~~~~
Life is bigger
It's bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes
Oh no I've said too much
I set it up

That's me in the corner
That's me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it
Oh no I've said too much
I haven't said enough
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try
[Losing my Religion - R.E.M.]
~~~~

"Thank you, sir!" Vash lifted a hand and waved sheepishly, a light blush crossing his nose as he promptly refused the compliments being showered down on his actions. "But that's really not necessary..."

"IDIOT! He's offering you a bag of double dollars! Why the *hell* are you turning it down?!" Wolfwood slammed a hand down on the desk before him, nearly choking on his own surprise as Vash blinked innocently at him over the orange rims of his glasses. They had finally vanquished the warehouse of thieves, and the priest's guess had been correct - a child slavery ring had chosen New Jersey for a stop-over station, where 'goods', or in this case, children, could be transferred from one mode of transportation to another. The police had known something was going on, but not where it was occuring or even what it was - and when Vash and Wolfwood entered the building announcing that they had brought in twenty-plus unconscious criminals, they had been greeted with awed looks and the astounding announcement that there had been a bounty on almost every member of the ring. Half of the reward had been withheld for repairs - Vash had managed to destroy almost the entire warehouse district before he considered his job complete, and the expenses for rebuilding were phenominal (as they always were when the Stampede was involved).

"Well, it's an awful lot to carry - " Wolfwood growled darkly at Vash and snatched the bag of money away from the policeman, a sweatdrop slipping down the back of his neck. Did Vash have to be so damned thoughtful all of the time?! "Do you have any idea how many donuts this would buy?!"

"....donuts?" In a moment Vash had reached into the sac and was merrily prancing out into the town's square, seeking a pastry stand while waving fistfulls of money. From the looks others were giving him, Wolfwood judged it would take about ten minutes for his spikey-headed friend to get robbed blind and beat up in a back alley.

"He's not... normal, is he?" the policeman turned to Wolfwood and raised a questioning eyebrow, a slight smile on his face.

"Nope. A couple a cards short of a pack, if you know what I mean. But he's a good guy and a great fighter.... just a little rough around the edges."

"You know," the policeman turned thoughtfully, watching in silence for a moment as the red-clad outlaw paraded across the square and . "I don't believe he gave us his name."

Vash whipped his donuts into his lap as he flopped down on the steps of the police department's building, a broad smile on his face as he pried open the box. Kira, Kern, and several other children that had been rescued during the raid immediately honed in on the gullible blonde. Wolfwood smiled slightly as Vash protested sharing, then gave in with a weak huff and the donuts were passed all around, filling bellies that had far too long been empty. "His name's not so important, is it?"

Vash the Stampede, hated by those who had never seen his face, feared by all, loved by few, a man who bore the pain of a century of hardship behind a brilliant, blinding smile. Wolfwood wasn't quite sure what fascinated him so about the blonde, but something about him kept dragging the priest's mind back, pulling at his heartstrings and manipulating emotions he hadn't thought he had. It wasn't that he was surprised someone could survive while living a lie.... He had seen that before, he was doing it himself and so far the only difficulties arose when his emotions came into play. It wasn't the fantastic history of the man - because though it was undoubtedly the longest, strangest story he had ever heard, it was not something he could base these dark emotions off of.

It was just....Vash. As a combination of things he was completely unique, completely adrift within a philosophy that applied only to himself. With hair the color of sand at noon and eyes a mythical hue that was never found in nature, the man himself was a picture out of a storybook, clad all in red and black and his own fantastic legend. Whether dressed to the nines or smiling weakly in a white shirt that displayed more than a few of his gaping scars, there was something that hung about the man like an aura, something that Nicholas longed to reach out and...touch.

He was innocent. He was ancient. He was....

Closing his eyes, Wolfwood tried to focus on anything but the harmless man on the steps outside. The coarse wood of the window frame that splintered beneath his fingertips, the rough burlap that held the reward Vash had absently handed him, the sound of the policeman shuffling through his desk, nervous and tense, sensing that the priest was brooding long and hard about something critically important. And past all of those outer sensations, he tried to ease his mind by promising it was a passing obsession. It was an extreme sort of crush, the lack of hero-worship in his childhood combined with having been seperated from his partner... a mental thing. Part of being around the other man twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. That was all.

That was...all.

Nodding to the officer and striding outside, Wolfwood shoo-ed the children into the station. "C'mon, you all need to go eat something healthy, not like this spikey-headed lug. The nice officers are preparing dinner for you, leave Vash in peace!"

