fully conscious.
“Wolfwood,” he gasps, then, louder, “Nicholas—Wolfwood,” he gets tangled, falls half onto the floor, lurches, where is he, bed empty, where’s—
A dark blocky outline, Wolfwood, Wolfwood, “Vash, easy, easy honey,” Wolfwood is bundled around him now, has lowered Vash bare-assed bare-legged quilt-snaked to sit on the floor. Wolfwood kneels, bracketing him in against the bed with an arm tight across his back, hand firmly curled around Vash’s nape to press him to his collarbone. “Just gettin’ some water, should’ve told you but you were too damn cute fallin’ asleep like that, in my mouth.” Wolfwood scrubs his fingers against Vash’s scalp, slow but firm. He rests his cheek on top of Vash’s head. “M’sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Vash croaks. Wolfwood’s skin is cool from being out of bed but it’s a coolness that’s translucent, diaphanous, already dissipating from Vash against him. He can feel Wolfwood underneath, the true heat of him, plied with bed-warm embers.
Wolfwood leans back enough to nudge a glass of water between them. Vash wraps his hand around Wolfwood’s and drinks like that, the both of them holding it. He feels much better and, with it, a little foolish.
“I’m alright. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
Wolfwood presses him closer as he reaches up and over to set the glass on the bedside table.
“Me neither,” Wolfwood says, wry, and Vash hears the smile in his voice. “I only woke up a few minutes ago, turned out the light, got some water. Ready?”
He helps Vash up, not saying anything when Vash raises his arms, dutifully stripping off Vash’s shirt before disengaging Vash’s prosthetic. He rubs the tight muscle around the port, kisses Vash’s bicep, careful of the socket. Wolfwood had licked it once, on accident, having lost track of his fervent tongue, and the static shock had put his hair on end like a puffed- up cat.
Then, to Vash’s surprise, Wolfwood shucks out of his own sleepclothes too. Wolfwood doesn’t usually sleep naked unless he’s so fucked out he’s an overheated puddle. He makes a chilly brrmph and hustles Vash to bed. When Vash tries to get under the covers, Wolfwood stops him.
“Lemme clean you up.”
He’s holding something, no doubt one of the worn flannel cloths they keep in a small basket by the bed. It’s true that Wolfwood’s spit and drool have dried tacky and thin on his skin and in his pubic hair. But, Vash wants it. He likes it, feeling smudged up by Wolfwood.
Wolfwood makes to dip the cloth into the near-empty water glass but Vash pulls the sheets and rescued quilt over himself up to his chin.
“Nuh-uh. It’s gonna be cold. Warm me up instead.” He can give them both cause to bathe in the morning.
If cold were really the reason, Wolfwood wouldn’t let him get away with it; a blessing in Vash’s favor tonight that Wolfwood has always been too good at seeing through him. He burrows into bed with Vash, hauling Vash between his legs on top of him, pressing them skin-to-skin, Vash’s head pillowed on his chest. Wolfwood’s hips dig into his stomach and his feet sleepily ruck at Vash’s calves. He’s kept his socks on and Vash delights at it, lets the feeling lull him.
“Vash,” Wolfwood nudges him. Vash grumbles, on the cusp of drifting off, as Wolfwood shifts and leans up and forward until he can cup Vash’s cheek with his big warm hand. He tilts Vash’s head up to kiss him. “G’night.”
Ah, his Wolfwood is always so reliable, rescuing Vash’s good night kiss from drowsy oblivion. Vash kisses him back, wants to fall asleep kissing him, but he needs to know—
“How’re you feeling? Want to go to the library tomorrow, see if they have anything new for gardening since last time?”
Wolfwood kisses him again, a bit too heated for just a good night smooch. While he does get to keep Wolfwood’s dried spit on himself, he remembers Wolfwood’s slack sleeping mouth enveloping his cock and the drool he’d wanted to lap up. He strains his neck, more, more. Wolfwood teeths at his tongue, playfully reprimanding, chasing it back into Vash’s mouth with his own for a long warm, wet moment. Wolfwood’s bruise-gilded edge from earlier is gone.
“M’feelin’ better,” he murmurs. He tucks Vash back in against him. “You?”
Vash nods and rubs his cheek to Wolfwood’s chest. He loves the quiet rasp.
Wolfwood strokes up and down his back.
“Yeah, let’s go to the library. Squash or no squash I’m gonna grow you a whole damn meal one day.”
At this point Wolfwood could dig up a rock and say he grew it for Vash and Vash would eat it.
“A whole damn meal,” Vash mumbles, squeezing Wolfwood’s pec, sinking back to the fringe of a drifty-doze. “All mine. You can have a bite though. Marry me again.”
“Sure,” Wolfwood agrees breezily. “Long as you don’t mind my dowry is a couple packs of cigarettes, a squash that won’t bloom, and a dozen jars of pickled radishes. I’ve got my own library card, I’ll let you put your overdue fines on it.”
“My wife is so generous,” Vash says, earnest and pleased, “generous and gorgeous. Everyone’s jealous.”
Wolfwood huffs a sleepy laugh, teases his socked foot along Vash’s calf.
“That so?”
“Maybe he’ll let me ravish him between the books.”
“Oh my,” Wolfwood drawls, coy, “which section?”
Vash presses his smile to Wolfwood’s warm bosom, deeply self-satisfied.
“Cookbooks. Or mysteries. Both, if you want.”
“Be disappointed if you didn’t.”
He becomes suddenly aware of Wolfwood’s soft cock pressed to his belly between the dig of Wolfwood’s hips. Wolfwood’s soft cock, thighs on either side of him, broad shoulders and steady heart under his cheek.
Wolfwood’s fingers, calloused, ride the bumps of his spine like ripples on water. It makes him want to dip his back just to feel Wolfwood’s fingers follow, to dip and arch and raise his own hips, present himself as something good for Wolfwood to do whatever he wants with, good enough to let Vash have him. He shifts, makes a pitiful sound, pushes his hips down into the sheets instead.
“Alright,” Wolfwood relents, “ain’t you sweet an’ easy. Go to sleep, you’re gettin’ me up bright an’ early for a library date.”
Vash kisses his chest and presses his hands to either side of Wolfwood’s ribs. He spreads his fingers to span as much of Wolfwood as he can.
“Library date,” Vash says in firm agreement. He loves dates with Wolfwood. He loves Wolfwood. WolfwoodWolfwoodW’lfwoodWlfwd. “Love you. Sleep tight.”
“Love you too, tongari. See ya in the mornin’.”
Vash drifts to the gentle rise and fall of Wolfwood’s chest, thinks about how much room for persuasion is in bright an’ early, falls asleep held and holding.