Chapter one
'The dusty ground's no place for ghosts
Old souls,
Or things to grow
But these aren't the hands that will show you heaven
The palms crusted in dirt, and smelling of nicotine
Funny how you'd learn to love
The taste of paradise.
When the only thing you're used to
Is sucking down cigarettes and whiskey
Oh, what did I do to you?
You goddamn perfect soul…'
There's something about bad energy that leaves a sour tang on your tongue. It sticks to the roof of your mouth and tastes like a lick to a battery. Wolfwood had been expecting that much when he met Vash the Stampede. The outlaw. The legend. The bad guy? Perhaps that had been him. He'd been given no warning about the man's personality. And why should he? Did 'Master' Knives ever give the time of day to explain these things? The orders were given simple and clear, and it was assumed that you would not dare to question the contents or raise a voice to ask questions. So Chapel didn't know a goddamn thing about Vash, only what he looked like, where to bring him, and not to touch a hair on his body and that was just fine.
And as it turns out, it was Chapel who met Vash, but Wolfwood who was left brooding over what to think of the spastic outlaw that according to Knives, was too damn fine for the likes of Chapel or Wolfwood.
Even though his tongue had been clicking in annoyance, desperately searching since the day he'd met Vash, he could find no such taste. He searched around the scrape of dust in his mouth and a wrinkled up cigarette and found only something sweet for his troubles. Wolfwood didn't even like sweets, he took his coffee black. And the taste was a little too sweet, and a little too fake. Chapel thought he would hate it, and be saved from any unnecessary troubles, but apparently Wolfwood had other ideas about the blonde.
Vash didn't have the same kind of bad flavor he'd been looking for. The bad flavor that they all seemed to carry; from Knives's right hand man Legato, to Hornfreak, hell, even to himself. And during the days when Vash was starting to look a little more attractive, he had to wash the curiosity and lust down by smoking more than he was used to and sucking down whiskey like water.
Bad battery his baptized ass. Vash was too sweet, too good. Maybe if he'd tasted bad, maybe if he felt bad, Chapel wouldn't have jumped ship and Wolfwood wouldn't have been so compelled to give his tongue a break from nicotine and whiskey and try something else. Granted, Wolfwood hadn't been able to keep himself away from Hornfreak back in the day, and that man's soul was nearly as twisted as the rest of Gung-Hos'. Then again, Hornfreak was part of the team, and as far as Knives was concerned, he didn't care who you fucked or fucked-up on the team. He did care if you were going around trying to screw the enemy, trying to sell your heart and soul to the very prey you were supposed to be keeping in a crystal ball stamped with 'handle with care' and hand delivered to the brother he shared halves with.
Shit.
That's when Chapel the Gung-Ho-Gun, Chapel the ruthless killer, decided to let go in favor of living, and let Wolfwood with all his priestly morals and damn emotions take the burden. Essentially, Wolfwood didn't ever want Vash to meet Chapel. Chapel didn't care; Chapel would shove a gag in Vash's mouth, cover up those pretty green eyes with a scrap of cloth, and carry him off to Knives. So Wolfwood kept Chapel where he was needed, in the fight. When Wolfwood had his hands on Vash, Chapel was no where around.
And Wolfwood did put his hands on Vash. A lot. But it didn't start out that way.