Vash glanced up at Wolfwood over the rim of his glasses, his expression tolerant and slightly amused by the attention. Past that mask, Wolfwood could read something in his eyes that resembled resent - but more than that, disappointment. It stung with surprising precision in Wolfwood's heart, and the priest had to whip out a cigarette and suck in the smoke before his throat would relax and allow him to speak. **When the hell did his eyes start affecting me so much?** "I'm....going for a walk."

He moved on, not waiting for a response from the blonde, shoving his hands deep in his pocket and letting his cross bounce against his thighs as he moved through the dustily filthy streets. Activity always picked up once the shadows began lengthening, and to his surprise Wolfwood found himself soon wading through a crowd of shoppers and salesmen, the familiar, everyday sounds of live in motion filling his ears. Why couldn't he just be a part of all this like he had once been? Nicholas had, at some point, been the bearer of grubby fingers that crept over the side of the carts and snatched an apple while the dealer was engaged in other pursuits. He had been the street rat pushed aside by richer clients, he had spent chilly evenings wrapped in a cardboard box...

There was no way he could integrate, now, the blood on his hands was pushing him away from these people that he so longed to protect. When he had been found and trained as a boy, he had been conditioned to think of himself as being outside the race, outside the everyday hustle and bustle of moving beings - one could not kill if one thought of one's enemies as human beings with families, lovers and hearts. And so young Nicholas had not been taught that, had not been granted a tutor in the world of empathy or concern...

Wolfwood scuffled against the dirt and breathed out a cloud of smoke, turning a corner and narrowly missing being run down by several young children, girls with bobbing pigtails, a little too eager to visit the next cart of wares. A quick 'excuse me!' and they were gone, gone as surely as the child he had once been was gone-

Vash. A child, yet not a child, with a darker history than Nicholas cared to imagine, a history that he would erase was he given the change. He had a face that stirred something protective within Wolfwood, in the same way the little kids in December always had - an urge to do anything he could to bring a smile to those full lips. At the same time, though, there was a burning sensation of almost-hatred - because it wasn't fair that Vash could live forever, Vash could never kill, Vash could be so pure, Vash could be so selfless, such a martyr in everything he did. It *wasn't* fair, because nobody should be, could be so perfect - it made the priest want to scream, or cry, or throw something and shatter that perfection into a thousand shards that could be crunched to dust underfoot.

Admiration. Jealousy. Adoration. A twisted sense of posession that had no basis in anything and made Wolfwood think he was absolutely crazy.... **Vash is prey. Vash is prey. Vash is not beautiful, is not wonderful - **

There were so many reasons he couldn't give in that it wasn't even amusing to consider the possibility of actually getting what he wanted. Wolfwood knew that if his will broke -

Vash was undoubtedly straight. If Wolfwood ever tried anything he would be pushed away gently with an impersonal palm, apologized to, turned down. And then when they travelled everything would be different, the sense of friendship would die along with his hopes for anything more...

persuasion

Anything more. Love? No. No. NO. Nicholas D. Wolfwood did *not* fall in love with *anyone*. Not Midvalley, not Vash, not the big-breasted women that flocked in the corners of smokey, hazey bars, not the disgustingly beautiful telepath that was handing orders out left and right. A killer/murderer/priest/child lover had no buisness getting involved with someone who could be hurt, honestly hurt.

Today, Wolfwood had learned that hurting Vash was the last thing he wanted to do. That look he had been given, aquamarine eyes softening and filling with tears, the smudge of blood on cream-pale cheeks had slicing something open inside of him, letting loose waves of new emotions that threatened to drown the dark-haired man. Nicholas didn't understand, and that...scared him, a little. That was the last addictive facet to his emotions, the danger involved, the heady burn of new sensations in his heart that told him he wouldn't survive this, and welcomed the pain all the same.

Besides, he didn't love Vash. He just wanted him, right? Wanted to run his hands through soft blonde hair and press himself tightly against warm, puckered flesh. He wanted to kiss down the tracing scars and map out the skin of another completely, until he knew every tear and rent intimately. He wanted -

_No_.

Then, of course, there was Knives. Legato. Both would hate him far more than anyone else on the face of the planet, and when he was discovered and called to return, nothing but death would await. Most likely a painful, excruciating demise that left Wolfwood feeling ill to his stomach... Knives had been waiting as long as Vash had been running. Too long to feel pity, exceptions, anything but twisted obsession....

"Idiot," Wolfwood bit his lip, hard enough for blood to bead up on the inside of his mouth. "I'm a fucking idiot."

"I've been telling you that for years."

Immediately turning, Wolfwood gritted his teeth and nodded a greeting to Midvalley the Hornfreak, who was standing behind him, a long brown saxophone case in one hand. The other man raised a brow, then politely dusted a bit of invisible dirt from the cuff of his ivory sleeve while the priest regained his composure and inhaled a round of smoke. "Hornfreak."

