Water
Sea Salt
A note: I've decided Ether, Sand and Water are now stand alone one shots that fit into the same universe. Therefore this is now a very short not!series, with two or three more fics to follow.
Wells are, nearly without exception, a waste of time. There is water on Gunsmoke, so rare that most scoff and refuse to believe the stories of those who manage to strike any, but it happens. Rain falls every few hundred years, hits and sinks through the dry cracks of the earth. Tunnels, pools, collects. Theoretically.
Wolfwood is one of the many who roll their eyes at the claims, but he never vocally refutes them because really, he thinks it would be nice if they were true (and there is something inside him, small and buried, that desperately wants to believe that water can fall from the sky).
Vash tells him they are and Wolfwood snorts, narrowing his eyes behind black lenses and a film of white cigarette smoke and asks how the hell he would know.
Vash smiles with a sharp flash of teeth, winking halfway and tilts his head.
Hey, have some faith.
Wolfwood clenches his jaw, almost angry, and turns away without replying.
He remembers this while he is watching, the suns strong on his face, Vash hunkered down and silent next to him with his fingers curled at the first knuckle and ghosting over the sand.
"We should try the next town," Wolfwood mutters around his cigarette, lifting a hand to splay his fingers across his chapped lips before drawing it away and exhaling slowly, "if they're desperate enough to dig, they won't have anything to spare." There is something in his tone, a kind of sad revulsion. Vash says nothing but makes a small, agreeable sound in the back of his throat. He carves out a figure eight with his finger, and erases it a moment later with a long sweep of his palm.
A girl walks past, teeth clenched and sweating. She moves with slow, wide steps, the block of cement in her hands a few seconds away from slipping. She sniffs when Wolfwood wordlessly takes it from her, rubs her hands together and thanks him with a smile. He shrugs a shoulder but grins back, spitting the butt of his cigarette into the wind and following her to where half the town has gathered a few yards away. Vash straightens as Wolfwood accepts a shovel.
Six hours later they check into an inn. The next morning water is struck. Not much, but some. Enough. Wolfwood stares when he's handed a glass, and Vash declines the offering with a small shake of his head. Instead he watches Wolfwood's slight hesitation as he raises the cup, a bead of sweat sliding from his jaw to run beneath the collar of his shirt when he tips back his head to drink.
He leaves a mouthful and passes what's left to Vash, licking his lips once and looking away.