Title: nothing has to change today
Fandom: Trigun
Rating: PG/Teen
Length: 870 words
Content notes: christianity/christian guilt, minor reference to thoughts of self-harm, angst
Author notes: vaguely manga-canon, somewhere in trimax. spoilers.
Summary: (n. Yaghan) a meaningful look shared between two people who long to initiate something.



“I missed beds,” Vash says, from where he’s sprawled across the room’s single bed, bent into a backwards arch that makes Wolfwood’s spine ache just to look at. Wolfwood’s flexible enough that he could probably pull off a similar pose, feet braced flat and fingertips brushing the ground on the opposite side of the bed, but he’s not sure he could do it without dislocating a vertebrae.

“You can have the bed, then,” Wolfwood says, looking around for a spot to lay out his bedroll that won’t get him stepped on if Vash gets out of bed in the middle of the night.

Vash sits up, with yet more bending that doesn’t look humanly possible. “We’ll share,” he declares, leaning down to start on the buckles of his boots.

Wolfwood scoffs. “That bed’s barely going to fit you, Needle-noggin, much less the both of us.”

“We’ll make it work,” Vash says, a defiant spark in his eyes. “I’m not having you sleep on the floor. It’s been weeks since we’ve had a real bed!”

Longing squeezes Wolfwood’s chest, like a fist wrapped around his heart. They’ve shared beds before, but bigger ones this — he can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like. Legs overlapping, shoulders pressed together. They’d have to face away from each other, otherwise there would be no way to call it anything other than cuddling, and that would just — it would be too much. The slope’s too slippery from there, into promises that neither of them can keep.

He opens his mouth to insist that one of them sleep on the floor, and then Vash just… looks at him.
And, look—Wolfwood’s not a sucker. He can stand up to a pretty face. He can even stand up to Vash’s face, those delicate features and inhumanly bright eyes, the way his rare genuine smiles make his whole face soften, like he really is as young as his body looks.

It would be unbearably sappy — see: slippery fucking slope — to say that Vash gives him a look that makes his heart melt. But that really is how it feels, the hopeful little upturn of that soft mouth, the shine in his eyes. It’s not the pout he puts on for everyone else. It’s something that’s all for Wolfwood, an achy reflection of his own longing.

How the hell is he meant to argue with that? How the hell is he meant to do anything other than exactly what Vash says, just to do something to assuage the heartache in those eyes?

Wolfwood wants to kiss him so badly that it hurts. It pierces into his chest like a knife, carves him open, cracks his ribs and bares his heart. He’s sure that Vash can see it — the fact that if he were a different man, the sheer want would make him cry.

But he isn’t a different man. He’s Nicholas D. Wolfwood — Nicholas the Punisher, student of the Eye of Michael, right hand of Master Chapel, Gung-Ho Gun. He’s here in Vash’s life for all the wrong reasons. For money, for prestige, in service to the one man that Vash might hold actual hatred for.

“All right, Needle-noggin,” Wolfwood says, putting on a smile. He leans against the windowsill and lights a cigarette, shaking out the match before he can be tempted to let it scorch his fingers, in some minor act of contrition for his ongoing betrayal. “We can share. But if someone ends up with bruises, I’m blaming you.”

Vash laughs. It’s one of his genuine laughs, a little squeaky on the edges — because apparently that isn’t an affectation, he really does laugh like he has a cat toy stowed alongside his vocal chords — but Wolfwood’s chest pangs all over again, to hear it, because Vash still sounds so fucking sad.

It amazes him, horrifies him, that no one notices. This strange, silly man, wearing his broken heart right there on his sleeve, and everyone who doesn’t think he’s an idiot thinks he’s a monster.

Well, whatever he is, Wolfwood is worse.

“First shower,” Wolfwood says, because otherwise he’s going to say something they’ll both regret, and before Vash can do more than squawk in displeasure, he shuts the bathroom door behind himself, a flimsy synthetic wood shield from the damage he’s doing just by being in Vash’s life.

Under the cool water of the shower, Wolfwood laces his fingers together and bends his head, letting the water run over his face and neck. “Father,” he murmurs. “Wash away my sins. Let me be worthy of his bed.”

He doesn’t feel cleansed. He doesn’t even feel worthy of prayer, much less sharing a bed with an angel. But he doesn’t really have a choice — he has to do what Vash asks of him, keep his suspicions down. Try not to slip any further, try not to break his heart worse when it’s over.

Wolfwood lifts his head, turning his face into the spray, letting it soothe the stinging heat in his cheeks and behind his eyes. He keeps his fingers locked together, straining the joints of his knuckles. Maybe it’s the thought that counts, with prayer.

Maybe someone out there is listening. Wolfwood doubts it, but if Vash has taught him anything, it’s hope.