"Chapel." The name made Wolfwood flinch, though he had heard it a thousand times before. It hurt because it was the him he was desperately hiding from Vash, it was the 'Wolfwood' he was ashamed of.

"Back there...." Wolfwood coughed once into his hand, and looked away. "I mean, thanks. Vash didn't..."

Midvalley flashed his partner an odd look that asked too many questions for Wolfwood to comprehend, then nodded sharply. "No, he didn't see me." A moment passed, the two of them on the sidewalk, talking in hushed voices in the shadow of a three story apartment complex. Just them, alone in the crowd of milling faces, of targerts. "Why so jumpy? It's not like you."

Wolfwood dragged his eyes away from the chocolate pools before him and shook his head, seeking an answer. "I... I don't know."

"Vash?"

"Why do you ask?!" the response was a bit too sharp, and Wolfwood immediately regretted his tone of voice. Midvalley's lips quirked and he joined his partner's gaze, seeking distraction elsewhere as if the topic was a bit too painful for eye contact to be maintained.

"Keep your head on straight, Wolfwood. I've been watching for a while - for Master Legato and all - and you've been acting really strangely. Someone might notice - well, someone who would do something about it."

*Master* Legato? Wolfwood turned his head and stared hard at Midvalley, shocked at the title. Midvalley had, for as long as he could remember, *hated* Legato with a bitter fury borne of countless hours of rape and abuse, of mental and physical submission... To honor such a man with a title - "Midvalley-"

"Let's hit a bar."

They did, but the conversation had stalled by the time they found one and the two sat in a low booth, nursing alcohol with grim features and soft sighs. "You said someone might notice, but I don't understand. What do you *think* is happening to me, Midvalley?"

"I can see...my partner......falling short of himself. I can see something changing," the musician paused and sipped his drink, staring at Wolfwood's dying cigarette through dark bangs. "Something's happening to him and I don't understand it, and it makes me...." Wolfwood caught his breath at the hesitation in the tone. "It makes me worry about him."

"You're crazy. I'm still Wolfwood - Chapel - and nothing's changed about anything. I reel Vash in, Knives does whatever the hell he wants to the guy, not my problem. My kids are safe, I retire gracefully, and you do whatever you want. You think I could go soft so quickly? I'm ashamed!" The priest downed his glass in one gulp and slammed it down, grinding his cigarette butt into the burnt ashtray at the edge of the table.

"I didn't say you were going soft," the musician grumbled, glaring at the priest as his words were misinterperated. "I think you're... Hell. Forget it. Look, Chapel, I don't know what you think you're doing, but the stakes are too fuckin' high for games like these."

"I don't play games, you know that." Wolfwood stood, flipping a few double dollars down on the table and reaching for his cross. "I'll get your tab."

Midvalley sighed, standing as well and pressing his hands across his pastel suit, smoothing out the folds and wrinkles before looking up again. Wolfwood watched from beneath furrowed brows, the motions of his partner's hands as familiar to him as his purpose, and when the hand lifted to brush soft bangs out of mahogony eyes, the priest looked away, almost embarrassed. It wasn't right to know someone that well, it felt like-

**NO.** It felt like he was somehow betraying Vash by looking at another man, now. Or was it betraying Midvalley, who had always covered his back in the tightest of spots, and then some? **NO. There's nothing. I feel nothing. I am a Gung-ho Gun.**

"Want to go a round?" The musician asked at last as they paused at the doorway, his tone implying a round of anything but drinks. Wolfwood stepped back in surprise as lips pressed against his own, quick and seeking and arousingly hot - when they couldn't find what they wanted, they withdrew and left him there, shaking slightly in the smokey air. "No? Fine."

Wolfwood checked the straps on his cross, not meeting the other's eyes as he pushed the opportunity away. "It would...be better if I didn't."

"I understand."

"No, you don't."

"Neither do you."

"Touché."

They moved out onto the porch, beneath the swaying lights that attracted a thousand swarming, whirling winged creatures. "Chapel.....good luck. Don't be a fool."

"Might as well ask me to not be myself, Midvalley."

"Don't be yourself. Yourself was damned from the very start..." Lifting his saxophone case, Midvalley gave a mocking half-bow and turned smartly on one heel. "And don't expect me to haul your ass out of the fire again!"

