This takes place during episode 10, Quick Draw - the night before the Quick Draw Competition in Mei City.
"You got any money?"
"A little. Why?"
Wolfwood upended the bottle. One small drop escaped.
"Millie finished this one."
"Oh."
Meryl had finally managed to nag a giggling Millie back into her clothes - well, enough of her clothes to make the walk back to their room relatively safe, anyway - ten minutes ago, and, staggering slightly under the bigger woman's weight, dragged her off to get some sleep. And Wolfwood was now alone with Vash again.
He wanted to stay there. He found himself enjoying the outlaw's company. There was something about Vash that reminded him of the children back in his orphanage...
He reached for the double dollars Vash held out, and stood, stretching slightly and smiling.
"I'll be back in a minute."
The minute had turned into twenty by the time he'd bargained the barman into parting with several bottles of half-way decent booze. When Wolfwood let himself quietly back into the room it was to find Vash still sitting at the small table, cheek resting on a gloved hand, gazing blankly into space. The priest watched him for a moment, frowning slightly: there was pain in those gentle turquoise eyes, a lost expression on the pale face. It hurt to see him unhappy.
Why does it hurt? We hardly know each other...
Pasting a smile on his own face, Wolfwood clanked the bottles together, startling the gunman out of his reverie.
"Think this'll do us?"
Vash grinned and reached for the bourbon.
They talked for hours, although Wolfwood could never remember, afterwards, exactly what they'd talked about. He'd only been conscious of the intricate play of expressions on the face opposite his, the oddly graceful movements of Vash's hands, the way his body relaxed back into the chair as the levels in the bottles dropped. Several times the priest made half-hearted 'better go now' type mutterings, and each time Vash had started a new topic of conversation, or asked a question, stopping Wolfwood from leaving. Though the priest thought it was probably more from a wish to not be alone than from any feelings of friendship. But then Vash had given him another one of those smiles, and he found himself wondering if perhaps he was wrong...
You could drown in those eyes...
He shook himself. The man was appealing, sure, but he was also dangerous to be around. He needed to keep his wits about him.
But not necessarily tonight...
Morning wasn't that far away. Most of the bottles were empty: Vash's speech had become slurred, his eyes a little unfocussed, and he'd lapsed into an uncharacteristic silence. Wolfwood propped his chin on one hand and gazed at his companion.
"So, you wanna talk about it?"
The gunman looked up blearily. "'bout what?"
Wolfwood touched a fingertip to Vash's forehead.
"Whatever's going on in there."
For a moment, it looked like he was actually going to answer - then his hand went to his mouth as ominous retching noises had him diving for the bathroom of the small room.
Wolfwood sighed. Great timing, Vash...
Minutes later Vash returned and sank back down onto the chair, his face paler than before.
"I'm sorry."
Wolfwood shook his head. "Just can't hold your liquor."
Vash offered a weak grin, then his head sank down onto the table, resting on his crossed arms. His eyes slid closed as his body slackened.
Wolfwood stared and waited for a moment, but the gunman really did seem to have flaked out. Just like an overtired child. He sighed.
"Ah well. I guess some shut-eye would do us both some good." He hauled Vash to his feet, one arm across his back, the other around the thin waist as the blond slumped against him. "C'mon. Let's get you to bed..."
He fumbled the long red coat undone and off the gunman's body, briefly surprised at the width of the muscular shoulders and chest the fabric so handily disguised, and lowered Vash to the bed - then caught his breath, staring in wide-eyed disbelief. His hand unconsciously reached out, fingers touching as if to confirm what his eyes saw.
The scars were deep, livid, carved into the pale skin. A wide, ragged furrow across the shoulder, disappearing into the sleeveless high necked shirt: more around the biceps, just visible above the leather strapping that covered the arms from the wrist. A crudely-mended cross-shaped slash on the ball of the right shoulder, stitch marks still dark on the skin... The priest ran his hand across the chest, feeling the shapes of other badly-healed wounds under the fabric, deep ragged indentations where chunks had been ripped from the flesh, metal bands bracing shattered ribs...
"My God..." Horrified, he bit his lip, feeling a tightness in his throat and forcing back rare, unwelcome tears. What had happened to the man? How could anyone so young have been treated so brutally, hurt so badly? The pain he must have endured... How had Vash survived?
He sat on the bed, his hand resting lightly on the gunman's abdomen, then ran his fingers through the blond hair, teasing out whatever it was he spiked it up with. Underneath the stiffness it was surprisingly soft. He sighed, and laid a hand against a warm cheek, fleetingly pleased Vash's face hadn't suffered like the rest of his body.
"You need looking after, my friend."
And I'm happy to take on the job.
He smiled wryly to himself, almost surprised by the realisation, then ran his thumb lightly across the high cheekbone, pausing for a second over the small mole. Tempted to plant a soft kiss on the smooth forehead. Resisting with difficulty.
"Sleep tight. I'll come collect you in the morning."
He draped the blanket over the sleeping form, rose and headed quietly for the door, stopping with his fingers on the handle at the soft, drowsy voice from behind him.
"Wolfwood?"
"Hmm?"
He glanced over his shoulder. The tiniest hint of turquoise showed between Vash's minutely parted lids.
"Thanks."
The priest grinned. "You're welcome."
He smiled to himself on the way back to his own room. A smile of happy, slightly predatory anticipation...
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