"I won't," Wolfwood gritted his teeth. "I sure as hell won't."

~~~~
Every whisper
Of every waking hour I'm
Choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you
Like a hurt lost and blinded fool
Oh no I've said too much
I set it up
~~~~~

It was dark by the time he dragged himself back to the station, drunk as hell and bearing a grudge against all things blonde. Where crowds had once loitered, none remained but a few individuals here and there, and those flashed Wolfwood dark looks who's intentions were painfully clear. The priest pulled his way back towards the hotel - all he wanted was a nice, soft bed and perhaps a cold shower...

With Vash there, the shower would definately be a necessity.

An echoing shout distracted him from his painful thoughts, and Wolfwood's brows narrowed in response. In the alley to his left he could hear the sounds of a scuffle, fabric tearing and the clattering of a knife across the bricks... They were common sounds of the streets at night, and while normally would have ignored them - no use getting involved with something that was none of his buisness - the alcohol on his breath and a little something in his heart told him that he ought to at least see what was happening. Without thinking, the priest rounded the corner and paused in the entrance to the dark cleft between buildings, one hand instantly pulling a gun free from the folds of his suit.

Blonde hair, gritted teeth, a target that wasn't fighting back though he was more than capable of it, filthy, grubby hands -

It was Vash, of course, who was pinned to the wall by a larger man, who was spitting out swears as he fished through the massive red coat for the money that *had* to be there. Some part of Wolfwood had expected to find the man here, but he still blinked in surprise when Vash's eyes met his and filled with guilt -

Those attackers were touching Vash entirely too much for Wolfwood to allow.

He fired three times with almost unconcious speed, hitting two targets in the shoulder and scaring the last away - they retreated, showering him with curses that made his ears ring. Had he been sober, Wolfwood would have known what to say (or been less surprised by his own drunken accuracy), but the alcohol on his breath alerted Vash to his condition, and instead of supporting the blonde on their way back to the hotel room, Wolfwood found an arm around his waist as Vash carried *him* back.

"Vash...." Cool skin next to him, seperated by a few layers of clothing... "You okay?"

"Yeah. Sure, nothing I couldn't take care of. But...thanks."

Wolfwood groaned softly in response and shoved himself closer to to the blonde, who squeaked slightly (he made the most amusing noises!) but didn't sag beneath the weight. The two wandered through the dark streets, weaving closer and closer to the hotel, while Wolfwood threw an arm around Vash's neck and used his alcohol-heavy breath as an excuse to touch the blonde. By the time they reached the hotel, both men were breathing heavily - Vash panting from the weight on his shoulders, and Wolfwood's breath hissing through his teeth as he tried to ignore the closeness of their bodies.

"I shouldn't have flashed that money around, they must have seen it this afternoon and waiting until it was dark to attack. I'm sorry about this, Wolfwood." Vash juggled his room key and the unstable priest in his arms, fiddling with the lock on the door. At last it popped open and he shoved Wolfwood inside, sending the priest staggering towards the nearest bed with a none-too-gentle push.

"Oooof." Wolfwood grunted, throwing off his cross and flopping down into the cool, welcoming sheets while his weapon of choice slammed against the ground with a rattling clunk. He closed his eyes for a moment and fiddled with the buttons on his jacket, though his fingers didn't seem to want to obey his mind and he gave up when merely half were undone. "Damned long day, huh?" Wolfwood's voice sounded foreign in his own ears, husky with smoke, alcohol and repressed emotions - he immediately told himself to stop talking, lest something important slip free. "Damned long. Damned."

"Yeah, and we both worked really hard." Vash muttered over one shoulder in a tone that simply reeked of disdainful annoyance - something that was very un-Vash-like in itself. Wolfwood lay for a few moments, watching as the other man cleaned his gun, then stood and began to get ready for bed. The alcohol muddling the preist's mind made contemplating any sort of response impossible, so he just laid back, uncomfortable in the pressing silence of the room. The blonde didn't even turn around as he began unbuttoning the top of his coat with nimble fingers, his back to Wolfwood on the mattress.... "Now go to sleep. You're a really unpleasant drunk."

Vash's voice was like his eyes - not quite condemming, but very displeased with the general situation. Wolfwood hated that tone of voice immediately, but said nothing, instead simply devoured the shadows that played across Vash's leather undersuit as the red coat slunk to the floor with a soft swish. After all, he could never make Vash happy, so he might as well admire the bone fate and it's ironic sense of humor had thrown his way.

The leather beneath peeled away almost painfully slowly, rustling and clinking as buckles and zippers fell open to Vash's slow motions, dancing in shadows that appeared and disappeared as he moved, framed by the lights mounted by the dresser. Wolfwood had to gulp back an appreciative sigh as the hip-hugging material slipped down past Vash's tailbone, revealing puckered, twisted flesh that simply begged to be touched - to kiss every inch of those marks, to love each little indentation...

Fine shoulderblades and a proud, straight spine - had his back been devoid of gashes, Vash would have been undeniably attractive to those of any calling as he reached up and ran his hands through his hair, pulling the locks down from perfect spikes to a floppy, tired mass. Human. Wolfwood himself found the scars to be an addictive display - they were the only sign of imperfection marring Vash's body, name and mind. They were the one thing that made him *human,* that let him fall just short of complete and utter perfection, though it was still more than easy for Wolfwood to imagine the purest of God's angels standing before him, instead of a simple gunman...

And then the view was gone as the blonde man pulled a night shirt down over his head and the show was over. Wolfwood let his eyes sag shut and he silently listened to the sounds Vash made as he move around the room, trying to imagine the blonde's physical appearance as easily as he could imagine Midvalley's. With his partner in crime, every subtle habit had been obvious and predictable - with Vash, Wolfwood wasn't sure where he would move, what order he did things...

He was new. Different. The priest listened as Vash drank and prepared for bed - unable to sleep while the blonde was moving around. At last one of the lights went off, leaving only a tiny beacon in one corner of the room, and Wolfwood sighed, willing his mind to relax into sleep.

That was when something - someone - Vash - settled on the bed next to him, making the springs creak softly as they gave way. Nick froze, tightening his fingers against the sheets but not moving a muscle, lest he scare the other away. After a thoughtful moment he felt the gunman's weight shift, and there was a cool hand pressed across his forehead, brushing his bangs back thoughtfully, almost lovingly. Much like a parent would sweep the forehead of an injured child, with fingertips betraying more than they should. That touch, to soft and sweet, moved slightly and hovered at his temple, then slid down the side of his face and rested for a moment at the corner of his mouth, like frigid fire against his skin.

Was Vash smiling as he felt his way across Wolfwood's face? Crying, laughing at him, mocking him for his own ideals in the same way the priest often laughed at Vash....? There had to be some sort of motive for the gentle touch that bordered on a caress, and Wolfwood had to know it or he would never be able to get the feeling out of his head. It would creep into his dreams at night and devour his soul from the inside out, the memory of this touch would... However, when he opened his blue eyes, he couldn't quite focus them - and whatever expression Vash had been wearing was schooled into a surprised sort of half-smile by the time the world came into clarity. "Oh, sorry, Wolfwood," Vash said softly from beneath shaggy blonde bangs, without faltering a moment. "I thought you were asleep."

"It's fine," Wolfwood responded, burying his face against the pillow and biting down hard on his lower lip. As if that simple connection between them had broken a dam within his chest, the priest found himself mumbling softly into the fabric in front of his face. The words sort of spilled out, like water through a grate - unstoppable, swift, almost frightening in their simple intensity. "I'm sorry...I'm sorry." The strange thing was not the way he felt so guilty for the day's killing... it wasn't the way he couldn't seem to stop shaking, even as Vash's hands fell to his back and slowly rubbed circles into the flesh . The strangest thing was that he meant it, quite honestly. He *was* sorry. Nicholas D. Wolfwood was not a man that lived in regret - what was done was done, and that was all there was to it. So why would he go back and return those lives he had taken in less than a heartbeat, why was he pulling himself up and holding his head in his hands, breaking down before the being before him? Why was he clutching at Vash's hand like a dying man clinging the the last splintered shards of light he could make out in a fading world? "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I...I have no excuse, and I do, and I'm sorry, but I can't...."

Something strange entered Vash's eyes as Wolfwood pressed closer against his hand, unwilling to let the contact dissipate, unwilling to be left alone. When words were so hard to find, a drunken man tendds to cling to what he could string together, and for the black-clad priest, that wasn't much. "Wolfwood..."

As if a portion of him had ceased to think of hope or breath, the priest ignored the words and continued his whispered chant. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, sor-" Vash shook his head, smiled lightly and touched Wolfwood's forehead again with gentle, cool fingers. The world began to swim as Vash unbuttoned the priest's black coat and worked it down the priest's shoulders, his knuckles brushing here and there against flesh - Wolfwood, fortunately, was too jumbled with his own confession that the touch didn't affect him as it usually would.

"Shh," Vash whispered again, smiling slightly at the other man, who was fighting (and loosing his battle) to keep his mind clear. "Sleep now."

And as if his mind was shutting down completely from within, as if a gloved hand had reached out and extinguished the candle of his conscious thought, Wolfwood found the command impossible to betray.

~~~~
Consider this
The hint of the century
Consider this
The slip that brought me
To my knees failed
What if all these fantasies
Come flailing around
Now I've said too much
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try

But that was just a dream
That was just a dream
~~~~